Almost all of them turned to look when Armand walked in.
“Cousin!” Vincent Angevin’s voice boomed across the hall, and Rachelle turned to see him striding toward them. Unlike many of the dirty, frightened nobles, his coat was clean and crisp, his curls perfectly arrayed. If he’d been at the celebration the night before, he’d found time to clean up afterward.
“I’m glad to see you’re alive,” he said with a hearty laugh that made him seem very like his late uncle.
“Thank you,” Armand said blandly.
Vincent slapped him on the shoulder. “It’s a sad day, but I’m sure good will come of it. And I know I’ll have your support in the days ahead, as I take up my dear uncle’s mantle.”
Armand pressed his lips together for a moment as he looked at Vincent.
“No,” he said, his voice quiet and carrying. “I won’t help you.”
Clearly it had not occurred to Vincent that Armand might refuse him to his face in public. It took him a moment to respond. “You know my uncle wanted me to—”
“The King my father handed me over to the forestborn who cut off my hands,” said Armand, his voice growing louder. “He forced me to help him while he was alive, but now that he’s dead, I don’t give a damn what he wanted. Or what you want.”
“I don’t either,” put in Rachelle. “And I have a sword.”
Vincent huffed. “I would advise you not to speak that way to your future king—”
“I would advise you,” said Armand, in a voice that was entirely calm but reached every corner of the hall, “not to threaten somebody who has faced the Devourer twice. One of us walked away. It wasn’t him.”
He met Vincent’s eyes, and there was no hint of hesitation anywhere in his body. Every eye in the hall was on him, and though Vincent still had his chest thrust out, Rachelle could tell he was uneasy.
Nobody but Rachelle had ever seen Armand when he wasn’t playing the part of obedient saint. Even she hadn’t ever seen him when he wasn’t having hostages used against him.
Armand looked around the hall. He seemed to be measuring up the people around him and finding them just barely sufficient. “The King had Raoul Courtavel imprisoned in the Chateau as a hostage against me. I will require some guards to free him.”
Vincent spluttered, clutching at the fragments of command. “You can’t just—”
“I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake, monsieur.” La Fontaine was approaching them with a set of palace guards at her back. “Last week, our dear, late king made a will that legitimized Prince Raoul and named him heir. I saw him sign it. I have the documents.”
“You’re lying.”
“I also,” la Fontaine continued pleasantly, halting just a step away from him, “have proof that you conspired to assassinate your cousin Armand Vareilles. And the captain of the guard believes me.” She smiled. “I would advise you not to land that blow, monsieur.”
Vincent hastily lowered his hand, his gaze flickering from side to side. He had clearly never considered that anyone would seriously contest him so quickly—especially not Armand or la Fontaine—so he had brought no supporters with him. He tried a smile; it looked rather sickly.
“I’m afraid,” he said, “that grief for my uncle has caused you to start engaging in wild fantasies—forging a will in my uncle’s name—”
And here came the Bishop, his dark cassock swinging. “I have seen the documents,” he said. “I am satisfied.”
Rachelle wondered if anyone else noticed that he hadn’t said the documents were genuine.
It didn’t matter. She could see it in the faces of the guards, of the nobles gathered around them. The Bishop and la Fontaine had helped save their lives last night. Armand was their saint. They trusted them now.
“Think what you want,” said Armand. “I’m going to free my brother and my king.”
He strode away without looking back. And so, of course, the guards and Rachelle and la Fontaine followed him. Vincent stayed behind, his mouth hanging open.
He would never be able to command anyone who had stood in the Hall of Mirrors this morning. Rachelle took a vicious pleasure in the knowledge.
Armand led them through little-used corridors to a set of small, lightless rooms. Rachelle knew them: Erec had shown them to her, and told her that they were for keeping prisoners. He hadn’t told her who was held captive behind the most well-guarded of the doors.
There were no guards now. Rachelle wondered if they had been given orders to kill their prisoners if things went wrong, and if they had obeyed those orders. But Armand strode forward as if doubt and fear belonged in another world and had no power to touch him. He had always been desperately, terrifyingly human to her, but now she could see why people bowed before him and called him saint.