Crimson Bound

by Rosamund Hodge

  “Yes,” she lied helplessly. “But have you forgotten already that I’m a forestborn? When we defeat the Devourer . . . I don’t know what that will mean for me.”

  It was as close as she dared come to the truth.

  “We don’t know what that will mean for me either. Rachelle, I’m just saying—”

  “And even if I live through it, you can’t just take a demon home and keep house with her! Didn’t you ever hear the story about the Duke of Anjou and Mélusine?”

  “Yes,” said Armand. “But he let go of her when she transformed, didn’t he? Whatever creature you turn into, whatever form you take, I won’t let go of you.”

  “You think that holding hands can make me human? That’s idiotic. You don’t even have human hands.”

  She regretted the words a moment after, but his lips only sliced into a grin. “All the better to hold you with. Since, as you keep reminding me, you aren’t even human.”

  There was no reply she could make to that. So they danced. The music swayed and rocked back and forth, dragging them around in minor-key circles as light as leaves in air, as ponderous as the planets. The other dancers swirled around them, lovely and heedless as peacock feathers. Armand’s silver hand rested in hers, and that insignificant touch sent a thrill up her arms.

  This is the human way, she thought. On the edge of destruction, at the end of all things, we still dance. And hope.

  The music wound down to a pause. Rachelle looked around and didn’t see Erec anywhere nearby, and she wondered for a moment if they might get a second dance.

  “Come,” said a calm voice that made her skin crawl. It was the dark-haired woman who had held the knife to Rachelle’s throat. She laid a hand on Armand’s shoulder.

  Swiftly, he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Rachelle’s lips. Then he let himself be drawn away.

  “I love you,” Rachelle whispered, staring after him as he vanished into the crowd.

  “So he has another darling?” asked la Fontaine. “Or is she one of your friends?”

  Rachelle started and turned to the left. La Fontaine stood beside her, dressed in shimmering, pure white silk; the only bit of color on her figure was the ruby at her neck and the bloodred fan that she fluttered in front of her face.

  “She’s not my friend,” said Rachelle.

  “Indeed? She’s friendly enough with your beloved d’Anjou.” La Fontaine gave her a glance that seemed to divine all her secrets. “I’m not so ignorant as you might think. Nor yet so merciful, if you are planning to harm my cousin.”

  Did she know something? Or suspect? Rachelle opened her mouth, but she had no idea what she was going to say, and then a voice called out, “Silence for the King!”

  The crowd parted in the center of the lawn, and there stood the King, resplendent in gold and white, with Erec at his side.

  “Dearly beloved children of my ream,” said the King. “On this night, I proclaim to you a new future for our kingdom. Many of you have feared what will happen to Gévaudan without a legitimate heir. But I tell you now that you will need no heir.”

  There had been silence for the King’s speech, but now a nervous mutter was rising, and in another moment, Rachelle saw why: behind the King, men were marching through the trees in lines. Their eyes shimmered in the dark with reflected lamplight, like a great horde of hungry rats, and then they grew closer, and Rachelle realized that each one bore a bloodred star on his forehead.

  “I am your King and your King I shall remain forever, through the offices of my dear friends.” The King gestured at the forestborn gathered behind him. “Too long we have feared the Forest—”

  “Too long, O King, you have made your peace with sin!”

  The Bishop’s voice cracked across the garden as he came striding out of the trees, Justine at his side, and a troop of soldiers behind him.

  “King Auguste-Philippe II, I accuse you of betraying your kingly consecration by making an abominable covenant with our enemies, the forestborn. Kneel down and beg God for mercy before this accursed foolishness goes any further.”

  “Such idealism,” said the King. “But I think you’ll find it comes too late. D’Anjou?” He turned to Erec. “Tell them.”

  “Indeed, sire,” said Erec. “It is much too late to care who rules this kingdom.”

  In a heartbeat, his sword whipped out to slice the King’s head off his shoulders.

  Nobody moved. It was too sudden, too unreal, for anyone to believe what had just happened.

