“I’m going to kill you,” said Rachelle, her voice low and rough.
“When darkness has fallen and our lord rules all the world, you will thank me for preserving your friend, my lady.” She felt him press a kiss to the back of her head. “Until tomorrow,” he said, and then he was gone.
“Don’t go,” Amélie whispered. “It hurts.”
“I know,” said Rachelle. “I’m sorry. I know.”
Amélie clung to Rachelle’s fingers, and she squeezed back. If she hadn’t let Amélie befriend her—if she hadn’t let her come to the Château—none of this would ever have happened.
“I’m sorry,” Rachelle said again, when the delirium got worse and Amélie started whimpering. “I’m sorry.”
All she could think, all night through, was: Erec will die for this.
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HarperCollins Publishers
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A little after dawn, Amélie finally fell all the way asleep. Rachelle gently eased her off her lap and onto the ground, then smoothed her hair out of her face. The mark squatted atop Amélie’s cheek like a big black spider.
Rachelle had been angry when she found out what they did to Armand. But she’d always known him as part of her world. When she thought he was a liar and when she knew he was a martyr, he’d always been somebody who belonged in this tangle of death and shadows and terrible prices.
Amélie was a simple human girl who’d been kind and brave enough to befriend a bloodbound. And for that she was going to become one of them. She’d talked so happily of how her art made her feel that she was obeying God, and now she would have to become a murderer or die. Rachelle’s throat closed up in fury.
Her eyes felt gritty and swollen. There was a pitcher in a corner of the room; she splashed water on her eyes, then realized that the remnants of the makeup Amélie had put on her last night were still smeared across her face. Her stomach twisted, and she scrubbed furiously until her face felt clean.
She buckled on her sword. She checked all her knives.
And then she went to kill Erec.
She didn’t know where he was, but that didn’t matter. She simply followed the red string, and it led her through the passages of the Château, down to the practice room for the guards. She heard laughter, and the clash of steel on steel. She walked through the door, and there was Erec. He had just finished sparring against two guardsmen at once, and now he was laughing and looking smug as he clapped them on the shoulders.
“Erec d’Anjou.” Her voice ripped out of her, loud and clear.
His eyes met hers and he bowed slightly. “My lady. Did you like your present?”
He knew she was angry. He found it amusing. For the first time, she didn’t care. Her feet carried her across the wide space of the practice room; she heard her boots thud against the floor, but she felt like she was floating.
“Erec d’Anjou,” she said as she got closer. Her fingers found the ruby’s golden chain and she ripped it off her neck. “I officially resign as your mistress.” The ruby tinkled as it bounced off the floor. “And I challenge you to a duel. You destroyed my dearest friend, and I demand satisfaction.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Is that how it is?”
She drew her sword. “You can defend yourself. Or you can stand still as I run you through. Three. Two.”
His sword whispered as he whipped it from the sheath. “One.” He saluted. “You break my heart, lady.”
She lunged.
Erec countered her with the same unholy speed and grace he always had. But she was no longer stumbling with fear or anticipated humiliation. Her sword met his, swirled it aside, plunged toward him. He had to give ground. Then he attacked again, and he drove her back; she dropped to the ground, rolled, and came up with a knife that she flung at his back.
He whirled, and his sword lashed out in time to fling it aside. “That’s cheating, my lady.”
She didn’t answer. She didn’t care. She pulled out one of her longer knives and attacked again, two-handed. Their swords whirled and clattered against each other, and then her knife snaked forward and sliced open his cheek.
“One point,” she said.
The grin was gone from Erec’s face. He pulled out his own dagger now, and for a few moments they circled each other. Then he attacked again.
She matched him. It was like breathing. Like dancing, and now that she had found the rhythm, she didn’t know how she hadn’t done it before. Her heart pounded. Her body sang. It felt like the Forest was unfolding inside her, trees sprouting and reaching upward into the night, and the hunt was running through her, the wolf chasing the deer and the hound breaking the rabbit in its jaws.
Her sword stabbed into his shoulder. “Two points,” she said, a wild grin tugging at her mouth, and she understood. This was why he’d always been better. He’d always been the more ruthless. Feed the Forest inside you with blood, and it would feed you in return.
Now she was ready to shed all the blood in the world.
The only sound was their ragged breathing, the thump of their feet, the clash of their swords. Erec managed to get a slice across her cheek, but then she was in close and she rammed her knife into his side.
“Three points,” she said, and wrenched the knife free.
Erec grunted, stumbling back a step. “And yet,” he snarled, “I’m not dead yet. You’ll have to try harder, lady.”
Rachelle twirled her knife. “Come at me, then.”
She could see phantom trees around her. Her body was made of light, her blood was made of fire. The air was wine in her throat. And that was when she realized: she was turning into a forestborn. Right here, right now.
It felt glorious.
Erec attacked. But the duel had changed. He was angry now, and desperate. He was starting to feel afraid. And she knew that she was going to win.
