“It’s true,” said Erec. “I remember somebody telling me she would be dead and damned first. But she seems to have been mistaken about a lot of things. The same way our Monsieur Vareilles was mistaken when he told me over and over and over that he would never help us in the slightest.”
“What happened to him?” asked Rachelle.
“He will be watched every moment from now until the offering,” said Erec. “He’s not essential to us, but he is precious. To be a vessel, there’s a certain idiot abnegation required, and he is very good at it. Do remember, though, that we only need him alive. Not anything more. You know in what condition I can keep him alive if I please.”
Rachelle swallowed.
“And I will please,” he went on quietly, “if you ever rebel against me again.”
“Erec,” she said desperately, “you love me, don’t you?”
His finger traced her lip. “More than you can imagine.”
“Then don’t do this.”
“Why? Because I love you so very much?” His voice turned the words into a mockery.
“Because then you’ll have me. We’ll go away together, and I swear, I’ll do everything you want. I’ll be everything you want, forever and ever. I’ll love you. I’ll forget I ever loved anyone else but you. I will live and die and breathe for you. Just don’t help them. Don’t let them bring back the Devourer.”
“Oh, my lady.” He kissed her forehead. “I wouldn’t love you so much if you weren’t so brave. But you’ve forgotten one thing. If the Devourer returns, I will still have you, and all the kingdoms of this world besides.”
“I’ll fight you,” said Rachelle. “Threatening Armand won’t work past tonight. Threatening Amélie won’t work for more than three days, because I know she’ll never take your covenant. And then I’ll fight you forever.”
“There will always be another innocent life or twelve to threaten. Besides, then you will have nothing left but the Devourer and me.” Erec put his arm around her. “And you are marvelously skilled at surviving. You’ll learn to love us both.”
Rachelle didn’t fight the embrace. “Maybe I’ll just learn to kill you.”
He grinned. “I’m willing to take that wager.”
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When Rachelle was able to stand again, Erec took her by the hand and led her back to her room.
“I’m leaving you here,” he said, “only because I trust you to imagine what I will do to your favorite saint if you disobey.”
“I know,” said Rachelle, and sat down on one of the chairs. She would fight him again that evening. She knew she would find the strength to fight him then, but for now she felt empty and exhausted.
Afternoon sunlight blazed through the window; it glittered off the embroidery on Erec’s jacket as he bowed to her and left.
This is the last sunlight, she thought. The last time any of us will ever see the sun.
No. No, the Bishop and Justine were still free—they must be, or Erec would have gloated—so maybe they would be able to intervene tonight. Or tomorrow, or next year. The world had lain under Endless Night for thousands of years before Tyr and Zisa defeated the Devourer. If he returned tonight, he could still be defeated later, and daylight restored.
But if the offering took place, whoever wanted to save the world would have to kill Armand. She was suddenly, wretchedly glad that she couldn’t hold Joyeuse.
She remembered Amélie gluing the patch on her face and telling her it meant first “assassin” and then “courage.”
Amélie. She had left her to wake up a bloodbound.
Rachelle surged to her feet, meaning to run back to the little storage room and find her. But then somebody coughed softly behind her. She turned.
Amélie waited in the doorway. She stood stiffly, mouth a little tense; her hair was wrapped up in a neat bun, but one little strand escaped. She had pasted a large velvet patch over the mark on her cheek.
“Rachelle,” she said, and Rachelle realized she was afraid.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry—”
Amélie flung her arms around her. “You’re all right.”
“Yes. No, what are you talking about?” Rachelle realized that she was hugging Amélie back just as fiercely. Warm, human arms that she would soon never feel again, and she just wanted to curl up and go to sleep forever in that embrace.
“I woke up and you were gone. I thought—I didn’t know what to think.”
“I tried to kill Erec and then I— You can tell, can’t you?”
Amélie looked up from her shoulder. “I’m not a fool and it seems I’m also not entirely human anymore. Yes, I can tell you’re a forestborn. I don’t care any more than I did when you were bloodbound.”
“I’m sorry,” said Rachelle. “It’s all my fault. That he hurt you.”
“No,” said Amélie.
“You don’t understand. He said you were a present—”
“My mother runs a printing press,” Amélie interrupted her. “You can buy anything, you know, if you just say it’s ingredients for medicine. That’s why I could never leave her to become a cosmetician. She needed my help mixing ink and setting type. And nobody ever looked twice at me when I carried pamphlets across the city.”
“You,” Rachelle said blankly.
“When I heard you were going to the palace with Monsieur Vareilles, I knew I had to come. I was the one who took his messages to the other rebels. I helped arrange the coup. Your d’Anjou caught me when I was trying to escape the Château afterward. He didn’t like it.” She shrugged. “Maybe he would have marked me whatever I did. But that isn’t what happened. I’m going to die because I tried to resist an unjust king. Not because of you.”
Rachelle stared at her. “Then why . . . if you were one of them, why did you ever become my friend?”
