Crimson Bound by Rosamund Hodge
“You don’t,” said Amélie. “You stand still and let me put them on you.”
“Do you know how they go on?”
Amélie made a face. “More or less. There’s going to be a chambermaid to help, so I’m sure we’ll work it out.” She paused, then said, “So Monsieur Vareilles is here?”
Rachelle sighed. “In the next room.”
“You still don’t like him?” Amélie’s voice was soft; she didn’t quite look at Rachelle, as if she knew this question might be difficult.
“I never said—” Rachelle began.
“You don’t like him.” Amélie picked up a dress and shook it out. Her voice was calm and matter-of-fact. “I’m not angry. I just wonder why.”
There were a hundred reasons, and only one that really mattered: Armand pretended that the most terrible day of her life had been a joke. That the forestborn had never really been able to threaten her, because there had been some other way out. That if she’d just been clever enough, or brave enough, or holy enough, she could have defied the Great Forest itself and survived.
Rachelle had no illusions. She had chosen wrongly. But she knew beyond all doubt that there had been only two choices.
She could never say that to Amélie. Because Amélie had never, even once, said anything about what Rachelle had done. She had never looked at her as if she were anything evil or inhuman. From the night they met, Amélie had been hard at work pretending—as skillful a deception as she had ever painted with her brush—that Rachelle was just another girl who deserved to be alive.
“He wants everyone to know he’s a saint,” Rachelle said finally.
“Hm.” Amélie started to fold the dress. “Well, they say he has reason.”
Rachelle snorted. “There are plenty of beggars with missing hands who don’t even have silver ones to replace them, but nobody calls them saints.”
“Bishop Guillaume says that many a beggar is holier than an abbot, and we should strive to see the Dayspring in all the unfortunate,” Amélie said piously. Rachelle had never been able to decipher if she was being sarcastic or sincere when she used that voice, but she had always laughed at it anyway.
This time she didn’t laugh. Her body had gone cold. She couldn’t stop herself form saying, “I didn’t know you liked his sermons.”
Amélie went still. After a moment she said slowly, “I don’t like all his sermons. But sometimes he speaks kindly. And he’s done marvelous things for the hospital. I’ve seen him—” She paused. “He’s not afraid of the sick, the way some people are.”
Because he’s not afraid of anything, Rachelle wanted to shout at her. He’s not even afraid that God will judge him for using his sermons to gain power.
But Amélie might not believe her. If Rachelle tried to make her pick which one to trust, her or the Bishop—she didn’t want to know what Amélie would do.
She had no right to ask for more. Amélie had foolishly chosen to trust Rachelle; she couldn’t complain if she trusted the Bishop just as foolishly.
IN THE DARKEST SHADOWS OF THE WOOD stands a house.
Yes. Though the sun rides high in the world outside, in the heart of the Great Forest, that house is standing still. It is carved of wood most skillfully; from every post and lintel leap a profusion of leaves, flowers, wolves, birds, and little writhing men. And mouths. And teeth.
The walls are caulked with blood. The roof is thatched with bones.
Within that bloody house lived Old Mother Hunger, the first and eldest of all forestborn. Her fingers were slender and white as bone; her hair was long and dark as night. She had danced before the Devourer when she was but a human girl, and she so delighted him that he adopted her for his own. She had helped him to swallow the sun and moon, and so bring all the world to darkness. And now it was her part to train the children of men who would become forestborn, and those who would become the Devourer’s living vessel.
If Tyr was to become a fitting vessel for the Devourer, a bridge between that vast black hunger and the world, then he must forget his name. So they placed him in the deepest cellar of the house, within a little cage of bone, and they told him he was dead. Every time they brought him food, before he could eat, he must first sing a song to them:
“My mother, she killed me
My father, he ate me.
I once had a name,
But now I have none.”
If Zisa was to become a true forestborn, she must destroy the human heart within her. So she was the one who brought him his food and demanded the song of him. But every time Old Mother Hunger slept, Zisa slipped down to the cellar again, and in the darkness she whispered to him that his name was Tyr and she was his sister.
Tyr’s spirit wandered far away into darkness and dreaming, and for a long time he would not speak, however Zisa implored him. She studied the arts of the forestborn, until at last she crept down to Tyr’s cellar and sang him a song that commanded dreams, and Tyr turned his face to her, though his eyes remained shut.
“Brother, what holds you asleep?” she asked.
He answered: “Sister, I am dreaming of the Devourer. He is a wolf, and he gnaws me until there is nothing left but bones. And that is good.”
“How can that be good?” asked Zisa.
Tyr whispered, “Only the leavings of the wolf can kill the wolf.”
The next time that Zisa brought Tyr his food, he sang to her,
“My sister, she killed me.
My master, he ate me.
I am but the leavings
And thus I shall slay him.”
Zisa reached through the bars of the cage and wrapped her hands around his.
“It will not come to that,” she said.
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Rachelle managed to slip away that afternoon to hunt for the door, but she found nothing. All the search gained her were a lot of curious glances from the bustling crowds, and Amélie’s worried wrath when she got back to her room too late to be dressed up for the night’s reception.
“I’m not a guest,” Rachelle protested.