She sliced his face again. And his hand. And his shoulder. He was going to die. She was going to cut him to pieces right here, she was going to lick the blood off her knife, and yes, then she would turn into a forestborn. She remembered swearing she would rather be dead and damned, but she didn’t care anymore. Amélie was going to die and the only thing that mattered was making him pay.
He stumbled back and raised his hand, clenching it around the thread. She felt the answering burn around her finger, but it was barely painful.
“That’s not enough anymore,” she said. “You’ll have to fight me if you want to win.”
She could see it in his face when he decided to stake everything on a final lunge. She ran him through. Then she pulled her sword out again. He was wavering on his feet; she kicked him to the ground, knelt over him, and pressed her sword to his throat.
He was a forestborn, and he would heal from all the wounds she had given him. But he wouldn’t heal once she had cut off his head.
“Any final words, d’Anjou?”
He spat out blood and said, “You might . . . want to look around.”
She looked up. A few paces away stood two forestborn, one of them the pasty-faced male she had seen last night. But now she could see past the human disguises, to the inhuman faces burning with terrifying power.
And between them they held Armand.
“Let him go,” said the forestborn who had been with them last night. “Or this one dies.”
Last night, that would have been enough to control her.
She grinned. “Go ahead. He already chose to be a martyr.”
“Rachelle.” Armand’s voice was quiet, but it carried across the room and clenched at her heart. “Please stop.”
“He marked Amélie as a bloodbound. You know what that means. And now you want me to spare him?”
“There must be fifty forestborn in the Château right now. You kill him, they kill you, and then there’s nobody left to stop them.”
“I don’t care,” she said. “If Amélie isn’t part of this world, I don
’t see the point in saving it.”
“You don’t mean that,” said Armand. “You know that you have always wanted to save everyone. And killing him won’t save anyone. It’s just murderous revenge.”
“I’ve been a murderer for three years,” she snarled. “And now I’m a monster. Can’t you see I’m turning into a forestborn right now?”
Shadowy trees were sprouting up from the floor around her, spreading out branches and gnarling up roots. She could feel her hair drifting in the phantom wind.
“Yes,” said Armand.
“You know what that means. When people become forestborn, they lose their hearts. They lose their souls.”
Her head was starting to pound. Her blood was burning. She wouldn’t be strong for much longer; soon the change would overtake her.
“It doesn’t matter what I do now,” she said. “I’ll forget how to love in an hour. I will never save anyone again, do you understand?”
“I don’t believe that,” said Armand. “I don’t believe you don’t have a choice.”
“There are never any choices in the Forest.”
“Rachelle.” He met her eyes. “I lit a candle for you in the Lady Chapel, before the statue of the Lady of Snows. So you can’t possibly lose yourself.”
She nearly snarled, Do you think one prayer is all it would take to save me? But then she realized that he was still looking at her with terrifying intensity.
Armand knew that hearing about his prayers wouldn’t change her mind. And there was no reason to be so specific about where he had lit a candle—
Unless he was trying to tell her where he had hidden Joyeuse.
He was the worst fool in all creation. He knew she was turning into a forestborn. He knew that if the forestborn could get hold of Joyeuse, they would destroy it, and then there would be no more hope of stopping the Devourer, not ever. And he was wagering everything on the chance that she would do what no forestborn had ever done and keep her soul.
It wasn’t just a wager. It was a bribe, threat, and prayer all at once. If she wanted revenge, if she wanted to save anyone, if she wanted to save her own soul, then she couldn’t refuse a chance at Joyeuse. He was the most ruthlessly clever fool in all creation, and she had never loved him so much.
“Maybe you’ll forget,” Armand went on. “Tonight I’ll become the Devourer, most likely, and God alone knows how much of my soul will be left. But you don’t have to lose yourself now. Do you think Amélie would thank you for it?”
Amélie wouldn’t thank her for becoming a forestborn either. But as soon as she imagined Amélie seeing her now, she knew what Amélie would tell her to do: repent and confess your sins.
She let out a rickety laugh as she imagined what they would all think if she suddenly called for a priest. And she realized that she wasn’t going to kill Erec. Not while Armand was watching her and wagering everything on her. And not while the memory of Amélie was still in her heart.
She threw aside her sword. She stood up, because a thousand leaves were rustling against her skin, and she knew that she didn’t have much longer. She wanted to say good-bye to Armand. She wanted to tell him that she loved him while it still had a chance of being true.
But she’d used up all her strength laying down the sword. The leaves on her skin caught fire, and then her legs gave out.
“Rachelle!” Armand shouted, and she thought, I love you. I love you. I will try.
The last thing she saw was Erec leaning over her. “Sweet dreams, my lady. Your human heart has beat its last.”
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Rachelle was in the dead forest, walking toward the cottage thatched with bones.
Her eyes burned and stung with tears. Her throat ached like she had been screaming. She knew there was a reason she had fought to avoid this house, but her heart was a lump of meat in her chest and her agony had all been spent.
This is all, she thought as she stepped forward. This is all.