  “You have looked on the last daylight,” cried Erec, his voice ringing through all the garden. “Now begins the rule of the Forest again.”

  SO ZISA WAS FOUND WORTHY TO TAKE HER brother to be sacrificed on a hill of raw, dead earth. Here on a throne of black rock sat the previous vessel with flowers on his head. His ribs still moved with each breath, and his skin still stretched across his face. In this sense he was alive, but no other.

  “O my daughter,” said Old Mother Hunger, “tell our lord he has a new body.”

  “With gladness,” said Zisa, “but first I would dance before him.”

  So Zisa unbound her hair and danced. When she had finished, the Devourer hissed through the lips of his vessel and said, “I once granted your mother a wish in return for her dancing. Would you have the same of me?”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Zisa. “I wish to see you face-to-face.”

  The Devourer breathed upon her, and she vanished from the hill. Let us say that she walked into his stomach. To her, it seemed that she walked through a wood where the trees wept blood, and among the roots of a tree covered in ice, she found what looked like a glowing pearl, and she knew it was the moon. She cupped it in her hands and stole back the way she had come.

  Back onto the dead hill she stepped, and she held high the moon. Old Mother Hunger screamed and leaped for Zisa, but it was too late: the moon flew out of her fingers and up into the sky, and as its light dropped down upon the eldest of all forestborn, she withered and faded and fell to ash.

  “Farewell, Mother,” Zisa whispered.

  But while the light of the moon had killed Old Mother Hunger, it restored to Tyr his name and his wits, and he opened his eyes and saw his sister.

  “You have found a way to destroy him?” asked Tyr.

  “Yes,” said Zisa, “but there is something else I must do first.” She turned to the Devourer’s vessel and said, “I still have not seen your face, my lord.”

  He hissed, but then he breathed upon her. This time she wandered the bleeding forest until she found a tree charred black from root to twig. Beneath it lay a kernel of golden light. When Zisa stepped back again onto the hill, the seed flew up into the sky and became the sun, and the world filled with light.

  “Now for the final stroke,” said Zisa, and from her skirt she took the two needles and gave one to Tyr. In their hands, the needles became swords, Durendal and Joyeuse.

  Brother and sister were ready to strike; but the Devourer said, “O my daughter, have you wondered what befell the souls of your mother and father?”

  “They are dead,” said Zisa. “You can trouble them no more.”

  “The souls of those my servants kill are mine by right,” said the Devourer. “Lay down your sword, come face-to-face with me, and perhaps I’ll give them back to you.”

  She had hated her father; she had loved her mother. But Tyr, the fool, had loved both; so she could not resist. Though Tyr begged her to say no, she laid down the sword and let the Devourer’s vessel breathe on her a third time.

  Zisa hunted the bleeding forest without success until she came to a desert. When she stepped upon the sand, a voice behind her said, “Turn around and face me, little girl.”

  She turned and saw his face and, seeing him, knew he held no souls captive, for loneliness was in his nature.

  But seeing him, she belonged to him. And on the hill, the old vessel crumbled to dust, and the Devourer opened Zisa’s eyes and said to Tyr, “You never yielded to me. So you c
annot touch me.”

  Tyr looked at his sister whom he loved more than life and who loved him more than reason.

  And that is when he stabbed me in the heart.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

  ..................................................................

  Finally people started screaming. Justine drew her sword and charged toward Erec.

  And the bloodbound attacked.

  They had stood in such orderly rows that Rachelle had assumed they were the same as she had been: infected with the power of the Forest but still able to speak and think, obedient to the King because they had chosen obedience over death. But now they burst into wild, wordless screams and flung themselves on the crowd, wielding swords and knives with desperate, animal ferocity.

  The world slowed to a crawl. It seemed to take forever for Rachelle to pull up the hem of her skirt and grab the knives. By the time she had finished, the closest bloodbound was nearly upon her—but he was moving slowly too, and it was the easiest thing in the world to whirl and kick. He dodged back, but a little off balance, and she was able to lunge forward and slide the blades into his ribs.