“You would be once I finished dressing you,” Amélie muttered.
The reception was held in the Salon du Mars—a vast, domed, hexagonal room that was considered one of the wonders of Château de Lune. Personally, Rachelle couldn’t see the appeal. For one, it had no suns or moons anywhere, which made it useless to her. For another, it looked like someone had vomited artwork over every available surface. The six walls were practically paneled in gold-framed paintings of every shape and size. The ceiling was just one mural, but it was such a writhing mess of billowing fabric and twisting limbs that she couldn’t tell what it depicted. Around the edges of the room were placed alternating black and white marble statues, all of them contorted into feverishly passionate poses.
Add to that six tables of cakes, ices, and punch bowls, a group of seven musicians playing the violin, three hundred candles, and who knew how many courtiers, and the result was a room that made Rachelle feel like she was being punched in the face just by looking at it.
It didn’t help that Armand had entered the room with the King, which meant that Rachelle came in a step behind them, right at the center of the panoply. The room stilled and silenced at the King’s entrance; the mass of people swayed down in bows and curtsies and then rose back up again, like a wave ebbing and flowing. The low roar of conversation resumed. Instantly they were swarmed by an exquisite crowd of people—dripping silk and lace, powder and jewels—who must speak with the King or Armand. According to some set of precise, secret rules, each of them bowed low, or kissed a hand, or received a kiss on the cheek.
Then they would look at Rachelle—sometimes a swift, covert glance, sometimes an openly nervous stare. But they didn’t try to talk to her, perhaps because she was in her normal patrol clothes. She wasn’t here to pretend she belonged to the
She was here to find Joyeuse. But after some careful glances, Rachelle was pretty sure that there was no sun or moon anywhere in the decorations. Which meant that the next few hours would be an idiotic waste of her time, and she didn’t even know how much time she had left.
Then a woman spoke up from behind Rachelle: “Good evening, Armand. Who’s your cheerful friend?”
Rachelle turned and saw a nearly colorless young woman. Her skin was powdered very pale, her curls were dull flax, and her dress was pure white silk. Strings of pearls rimmed the low neckline, gathered the puffy sleeves just below her elbows, and ran in a line down the center of her bodice. The only spot of color was a single large ruby hanging at her neck. Her face was narrow, flat, and not remotely pretty.
Armand’s smile was crooked and far more real than anything Rachelle had seen on his face before. “Mademoiselle Brinon, may I present la Fontaine, my second cousin and already a famous poet, fabulist, and salon hostess. She has a real name but we don’t bother to use it. My dear Fontaine, this is Rachelle Brinon, most excellent of the King’s bloodbound and my bodyguard.”
“I’m charmed.” La Fontaine inclined her head. “But you’re too cold, calling me just your second cousin when I’m practically your mother.” Her fingers brushed the ruby at her throat. “Since His Majesty has been so kind.”
She smiled as Armand turned red. Rachelle was baffled for a moment, and then remembered that a single red ruby was the gift noblemen would give their mistresses. This young woman must be the latest of King Auguste-Philippe’s long line of favorites.
“I played with you when we were both four years old,” said Armand with precise calm. “I am not going to call you ‘mother.’”
“Pity. You’ll just have to come to my salon and address me as ‘goddess’ instead. The famous Tollesande is back in my employ, so we’ll have her cakes.” La Fontaine fixed Armand with a severe look. “I warn you, I’ll make you eat five of them. You’ve grown much too thin.”
That, strangely, made his shoulders tense. “Don’t mind me.”
“You could come with me and eat something now,” said la Fontaine.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You didn’t have any lunch either,” said Rachelle, suddenly remembering the carriage ride to the palace.
“Maybe I’m fasting for the good of my soul.”
“I thought you were already perfect.”
“Nobody is perfect,” said la Fontaine. “Monsieur Vareilles, for instance, has not yet asked me to dance. So I’ll have to beg. My dearest little son, will you join me for a dance?”
“If you promise never to address me that way again,” said Armand, “I’ll do anything you want.”
La Fontaine sighed as she took his metal hand. “Unfortunately, I cannot tell a lie.”
She drew him toward the center of the room, where pairs of dancers wove among each other in stately rows.
“I’m surprised the saint can actually dance,” said Erec from behind her.
Rachelle flinched. Normally Erec wasn’t able to slip up on her like that.
“And where have you been?” she asked, turning.
“Making myself welcome.” He raised his glass to her. “But where were you this afternoon?”
Rachelle’s heart thumped, but she said calmly, “Learning the lay of the Château.”
“I think you’ll find that being a saint’s bodyguard calls for different tactics than solitary hunting,” said Erec, and though his voice was joking, the look he gave her wasn’t.
“I thought you said his valets could watch him,” said Rachelle.
Erec shrugged and relaxed. “Oh, they can. And between you and me, I don’t think he’s going to give us much trouble.” He smiled to himself. “But if the King hears about you leaving his son’s side, he may get angry.”
Rachelle nodded, hoping that her fury didn’t show on her face. So she would have to search at night. She could do that. If she had to, she wouldn’t sleep until she found Joyeuse.
