Crimson Bound (6 page)

And not just the common people loved him. Some of the nobility were besotted with him as well. So even though Armand Vareilles had become a symbol of those who muttered against him, the King had to keep him in luxurious style. He’d even commissioned false hands made of silver for him. That was why she had never seen his gloved hands move.

“In three days,” the King went on, “he will accompany me back to Château de Lune with the rest of the court. In recognition of his rank, and the heroism he has so lately shown, and on account of the malicious unrest in the kingdom, I grant him one of my own bloodbound, Rachelle Brinon, to be his bodyguard.”

“What?” said Rachelle, so surprised that she didn’t care if everyone heard the outrage in her voice.

She had to find Joyeuse. Failing that, she had to protect as many people as she could until her forestborn returned and she had a chance to kill him. She didn’t want to spend her last days guarding a fake saint while smothered in the elegance of Château de Lune, where ancient spells ensured that no woodspawn ever came.

But if she deserted now, there was no way to keep from instantly becoming a fugitive.

Armand’s mouth was flat as his gaze flickered from her to Erec and back again; then abruptly his mouth crooked up and he leaned toward her. “Not too late to use that knife,” he murmured.

Rachelle glowered at him, but before she could respond, there was another muffled commotion. She looked up to see someone striding through the crowd, and her whole
body tensed in revulsion.

It was Bishop Guillaume.

He was a tall, colorless man with a wispy pale beard, a mouth shriveled into a permanent frown, and beady black eyes. On his chest glinted a huge silver pendant in the shape of the Dayspring’s right hand, rubies inlaid to represent the bloody stump. On anyone else it would have been a symbol of faith, but Rachelle had always thought that on him it looked like a trophy from battle.

“Good morning,” said the King. “Come with your usual request? I regret to say there are still no new bloodbound whom I could assign to you.”

As soon as Bishop Guillaume had arrived in Rocamadour, he had started proclaiming that since the King had no power to forgive sins, the bloodbound should not be in his care. Instead, all repentant deadly warriors should be put under the Bishop’s personal command for the good of their souls.

“No,” said the Bishop in his deep, silky voice. He would have been laughed out of the city as a fanatic long ago if he didn’t make words sound so lovely. “I have come with a different request. Release Mademoiselle Brinon into my care.”

For a moment Rachelle couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. The Bishop had never paid her any notice beyond sneering at her as he did at all the other bloodbound.

People whispered as they stared at her and the Bishop. Probably they were marveling at how he had graciously condescended to be concerned with her soul.

Rachelle knew better. He must have decided he could make her into his personal weapon.

She stood. “
I
have a request,” she said loudly. “Arrest the Bishop for hiding fugitive bloodbound. D’Anjou and I found one last night, surrounded by rebels who tried to kill us.”

“And you think I aided them?” said the Bishop, infuriatingly calm.

“They were all madly devoted to you,” she said, but of course that wasn’t evidence.

She was suddenly, acutely aware of the silence as everyone in the room stared at her. None of them would believe her. People wanted the bloodbound to serve them or protect them, but they never, ever wanted to listen to them.

The Bishop gave her a pitying look. “I am sorry that they hurt you, my daughter. I would never want you harmed.” His voice was full of the gentle sorrow that made ladies weep into their handkerchiefs and then drop extra money into the collection plate. “That is why I want you to come with me: so you can be reconciled with God and find peace.”

“I’d rather confess to the devil,” said Rachelle.

“Enough,” said the King, sounding bored. “My dear bishop, I cannot give you Mademoiselle Brinon, because she is busy guarding my dearest son.” He looked at Rachelle. “Do you understand your orders?”

She understood them. She had no intention of following them. It would be difficult to hunt for Joyeuse while the King’s men were hunting her down for desertion. But she couldn’t afford to care about that now.

She would obey the King today. She would vanish tonight.

“As Your Majesty commands,” she said, bowing her head.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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R
achelle’s heart was pounding in her ears. She was vaguely aware that a crowd had gathered, muttering and laughing, but right now it didn’t matter any more than the smear of pain on her cheekbone where a punch had just landed.

Two paces away, Justine Leblanc showed her teeth. “Well?”

Now
, thought Rachelle, and lunged forward into a kick exactly the same way she had the last three times. Justine dodged and blocked—as Rachelle changed direction, grabbed her shoulder, and took them both down.

The next few moments were a blur. Justine wasn’t the sort of fighter who gave up when she hit the ground; she wrenched, kicked, and slammed her elbows into Rachelle with methodical efficiency. There was no time for strategy, only instant, white-hot reactions—

And then Justine had her arm twisted back. Rachelle bucked and managed to wrench out of her grip, but as she broke free, her arm twisted out of its socket with a pop and a
searing flash of pain. Rachelle gasped, barely choking off a cry.

Justine gasped too. She was always worried that she might be actually hurting Rachelle.

Grimly, Rachelle rolled onto her side and slammed a kick straight into Justine’s stomach. Then she collapsed onto her back.

For a few moments, neither of them moved. Rachelle’s shoulder throbbed with pain; her arm only tingled, but she couldn’t move it. She stared up at the golden fleurs-de-lis on the high ceiling of the sparring room and listened to the voices of the guards who had gathered to watch them fight. Normally she hated being a spectacle for anyone’s amusement. But right now—despite the exhaustion and the pain in her shoulder—the delirious song of the fight still hummed in her veins. Even the thought of the Devourer’s return didn’t feel so terrible.

“Truce?” Justine offered rather breathlessly.

“Truce,” said Rachelle.

“Do you want—” Justine started.

“Just do it,” said Rachelle, and clenched her teeth.

With practiced ease, Justine leaned over her, grabbed her arm, and shoved it back into the socket. Rachelle choked but managed not to make any other sound, which was better than last time.

