Crimson Bound (30 page)

Erec was silent. She wished she could see his face.

“Don’t tell me,” she said scornfully, “that you’re afraid I’ll find him so much more charming than you.”

He laughed low in his throat. “You know too well I can’t resist a challenge. Very well, lady, he’s yours for now and I’ll make your excuses to the King. But you must let me win
you back tonight.”

As he said the last words, he shifted, leaning into her, and Rachelle felt her opening. She slumped forward, one arm digging into him, one hand grasping his coat, and a moment later she had thrown him over her shoulder onto the ground.

“Maybe I’ll win
you
,” she said, and grinned, because she knew that he hadn’t let her throw him; she had genuinely surprised him.

Erec rolled to his feet lightly and gracefully, but there was a sulky set to his mouth. He never liked being taken by surprise. Rachelle couldn’t ever remember being the one who made him look ridiculous. It felt wonderful.

It suddenly occurred to her that in this situation, Armand would have laughed instead of sulking.

“Well?” she said.

“Would that I had time to spar with you properly,” he sighed. “This way.” He looked her up and down. “Actually, I’ll bring him to you. Unless you’re planning to dazzle the crowd into submission, you might want to change.”

So Rachelle bolted for her room. “Faster, faster,” she muttered over and over, as Sévigné undid buttons and pulled out the laces from the corset.

Finally she was free of her clothes, and in moments was pulling on her hunting gear. “Braid my hair,” she said as she buttoned up her shirt, and Sévigné obeyed. A minute later, she was pulling on her coat. She took a wild glance in the mirror: the makeup was all still on her face, pearl powder, rouge, and burned clove to fill out her eyebrows, which looked bizarre with her patched-up red coat and slightly threadbare trousers, but it would have to do. There was no time, because even now Erec was knocking at the door.

“Here you are,” said Erec, shoving Armand into the room. “When you’re done, be sure to put him back where you found him. Monsieur, obey her and mind that you remember our talk.”

“Thank you,” Rachelle said numbly. Armand wasn’t looking at her; he was very pale and staring at the floor. She felt invisible. She wished she were invisible, so she’d never have to meet his eyes. She’d spent the whole day hunting through the Château for Joyeuse just so she could avoid speaking to him again.

Erec grabbed her by the shoulders and kissed her quickly but fiercely. Rachelle couldn’t stop being aware that Armand was just a step away from them.

Then Erec released her. “Until tonight,” he said, and was gone.

Rachelle swallowed the desire to hide and weep, and she turned to Armand instead. “Listen,” she said. “I know what you think of me. And you know what I think of you. But right now, there’s a crowd outside the palace, and since the King doesn’t intend to acknowledge their existence, they’re probably going to riot, and you know how that will end. So you’re going to go down there and talk to them.”

“And say what?” he asked slowly after a moment.

“I don’t know, something saintly. Something to make them go home so that they don’t get shot. You’re supposed to care about that, aren’t you?”

“Back to thinking I’m a saint?” he asked, and there was a slight mocking edge to the words.

“I don’t care if you’re God or the devil,” said Rachelle. “I want that crowd gone. Quietly. You are going to make that happen,
without
calling for rebellion, or I will cut your throat in front of them and damn the consequences. Do you understand?”

He stared at her a moment longer. “Right,” he said, nodding sharply. “Which way?”

Rachelle didn’t know, but that had never stopped her. “We’ll find out,” she said, and pushed past him to stride down the hallway.

The commotion was building inside the palace; they ran into another guard soon enough. Rachelle simply marched up to him and said grandly, “Take us to the crowd. Orders of the King.”

“Of course,” the guard said, bowing quickly. “Glad the old man decided to do something,” he muttered.

“How many are there?” asked Armand as they walked quickly through the hallways.

“A hundred? Two hundred?” The guard shrugged. “They’re holding them, but any moment—they say if they start to riot—” His voice wavered and he stopped talking. He was young, Rachelle realized, barely older than her and Armand. He had probably not been an active member of the guard five years ago. He must have heard stories about the massacre—and what kind of stories did the guards tell, she wondered? Was it a matter of shame and horror to them, or did they consider the guards to have defended themselves and the King? Nobody had even been flogged for it; there had been outrage over that too.

The crowd was gathered on the south side of the building, swarming along a side road and spilling over into one of the orange groves. The lawn nearest the palace was still clear, held by a line of blue-coated soldiers holding muskets.

The people knew just as well as she did what happened to the last crowd that stood
outside the palace. They were desperate enough to come here anyway.

She’d feared for them ever since she’d heard the news, but now she pitied them. She was furious on their behalf. And she was afraid
of
them too, because she could feel the fury in the way they stood, the way they muttered and shouted.

“Performance time,” said Rachelle.

“You might have . . . overestimated my ability,” said Armand, sounding a little faint.

“As far as I know,” said Rachelle, “you’ve lied to every person in this palace, one way or another. This shouldn’t be too much harder.”

“You’re so kind.” He squared his shoulders.

Without meaning to in the least, Rachelle took his hand. The metal was cold and slightly damp again her skin. “I’m Armand Vareilles,” he called out. “I’ve come to hear your complaints.”

“Where’s the King?” somebody yelled, but a lot of the people started chanting, “Return to the city! Protect us! Return to the city!” The noise was like a living heartbeat or the breathing of a wolf, and Rachelle nearly took a step back.

“I must obey my father,” he said. “I can’t leave Château de Lune.”

“You think
that
will calm them?” Rachelle hissed.

Armand gave her a bleak look. “Take off my hands,” he said.

“What?”