“I told you why.” Amélie looked steadily back at her. “Mother said I was crazy. But you saved my life, and you were—you were so kind, when you thought nobody would notice. Maybe we should have told you earlier, but it wasn’t just our secret and it didn’t seem fair to burden you—”
Rachelle started laughing, raggedly and almost hysterically. All this time, she was protecting my innocence, she thought, and had to sit down, she was laughing so hard.
“But if I’d known it would make you smile, I would have told you years ago,” said Amélie, kneeling beside her. She reached out a hand; Rachelle took it and squeezed her fingers.
She should have told Amélie so many things, so long ago.
When she had gotten her breath back, she said, “Did Erec tell you anything when he marked you?”
Amélie shook her head. So Rachelle told her everything.
“With so many forestborn,” she said, “I don’t see how I can stop the ceremony. I think—I think the only thing to do is let the Devourer awaken and then try to kill him.”
“You think you can?”
“No. I’d need Joyeuse for that. But the Bishop hasn’t been captured—that I know of—and neither he nor Justine will hesitate.” She swallowed. “To kill the Devourer, somebody needs to be possessed. But it doesn’t need to be Armand. I won’t let it be Armand if there’s any other way. I won’t.”
Amélie pulled Rachelle’s hand to her lips and kissed it.
“I would scold you,” she said after a moment, “but I’m planning to die as well.”
Rachelle thought she had never loved her so much as in that moment.
“If the Bishop kills the Devourer fast enough,” she said, “it might set you free.”
“Maybe,” said Amélie. “The great physician Albert le Magne believed that at the moment people receive the mark, both blood and bile are poisoned, and that is why they die in three days if the Devourer does not strengthen them. My mother thinks—” Her voice faltered and she fell silent.
; “I’m sorry,” Rachelle said again.
“I told you, it’s not your fault.”
“I brought you here. If I hadn’t asked you—”
“If we really are doomed,” said Amélie, “if the Devourer returns and we can’t stop him and night falls forever—I am sorry I can’t be with my mother. But I’m glad I can be with you.”
“I wish there were something I could do for you,” Rachelle whispered. “But there’s something I’d ask of you. Tonight, for the ball. Will you . . . will you please make me beautiful?”
“You are always beautiful.” Amélie smiled. “But I will make you as glorious as the sun.”
Amélie kept her word. Rachelle’s skin had never shimmered so flawlessly; her cheeks had never flushed so perfectly. Her lips were painted pure, warlike bloodred. There was a patch on her left cheekbone—a tiny crescent moon—and on her right, a little swirling design painted in gold.
“Does that mean ‘assassin’?” asked Rachelle as the tiny brush tickled over her cheek, leaving gold tendrils behind.
“No,” said Amélie. “For a noblewoman I would paint her house’s coat of arms here. But since you’re not . . .” She trailed into silence as she worked on a particularly tricky portion. Then she went on, “I found this design in a book. It was painted on the wall of a cave in northern Gévaudan. There.” She laid down the brush and handed the mirror to Rachelle.
“It looks almost like writing,” said Rachelle.
“Well. I might have added my initials to it.”
Sévigné was gone—“She saw the mark,” said Amélie, “and she’s probably halfway to the Archipelago by now”—but Amélie contrived to put Rachelle’s hair up easily enough. It was the dress that was a problem, because Rachelle didn’t want Erec to suspect she was planning anything, but a ball gown was hardly suitable for fighting. They compromised by lacing the corset as loosely as possible and strapping four knives to Rachelle’s legs.
The dress itself was magnificent. It was crimson silk that turned to gold at the hem, with golden roses embroidered on the skirt. The sleeves were slashed with white and ringed with little gold silk roses. The neckline bared her shoulders and her collarbones like a declaration of war. When Rachelle saw herself wearing it in the mirror, she felt beautiful. And glorious. And like a warrior who had a chance to win.
And none of that mattered next to knowing that every inch of her body had been decorated by somebody who loved her.
“Thank you,” she said, turning to Amélie, who had been fussing with the back panels of her skirt. “You’re amazing.”
“This is my last performance,” said Amélie. “It had better be good.”
“I mean,” said Rachelle, “thank you for everything, ever since we met. Without you . . . I don’t know if I’d be strong enough to keep fighting.”
Amélie smiled and took her hands. “I have never regretted being your friend,” she said. “Make me proud tonight.”
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Erec came to fetch her. Rachelle had expected him to come looking for punishment or vengeance, but when she opened the door and saw him standing on the other side resplendent in black velvet and silver, he only smiled at her, the same as always.
“Good evening,” he said. “I think you will enjoy tonight.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Have you forgiven me, then?”
“Still so human, my lady?” He laid his hands on her shoulders. “You misunderstand our nature. We don’t need to hate or forgive what belongs to us.” He kissed her neck, and she shivered. “Someday you’ll understand that.”
Rachelle thought of when she had first learned what he was, and how desperately she had wanted to disbelieve it. Even now—even after what he had done to her, to Armand, to Amélie, to Aunt Léonie—some part of her wanted to forget it all, just so that they could be Rachelle-and-Erec again, fighting woodspawn in the streets of Rocamadour.
But that had only been a game to him, when it had been salvation to her.