She took a couple of slow breaths and sat up. Justine still crouched next to her. Even on the ground, she loomed: she was a tall woman, nearly six feet, with big bones and a square, big-nosed face that could not have been lovely even when she was young. Now she was nearly forty, and her dark braids were dusted with silver.

“You’re improving,” she said. “But you still get careless when you’re angry.”

“You still don’t expect me to grab your shoulders,” said Rachelle.

Justine smiled faintly. “Has the Bishop spoken with you?”

All the joy of the fight was instantly gone. She stared at Justine. “
You
were the one who set him after me?”

Probably she should have expected it. Of all the bloodbound, Justine was the only one to take the name Royal Order of Penitents seriously: she lived in a garret worse than Rachelle’s, she wore a hair shirt at all times, and she was in the chapel on her knees almost every day. Naturally, as soon as Bishop Guillaume turned up saying she was damned, she had demanded to serve him. The King had given in, since the people were enraptured with their new Bishop and it was easier to deny his requests if he’d
been treated generously once already. Ever since, the Bishop had flaunted his triumph by having his lone bloodbound attend him at ceremonies.

“Yes,” Justine said quietly. “Do you really prefer d’Anjou for your keeper?”

Rachelle surged to her feet, forgetting about all the people watching. “He’s not my keeper. And yes, I
do
prefer him. At least he’s not a liar.”

Except when he was flirting, but Rachelle would take that sort of liar any day over the kind who preached that all the bloodbound should face judgment, then tried to hide them from the King’s justice.

Justine stood, her mouth pressing into a line.

“Ladies,” Erec called from behind them. “I hope you weren’t fighting over me.”

Justine ignored him. “Think about it,” she said to Rachelle, and strode out of the room.

“She didn’t even look at me,” said Erec, his voice mock sad. “I wonder what I’ve done to offend her?”

“Breathing, I think,” said Rachelle. “But also wearing that jacket.” The black velvet construction, stiff with silver embroidery, was by no means the gaudiest thing she’d ever seen Erec wear, but it was still painful to look upon.

“It baffles me why you don’t hate her as much as her master,” said Erec. “Or has that changed?”

Rachelle sighed. “I can’t hate her when she’s always willing to spar.”

More importantly, when Endless Night returned, Justine would die fighting the forestborn. She might take orders from the Bishop, but nothing would ever make her stop trying to protect people from the Great Forest.

“You could fight me, you know,” said Erec.

She rolled her eyes. “And listen to your epigrams about my every mistake? I think not.”

That was why she sparred only with Justine. She didn’t care about demonstrating that she was more elegant or clever than Rachelle. She didn’t even really care about demonstrating that she was the better fighter. She understood that sometimes fighting in a white-hot blur was the only way to make the memories stop.

“Well, don’t get too attached to her.” Erec draped a hand easily over her shoulder and drew her out one of the side doors into a paved courtyard. “We need to talk about your charge.”

For a wonderful hour, Rachelle had forgotten that she had a charge. At least she
wouldn’t have him after tonight, when she vanished into the city for her last attempt to find Joyeuse.

Right now she needed to pretend to care about him. “What is it?” she asked. “Do you know who sent the assassins?”

“Oh, that isn’t so important. One of the other possible heirs, I’m sure. Probably Vincent Angevin—he’s stupid enough.” Erec sighed. “It’s a pity that I got all the cleverness in the family.”

“You’d hardly like it if he were better at something than you,” said Rachelle. Erec was an illegitimate son of the Angevin family, and he never lost an opportunity to mention how much he outclassed his second cousin Vincent. And all the rest his family. And the whole world.

“It’s a pity for them, just not for me. Anyway, I doubt Vincent will suffer for this escapade, since you know how much our King likes him.”

“You do realize,” said Rachelle, “that most of these problems would go away if the King would just name an heir?”

The death of King Auguste-Philippe’s one legitimate son had left him without a clear successor. Several generations of peculiar treaties and marriage-contracts meant that among his nearest five nephews and cousins, none was unambiguously next in line. And there was also precedent for legitimizing a bastard as heir—and the King had eight. Needless to say, all the possible heirs were ready to cut one another’s throats. The rumors of the King’s ailing health had only made the conflict worse.

“Yes, but that would entail admitting that he’s not immortal.” Erec’s mouth quirked. “What I have to tell you is far more important. You have already realized, I hope, that your true mission is not to protect Armand Vareilles.”

Rachelle had realized no such thing, but she was long used to pretending that she had kept up with Erec’s labyrinthine thoughts. “You mean our King would lie to us? How shocking.”

“Your mission is to contain him,” said Erec. “Somebody is fomenting a rebellion, and that somebody will probably attempt to recruit Monsieur Vareilles soon, at which point he goes from annoyance to danger. You know the people will riot for him.”

Her chest tightened with frustration. The Devourer was returning soon—before summer’s end, which could conceivably mean
today.
And yet she had to stand here in the sunlit courtyard, discussing politics with Erec and pretending to care, because nobody believed in the Devourer and she had to avoid getting arrested before she found
Joyeuse.

“Why don’t you just throw that somebody in the dungeons,” she asked, “along with everyone else you don’t like?”

“Because that somebody is good enough that we’re still trying to work out who he is.”

“Well,” said Rachelle, “I know one man who would like to see the whole court burn. In this life
and
the next.”

“And much we’d all love to see him burn instead,” said Erec. “Unfortunately, harming a bishop would also provoke riots. Unless we really did have proof that he was helping fugitive bloodbound. And we don’t. So instead of leading a raid on the Bishop’s residence, you’re going to accompany Monsieur Vareilles to Château de Lune, where he won’t have access to the mob every day, and you’re going to ensure that he remains a court fixture until he is a harmless joke.”