“I, on the other hand, will only get angry if you don’t dress yourself better for the next event.” Erec looked her up and down. “Whatever possessed you to enter the room in that costume?”
“I wanted all my knives,” said Rachelle.
“My dear, I promise you the repartee is not that cutting.”
“You brought me here to be a bodyguard,” said Rachelle. “And I refuse to fight anyone while wearing a court dress.”
“But you won’t have to. I’ll be here to save you.”
“Yes, if you’re not too busy flirting.”
“I’m flirting right now.” In a heartbeat he had a knife in his hand; one quick motion, and he’d flung it across the room to spear the apple sitting atop a pyramid of fruit. “And still quite capable, as you can see.”
Rachelle grinned at him and reached for one of her wrist knives. A moment later it was quivering in the apple next to his.
“I am too,” she said.
The apple gave a final wobble and the fruit pyramid collapsed. Apples, pears, and oranges bounced across the floor; a lady squeaked as two apples rolled under her hem, and another said something that set all the nearby people tittering. Several harried-looking servants converged on the table and started picking up the fruit.
Erec laughed and went to retrieve their knives. “For that, you win a dance,” he said when he returned, holding out a hand.
Rachelle rolled her eyes, but she remembered the easy happiness when they had danced the other night, and she let him draw her out among the dancing couples. At first all she could do was watch him and watch the other women in the dance, trying to keep pace and not stumble. It was a statelier, more mannered dance than he had dragged her through in the courtyard. Instead of endless twirls, he clasped only one of her hands as they moved in a pattern of step, skip-skip, bow; step, skip-skip, turn. But even one-handed, Erec could steer her, and bloodbound grace made up the rest. In a few minutes, she could move through the steps without thinking.
“Your charge seems to be enjoying himself, despite his martyrdom,” said Erec. Near the center of the room, Armand was dancing with la Fontaine.
“I don’t think it counts as martyrdom when you’re dressed in court clothes and dancing with ladies,” said Rachelle. “Or when you’ve never met a forestborn.”
“You think he hasn’t?” asked Erec.
She remembered the pale, naked stumps of Armand’s arms, and the way he had stared her down. He didn’t seem like somebody who had never faced fear.
But he couldn’t have faced a forestborn.
“I know he hasn’t,” said Rachelle. “You do too. What the Forest claims, it doesn’t let go. If he had been marked, and if he had refused to kill, the mark would have killed him instead. That’s how it works.”
“World without end, amen,” said Erec. “And yet here he stands, and dances.”
“Because he lost his hands and didn’t want pity, so he tried for sainthood instead,” said Rachelle. “What else could it be? A miracle?”
“That’s what everyone else calls it.”
“That makes no sense.” Was the music picking up its pace, or was it just her own anger that made the swirl of the dance seem faster, sharper? “Three thousand years since Tyr and Zisa. In that time, the forestborn must have marked ten thousand people, and all of them had to die or kill—and now God decides to spare somebody the choice? What kind of miracle is that?”
“You’re the one who still has faith,” said Erec. “You tell me.”
“I don’t have faith,” said Rachelle. “If I did, I wouldn’t be here.”
Faith was trust. People who had it never became bloodbound, because rather than kill, they would lie down and die and trust God to make everything all right.
“Really?” Erec looked down at her, and for once there wasn’t amusement or condescension in his voice. “Then why are you always doing penance?”
“I’m not,” said Rachelle. The only app
“Oh?” said Erec. “When did I teach you to live in a miserable garret and patrol the streets without rest?”
“When I arrived,” said Rachelle. “You told me there was no going back, so I should make use of what I’d become.”
It was why she considered him a friend, no matter how he annoyed her sometimes. Rachelle had fled to Rocamadour because she wanted to live. But once she had gotten there—once she had been accepted as the King’s bloodbound and knew she could live at least a little longer—she’d realized she had no reason left for living. She had spent whole days in bed, too dull with misery to stand; when she was dragged out to fight woodspawn, she had flung herself at their claws, half hoping for death. It was Erec who had mocked and goaded her into sword practice; Erec who had kissed her into wanting life again; Erec who had told her to make use of what she was.
And once she had realized that she could be useful—that her power, however wicked, could also protect—there had been no stopping her.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” said Erec.
“Well, no, of course not,” said Rachelle fondly. “Too bad for you.”
As she spoke, the music came to an end; Erec gave her a deep bow. “I really don’t understand your scruples,” he said. “Is it because of your damned soul that you like to talk about so much? If you’re doomed to hell no matter what, you might as well enjoy yourself.”
“If I’m damned, what’s the point of pretending that I’m not?” asked Rachelle. The vast, colorful, chattering crowd swirled around them, and she felt like she was watching it from across a vast gulf. She didn’t understand how Erec or any of the bloodbound could bear to pretend they had any part in this glittering, carefree world.
“You really mean that?”
There was an odd note in his voice; she looked up, and so she had a stomach-lurching half instant to realize what he was about to do before he seized her by the shoulders and kissed her.
She’d remembered that she liked his kisses, but she had forgotten how much. It felt like the Forest was growing and casting shadows inside her, vast and senseless and wild. When he finally released her, she was shaking.