“Humans are not so far from forestborn as you think,” she said.
He smiled. “You’ll sing differently when we ride to hunt the humans for sport.”
Night had fallen; as they walked through the hallways of the Château, the light from the chandeliers glittered off the glass windows. Shadowy rabbits raced beside their feet, and translucent flowers sprouted from the picture frames. The air was thick with the Forest’s longing.
The Midsummer Night festival was in the Garden of the Four Fountains: a wide, square lawn, enclosed by trees, with a great fountain at each corner. Lanterns hung on every tree, and candles sat around the rims of the fountains, setting the water alight as it leaped into the air. In one corner, a score of musicians played; in another were tables nearly buried under food and wine; and in the center, almost the whole court milled about, talking and laughing and dancing.
“Is it not glorious?” said Erec into her ear. His arm was tucked into the crook of hers. “Like peacocks, rounded up for slaughter.”
“Peacocks aren’t raised for meat,” said Rachelle. Her heart was beating fast but steady. She felt the vast magical power gathering in the air the same way she felt the exact space between Erec’s body and hers. But she was, for now, not overpowered by either feeling.
“They’ve appeared on the King’s table a time or two. Besides, it’s for their feathers they are killed.” Erec surveyed the glittering crowd. They did look like peacocks, Rachelle had to admit: they wore dresses and coats of crimson, emerald, and lazuli, with feathers in their hair and jewels at their necks. The little heeled shoes that men and women alike wore gave most of them a delicate, mincing gait quite like birds picking their way through grass.
“They’re so very human,” said Erec. “Laughing and dancing and civilized only because of their ignorance. If they knew what was coming, they would tear each other to pieces to escape. But that’s the human way, I suppose.”
“Too bad you’re killing them all,” said Rachelle. “When night falls, to whom will you feel superior?”
“Oh, they won’t all die. We shall keep them as our King keeps peacocks on his lawn. And hunt them as we please, like foxes.”
“Hardly challenging prey, in those shoes and without claws,” said Rachelle, scanning the crowd. “Did you drag Armand out for a final show, or is he staying somewhere safe?”
“Quite safe,” Erec began, but just then the King called out merrily, “D’Anjou!”
They turned, and there was the King bearing down upon them, dressed in cloth of gold, curls waving in the breeze. A step behind him, face solemn and still, came Armand.
Rachelle’s heart slammed against her ribs. His face was pale and grim, but he was alive. He was alive, and he was not harmed, and he met her eyes.
“Your Majesty,” said Erec, and bowed. Rachelle curtsied awkwardly a moment after.
“I thought it well for appearances if my son were here, this final night,” said the King. “After all, the announcement we make tonight closely concerns him, does it not?”
“Of course,” said Erec, and Rachelle knew that she was the only one who could hear the suppressed annoyance in his voice.
“I’ll leave him in your care and Mademoiselle Brinon’s,” said the King, giving Armand’s shoulder a light slap, and then returned to the dancing.
“Well, well, well,” said Erec. “Monsieur Vareilles, whatever shall we do with you?”
“Let him dance with me,” said Rachelle.
“You’ll plot,” said Erec.
“Yes,” she said, “but what can we do? You have your forestborn everywhere in the crowd.”
“That does not explain why I should let you.”
“Because you’ll take me away again at the end of the dance,” she said. “And you would love to show how you can give me and take me away.”
He bowed to her. “You ha
ve answered my riddle. Dance, then, while you still can.”
Armand didn’t move, so Rachelle stepped forward, took his hands, and drew them into the dance.
“Are you real?” he asked softly once they were dancing.
“What?” said Rachelle.
“Ever since I let them raise the Forest, the visions are worse. Everything feels like a dream.”
“I’m real,” said Rachelle. “I’m real. I promise.” She wondered what had happened in the past few hours; he looked nearly at the edge of his endurance. If only she had been able to get him out instead of running straight into Erec’s trap.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“You?” He laughed bitterly. “I’m sorry. I’ve done everything wrong. First the coup, then giving in when they wanted to raise the Forest. Now everyone’s trapped—”
“I forgive you,” she said. “And it’s all the same once the Devourer returns.”
His gaze flickered from side to side, probably checking for spies. “Did you see my candle?” he asked finally.
“Yes,” she said. “And I told the Bishop you were praying. So don’t worry. Just—when the time comes, say no for as long as you can.”
“How will that help end things?”
“I have a plan,” she said. “But I can’t tell you the rest.”
“Because I wouldn’t like it or because it wouldn’t be safe for me to know?”
“Because I need you to trust me,” said Rachelle, her stomach knotting. She knew this was a betrayal, but he would accept the Devourer this instant before he let her take his place. “Can you trust me?”
“I do,” he said. “If we somehow live through this—”
“Armand.” Her voice felt thick and sticky in her throat. She couldn’t tell him, but she couldn’t let him believe— “You have to understand. Whatever happens tonight—I don’t think you’ll get to keep me.”
He pressed his lips together. When he spoke again, his voice was tightly controlled. “You said you had a plan. Is there a chance we could survive?”