Crimson Bound (10 page)

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 appropriate penance was her death, and she had too much fight left in her for that. “I’m just doing as you taught me.”

“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.

“Yes, mademoiselle,” he whispered. “By all means, let’s avoid pretending.”

And for a moment, she could see the Forest. Shadowy trunks rose through the crowd like pillars; vines wound up statues and draped over the paintings; the candelabras cast leaflike shadows. Crimson, four-winged birds fluttered among the dancers. She couldn’t hear the music or the chatter of the crowd, only the soft, vast susurration of wind among infinite branches.

Then she blinked and it was gone, so quickly that she might have imagined it. She
must have imagined it: Château de Lune was far too well-protected for the Forest to manifest here, and if it did, she would see it for more than a flickering instant.

That was how much power Erec had over her: he could make her think she was seeing the Forest.

And now he was smirking at her. “I don’t think I’ve ever rendered you speechless before.”

She wanted to slap his face. She had told him never to kiss her again. She also wanted to forget what she’d said and pull him close for another kiss. But either reaction would amuse him. That was the problem with Erec: everything was always a game to him, and he always won.

Instead she tried to look bored. But she knew she was blushing, and anyway it was already too late. He would be insufferable the rest of the evening.

“Thank you for the dance,” she said flatly, turning away.

“Don’t tell me you’re leaving already.”

“Good night.” She hadn’t actually been planning to leave the reception, but now that he had asked her to stay, she refused to give him the satisfaction.

“What about your charge?”

“I’ll take him with me.” The dance had started up again; she marched straight through the wheeling couples to Armand, and seized his hand out of la Fontaine’s.

“We’re leaving,” she said, and dragged him with her through the crowd—they were all staring, but who cared?—and out a pair of great glass-paneled doors into the garden. Outside was a long, grassy walk lined by oak trees hung with lanterns.

“Where are we going?” said Armand after a few moments, as she continued to drag him down the walk.

Rachelle had not considered that, but she wasn’t about to tell him. “That way,” she said, and didn’t slow down.

“Not that I mind the fresh air,” said Armand, after another few moments, “but you do realize that everyone in there thinks you dragged me out either to kill me or to kiss me senseless?”

Then she did stop, so she could drop his hand and turn on him. “What?”

“Well, after that display. And you know what people say about bloodbound.”

The anger was so sudden and furious, she was surprised she didn’t strike him.

“I know a good deal better than you do,” she said, “unless
you’ve
been called a whore to your face.”

Ladies tittered and made eyes at Erec. But men of any kind only made catcalls at Rachelle, unless they were cursing her.

Armand winced. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Why? Don’t pretend you think I’m an innocent.” Before he could speak, she went on, “But your second cousin just boasted to us about sleeping with the King. How am
I
the shocking one?”

Armand’s mouth twisted wryly. “Accepting a man’s favor is elegant. Kissing in public is vulgar.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Welcome to the court. Also, she is mistress to the King, and you know how much royal favor can excuse.”

“Such as being bloodbound?” she asked bitterly.

“But you’re not really excused, are you? I was thinking more about what the royal family gets up to.”

Rachelle pushed a strand of hair out of her face. The sweat had started to cool on her skin. In the distance, the wind rustled in the trees. The night was opening up around her again; Armand, his face half-lit by the flickering lamplight, looked strange and ominous.

Not that he sounded it. “Why are you spouting this nonsense?” she demanded.

“I suppose because it’s easier than thinking about the fact that we’re all alone so there’s nobody to hear me scream.”

“Do you really think I dragged you out here to kill you? I’d get in trouble for that, and you’re not worth it.”

He laughed. It was a curiously open laugh, his shoulders shaking and his eyes crinkling. “You’re very comforting.”

“No,” said Rachelle, “just honest. If I were trying to comfort you, I would promise not to hurt you.”

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T
he next morning, they had to attend the King’s levée. Apparently it looked strange if the King’s beloved son did not attend his father at every opportunity, so after a hasty breakfast, Rachelle and Armand squeezed their way into the royal chambers along with half the court so that they could watch the Duc de Bonne fulfill his lifelong dream of handing the King his undershirt.

Rachelle found the levée boring beyond all belief, but she supposed it wasn’t worse than any of the other court functions they might have been dragged to. The most trying part was watching everyone pretend not to notice the weakness in the way the King moved, in his overstudied gestures. The rumors were right: he was ill, no matter how little he wanted to admit it.

Just like the world was ending, no matter how little the entire court wanted to admit it.

A courtier stammered a joke, and the King let out one of his famous booming laughs. Everyone pretended not to notice when it turned into a cough. Rachelle sighed and looked up at the ceiling.

The royal chambers here at the Château were just as elaborate as those of the Palais du Soleil back in Rocamadour. But here, instead of the gold curlicues splattered across the ceiling, there was a huge painting of the moon, decorated with gold-and-silver traceries. It was an oddly stylized painting, and as Rachelle stared at it, she realized it wasn’t much like any of the other portraits that hung framed all over the Château. It was old. She knew very little about art, but she was sure that it was much older than any of the other decorations.

Her heart started beating faster, but she didn’t let herself think what she was hoping until Erec’s laugh rang out above the babble of the crowd, and she glanced at him. He sat, again, at the King’s feet, glorying in his position. He was dressed all in black velvet today, with black leather boots, and the tesserae of the mosaic floor glittered around him. Gold tesserae. The pattern was huge; she couldn’t quite make out what it was, besides golden and swirling.

Rachelle looked down at her feet. She saw wavy golden rays against dark blue.