“Take off my hands,” he repeated, and then raised his voice. “I’m not the King. I can’t defend your city. I can’t even leave the Château. But I can be your saint. And more.”

Rachelle pushed up his sleeves and unlocked the straps that bound the silver hands to his arms. He drew a ragged breath. The crowd was growing quieter.

“I am not a legitimate heir. But I am a child of Tyr, and I have the Royal Gift. I defied the Forest and survived. I can let you touch me. Let me be your relic. Take what protection you can from me, what healing you can from me. And then go home in peace.”

There was a stillness where anything might have happened. Then an old woman, supported by a little girl, stumbled forward.

Armand stepped toward her. “You might want to leave,” he said. “I suspect this is going to repulse you.”

Rachelle gripped the back of his shirt. “You don’t get away from me that easily, monsieur.”

The woman was bent nearly in two, though whether by age or the sickness, it was
hard to tell. Armand knelt to meet her, holding out his arms. She seized one and kissed the stump where his arm ended. Rachelle felt Armand’s back tense, but he didn’t move.

For a silent, rigid moment, the old woman was still. Then she let his arm drop.

“The pain is better,” she sobbed, and suddenly everyone was cheering.

And then the crowd came. They came from all sides, desperate and reverent and needy and loving. They touched his face, his hair, his shoulders, his arms. They kissed the stumps of his arms again and again. They pressed their rosaries and their neckerchiefs and their staffs to him. He was their relic, their saint. A few seemed ready to regard him as their god.

Rachelle crouched behind him, still gripping his shirt. She felt him tense when a boy with bleeding sores staggered up to him. She felt him flinch when somebody touched the stump of his arm. She felt him shift and straighten, spine cracking, as he tried to find a comfortable position.

It seemed they had been sitting in the crowd for hours. Days. Forever.

She saw Armand’s head bob as he nodded at people, heard him say, “God bless you. God bless you,” in a weary voice.

There were no miracles. Some said they breathed easier, walked better; others simply sobbed when they touched him, and sobbing, crawled away. Rachelle constantly expected somebody to cry fake. Surely any moment they would realize that Armand was not healing them and they would turn on him. But the moment never came. It seemed to be enough for them simply that he would sit among them and let them touch him, despite their uncleanliness.

She realized there were tears sliding down her face. She had, perhaps, only ever wanted the same thing. She had gotten it yesterday, and then she had thrown it away.

Finally the crowd was finished. When they stopped, for a few moments Armand was still, breathing raggedly. Then he got to his feet and said loudly, “In the name of my father, King Auguste-Philippe II, I grant you permission to stay in the orange gardens this night. Please return to the city at dawn.”

He turned and marched back toward the soldiers. “Get them some bread, if you can,” he said to a captain. “They probably haven’t eaten all day. It will help them settle down.”

“Yes, sir,” the captain said, and Rachelle realized that the guards, too, were staring at them with something like awe.

“Good,” said Armand.

Rachelle picked up his silver hands by the harnesses. Then she grabbed him by the
arm.

“We need to talk,” she said.

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A
s soon as they were far enough away from the guards that they were out of earshot, Armand turned to her and said, “You wanted them to live.”

She stared.

“The crowd,” he said. “You didn’t want them shot.”

“Obviously,” said Rachelle. “Listen. About Joyeuse—”

“I didn’t send anyone to attack you.” There was no anger in Armand’s voice, just quiet intensity. “I swear to you. I arranged the letters to distract you and d’Anjou, but we were all supposed to
avoid
you two. Some of them must have wanted revenge, and I’m sorry about that. But—”

“I don’t care,” said Rachelle.

She did care. She believed him, too, which was surprising. But there were more important things right now.

“Joyeuse,” she said. “You have to tell me where it is.”

Armand let out a breath and then squared his shoulders, looking her in the eyes. “Rachelle,” he said, “please. You don’t have to keep following him. I know you think it’s too late, that you don’t have a choice anymore, but
you do
. You can change. You can stop Endless Night. If you help me. Please.”

She knew she was gaping at him. She couldn’t help herself. It was like the first time she had been punched in the face while sparring, and the world was bright and ringing and she couldn’t move.

“You want me to stop Endless Night,” she finally managed to stay.

“Yes,” said Armand. “I want you to stop it. And I think you will.” His mouth curved up. “The girl I fell in love with would have given anything to stop the Devourer. And even though you were working for d’Anjou—I don’t believe that girl was a lie. I think that’s who you really want to be, deep down.”

“You believe in the Devourer,” said Rachelle, still dazed. She’d gotten so used to thinking no one else would ever believe her.

“Well,” said Armand, “obviously.” He held up the stump of his right arm.

“I don’t think you told me everything about how you lost your hands,” said Rachelle, and it was a little satisfying to see his expression sliding into puzzlement.

“Let me go first,” she said. “I have wanted to kill the Devourer since I was twelve years old. That’s why I talked to a forestborn in the woods. After he marked me, he said that only Joyeuse or Durendal could kill the Devourer. That’s why I was looking for Prince Hugo’s door, because what you said—”

“Above the sun, below the moon,” Armand whispered. He looked exactly as dazed by this conversation as she was.

“I’d heard a story that Joyeuse was hidden behind a door like that. I’m not working for the Devourer. I’m not working for the forestborn. I
am
working for the King, but only because I want to stay alive, and I’m not planning to be alive much longer, because I met the forestborn who made me three weeks ago, and he told me that the Devourer was coming back before summer’s end. So you have to tell me where you hid Joyeuse.”

Armand stared at her a moment longer. Then he started laughing.

“What?” she demanded.

“Well,” he said, “if you want to kill the Devourer, you’re in luck. I’m going to be his new vessel.”