  He had been human once. But his eyes were filled with the same sightless madness as the woman she’d killed in Rocamadour.

  Then time was moving normally again. The soldiers were trying to pull the nobles into a group that could be protected. Justine was fighting two bloodbound at once, her sword whirling—the Bishop was fighting too, wielding Joyeuse, and his childhood must have included fencing lessons at some point because he had the stance of an aristocrat—

  But there were still too many of the mad bloodbound. There were far too many.

  “Stop,” she said, as she whirled to slice another bloodbound across the face. But none of them seemed to hear. Then she thought of the Forest and she filled her lungs with the cold, sweet air, and she said, “Stop.”

  And they stopped. They dropped their weapons and straightened to attention, glazed eyes staring blindly ahead of them.

  She felt them, a vast, dragging presence like a thousand dull little pebbles in her head. How could Erec have controlled them so easily?

  “Kneel,” Rachelle said, and they knelt.

  She could hardly breathe.

  “Sleep,” she whispered, and they fell to the ground and her mind was free again.

  From the other side of the garden, Justine looked at her with a pale face of raw surprise.

  Something cold burned against the back of Rachelle’s neck. She whirled and staggered, falling to her knees in the grass. There behind her stood la Fontaine, her makeup smudged. In her hands, she held three roses, their stems plaited together in a knot that looked vaguely familiar.

  “I grow more and more curious,” said la Fontaine, “whether I should call you Mélusine or Zisette.”

  Rachelle realized that there were three more roses lying on the lawn around her in a triangle.

  “Where is Armand?” asked la Fontaine.

  “D’Anjou took him,” said Rachelle. “I have to stop him.”

  “And what are you?”

  “I’m a forestborn,” said Rachelle. “What are you?”

  “Did I not tell you?” said la Fontaine. “I am an almighty goddess.”

  Rachelle stared at the flower she held, and remembered how charms were worked in the south. “You’re . . . a woodwife?”

  “Why do you think I filled my Tendre with roses? My mother and I are the only reason this Château wasn’t overrun by woodspawn years ago.”

  “The whole Château is surrounded by the Great Forest now,” said Rachelle. “If we get the people inside, can you protect them?”

  “A little,” said Fontaine. “I am still not sure if I should kill you first, though.”

  “I’ll vouch for her,” said Justine, arriving from behind Rachelle. “And the Bishop will vouch for me.”

  “I am not sure I trust your bishop either,” said la Fontaine, but she lowered the plaited roses and Rachelle was able to scramble back to her feet.

  Beneath the simple nighttime rustlings, the air shivered with a not-quite-audible breath.

  “They’ve started,” said Rachelle. “Where’s Joyeuse?”

  “Here,” said the Bishop, also arriving. Behind him, Rachelle could see the courtiers still huddled together behind the line of soldiers, looking unable to believe the danger was over.

  The danger was just beginning.

  Rachelle turned to the Bishop. “You carry the sword. Justine, come with us to help hold the forestborn back. La Fontaine, get the people into the palace and keep them as safe as you can.”

  “Bring my cousin back,” said la Fontaine. “And tell me this tale in my salon.”

  “I’ll try,” said Rachelle, though dread curdled in her stomach. She would have to fail at one of those charges.

  Then the three of them raced into the dark. Rachelle didn’t try to find her way in the dark; she simply followed the glowing red trail of the thread that bound her to Erec. As they ran through the trees, the darkness between the trunks thickened and roughened until it was no longer air but dark, damp stone, and they were walking down a tunnel.

  At the end of the tunnel was a door made of metal flowers, and it hummed with a power that forbade humans to open it.

  Luckily, only one of them was human.

  “I’m going inside first,” she said softly. “I’ll leave the door ajar. When I call, charge inside. Or when you hear screams and fighting.” She took a deep breath and realized that despite everything, she was still afraid.

  Justine smacked her shoulder lightly. “Be careful.”