She raised her hand; she saw memories peeling away from it in translucent, gauze-like little scraps that fluttered away in the breeze. She could feel them sloughing off her hands, off her face; they were fluttering in her hair and tearing free.
Her foot landed on the wooden doorstep. The wood shifted with a creak, and she knew that the sound should send a bolt of terror through her, but there were no feelings left in her.
The door handle was cold beneath her hand.
The door swung in.
Inside was a bare wooden room spattered with blood. Rachelle saw herself lying dead at the center, bleeding from wound after wound.
And she saw herself kneeling over the body with a knife.
The other Rachelle raised her head, and now at last her heart was able to thud with terror again, but it was too late, too late, too late—
“You came home at last,” said her other self. She rose and gripped Rachelle’s wrists, and there was nothing but her dark eyes and cold and dark and cold.
Then she woke.
And she knew her heart was gone.
Rich afternoon sunlight shone on her face. She was lying in a bed hung with lacy golden curtains.
The Great Forest whispered in her mind, an endless, susurrating song. And yet her mind felt more clear and strong than it ever had before.
She could feel the little sweet-salt absence inside her, where her heart used to be. She could feel the gap, but it wasn’t real. Nothing she had ever felt as a human, none of her guilt and grief, had ever been real. She was free of it all now, and it was wonderful.
There was nothing but the absence where her heart had been. Nothing but the tiny, beautiful, infinite absence that would make her weep and scream if she had any tears or screaming left.
No. It was only humans who wanted meaning and hope. She was a forestborn, and she did not need those illusions.
Rachelle got out of bed and stretched, ready to run, and dance, and kill, and sing.
Her left hand ached, and she looked at the tiny white scar. For the first time she could remember, it didn’t make her want to weep. The hurt that she felt was purely physical and completely irrelevant.
The ache turned into a stab of pain that drove her to her knees. Worse, her eyes stung with senseless tears. She scrabbled frantically for the easy despair of a moment before. This was nothing, it meant nothing—
Amélie’s brush stroking makeup onto her face. Armand with yarn woven between his silver fingers. Aunt Léonie kissing her cheek.
The memories wouldn’t stop. Her mind was like a whirling top that repeated nothing nothing do not care over and over, but now the top had fallen off balance and was wobbling wildly, back and forth between indifference and frenzied, grieving love.
You don’t have to feel this. You don’t have to love them.
The thought came into her head as clearly as if someone had spoken to her. Rachelle straightened up, the storm in her mind calming. She was suddenly very conscious of having one last choice.
She couldn’t feel any more longing to love the people she had known. But she remembered Armand’s voice: Maybe it’s just that, once they’re so deep in the Forest’s power, they don’t want to remember loving anyone.
Her hand clenched around the pain of the scar.
It was like trying to swallow broken glass or make her heart beat backward. But she thought of Aunt Léonie, Amélie, Armand. She remembered smiling at them, caring for them, what would they think of me now—
And it was over. There were tears on her face and she was gasping for breath, crouched on the floor beside Erec’s expensive bed.
I love them, she thought, and the words felt numb but true. I am a forestborn, and I love them.
She could still hear the Great Forest singing at the back of her mind, triumphant and hopeless and unafraid. If she listened to it, wanted it, she knew she could let it sweep away her mind again
.
With a slow breath, she got to her feet. Her blood pulsed, ready for a fight.
I am Rachelle Brinon. I didn’t listen to my aunt when she told me to stay on the path and save my own life. Damned if I’ll listen to the Forest now.
She didn’t feel the slightest bit weak or unsteady as she strode to the door. Then she pushed it open and saw Erec sitting outside in his study.
He looked up. There was no time for fear. Rachelle thought of how the sunlight had poured drunkenly across her skin, and she let it give a swing to her steps as she strode out into the room.
He was on his feet in an instant. “My lady.”
She smiled back at him. “My lord.”
He crooked his finger, and she felt the compulsion he sent along the string that bound them, but she walked forward of her own will into his arms.
“Are you reconciled to your fate?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, and it was not a lie. She knew what her fate was and how she was going to use it, and not one part of her rebelled against it.
“You led me a merry chase.” His fingers traced over her face. She could still feel her old lust for him. She could feel, also, the draw of the bond between them. Now that she could tell the difference, it was less terrifying.
“Would you be satisfied with less?” she asked. “What do you need me to do?”
“Kiss me,” he said, and she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
He laughed. “I’m glad you haven’t lost your defiance.”
“I’ll make you gladder still tonight,” she said. “Right now, I’m going to run through the gardens.”
She expected him to object. To demand further submission out of her first. But he only smiled and said, “As you wish,” and a moment later she was running lightly down the hallway.
Of course she didn’t head for the gardens. She went straight for the Lady Chapel, which was dedicated to the Holy Virgin. It had been built in fulfillment of some king’s vow a few hundred years ago, but since then it had become not just a chapel but also the repository of sundry royal treasures. So unlike the main chapel, there were guards.