  “Go with God,” said the Bishop.

  Rachelle nodded. “Stand back,” she said, and touched the door.

  The petals licked her fingers with soft affection, and the door swung open, and she slipped inside.

  Her first thought was to worship.

  Not thought. Instinct. And not hers. The pressure crushed her from every side, as if the very air were made of it: this place was sacred to the Devourer. In this place he had been worshipped, loved, feared, and reverenced. Hunger was his glory and destruction his delight. Worship him. Worship. Worship.

  She realized that she was standing in a round, domed room hollowed out of black rock, and that the floor was carved with a labyrinth, the lines wide as a hand’s span and just as deep, lined with white marble that glowed in the darkness. Forestborn stood in a ring around the labyrinth. They were singing: a low, whispering chant that had no words Rachelle could recognize. And yet she knew the song; it came from the recesses of her heart. It was the same song that had stirred on the cold, sweet winds of the Great Forest.

  Our master, she thought. Our lord. The hunger of hungers, delight of delights, and her body stumbled under a wave of desire to kneel and worship. She was a tiny candle flame, guttering in the wind before it went out.

  Hands caught her shoulders, lifted her up. Erec looked into her eyes and said, “Sometimes I wish you weren’t so worthy of me.” His face was fondly affectionate, but his fingers had tightened on her arms as if he wanted to break them.

  “I haven’t come to stop the Devourer,” she whispered.

  “That’s good. Because I brought a hostage.” He glanced toward the side of the room, and there she saw one of the forestborn sitting with Amélie. Her body was rigid, her eyes wide; when she looked at Rachelle, it seemed to take her a moment to recognize her. Then her lips pressed together and she nodded fiercely. Once.

  I’m planning to die as well, Amélie had said to her, and she was brave enough that she had meant it.

  Erec was not always so clever as he thought.

  “I won’t stop the sacrifice,” said Rachelle. “I promise.”

  “Good,” said Erec. “Then come and see.”

  He dragged her forward.

  While they spoke, the walls of the room had faded away. Though the cold, raw stone was still beneath their feet, n
ow vast, ancient tree trunks reared up around them, taller and thicker than cathedral towers. They were in the Great Forest.

  The chanting swelled in her ears, her lungs, her blood. There was almost no difference left, she realized, between the human world and the Great Forest, between day and eternal night. The only wall that separated them now was the fragile human sitting, head bowed, at the center of the labyrinth.

  The chanting ceased. The forestborn lady who had held the knife to Rachelle’s throat said, “Are you ready to accept our lord?”

  Armand raised his head. He met Rachelle’s eyes. And then he said, “I will not.”

  Erec strode forward, raising his sword, and pointed it at the base of Armand’s throat. “You have one more chance. Then we use another.”

  Rachelle could feel the Devourer—could feel the vast, ancient power rising and waking and turning slowly toward the world again, ever hungry and ever yearning. It was like a rising black tide, and her heart stuttered because surely Armand would be drowned in it. Surely anything human would have to drown.

  Armand smiled up at Erec and said, “No.”

  “Now!” Rachelle yelled, and then she moved. It seemed to take a very long time: hours to shove a hand against Erec’s arm, jolting his sword point aside. Hours to lunge forward, slide, and crash into Armand. She had meant to shove him out of the center, but he hung on to her and they end up tangled together.

  She had time to notice that the black tide had risen above them in a vast wave, cold and seeking and desperate. She had time to feel the weight of Armand’s body against hers, his elbow jabbed into her side. And she had time to think, He is never going to forgive me for this, before she opened her mouth and said, “Yes.”

  The Devourer was falling too swiftly and greedily to turn aside from any willing sacrifice. The dark wave crashed down on her and filled her up. Her body shuddered and writhed under the weight. There was no sound in her ears but the screaming of the nighttime wind. Her vision blurred; she saw Justine and the Bishop charge into the room, saw the forestborn turning to fight, but it was like watching distorted shadow puppets on a faraway wall.