She stared at him. Words clogged in her throat. Maybe there weren’t words for what Rocamadour was to her. It was her prison and her penalty, full of mud and stink and people who hated her—and yet it was hers, her city to roam and protect. Her only purpose since she had become a bloodbound.
She supposed that now her purpose was to find Joyeuse. But she seemed doomed to fail at that as completely as she’d failed at being a woodwife. And even if she never saw Rocamadour again—and she probably would never see it again—
It was still hers.
Erec would not understand any of that.
She turned and left him without a word.
When she got to the suite, Armand wasn’t there.
She was so used to him being obedient that it took her a moment to absorb the fact that he really had vanished. Without permission.
She asked the valets where he had gone; they only blinked large, pale eyes at her and said that monsieur had gone out to meet her, and wasn’t he with her?
No, thought Rachelle, he’s plotting bloody revolution and Erec is going to have your heads.
But she didn’t say that, because the next instant it occurred to her that maybe Armand hadn’t slipped away to plot treason. Maybe he was just trying to snatch one moment of freedom alone.
And if that was the truth, she knew where he would go. Yesterday he had wanted to go to the library, and Rachelle had refused.
It didn’t take her long to reach the library because she ran most of the way. When she got close, she slowed down and made her steps as soft as she could. She leaned close to the door.
Armand spoke up, cheerful and casual and unrepentant. “You do realize this is a terrible idea? No matter how much you’re getting paid, it’s not enough.”
She heard the crack of somebody slapping him across the face. “Shut up,” a man snarled.
“Really, you should ask your master for more money. And”—his voice caught, then went on, more strained—“you really don’t want to press that knife any closer.”
Rachelle felt terribly sure that the knife was right against his throat, and she cursed herself for not kicking down the door in the first instant. It would take only two heartbeats for her to get across the room, but Armand’s throat could be cut faster.
“Why?” It was a different man’s voice, younger, brasher. “Should we be afraid of d’Anjou’s bitch? She isn’t even here.”
“No,” said Armand. One soft and indifferent syllable. “You should be afraid of me.” The words drifted through the air, light and inevitable as feathers. “You should put down your knives and run, because if you kill me, you won’t escape, and you won’t like your punishment. And I really doubt that you can kill me.”
It was a distraction. And by the sound of his voice, the knife wasn’t so close now. It was the perfect moment for Rachelle to kick down the door and charge inside.
Or it was the perfect moment to be free of him. All she had to do was stand still for another minute, and the assassins would cut Armand’s throat. Despite his bluster, he had no way to stop them. Rachelle would not have to help him deceive anyone else. She would not have to fear him stirring up a mob to kill her.
She suddenly remembered the morning they had met. If you wanted to hurt me, I couldn’t hope to escape. She remembered his eyes, gray and calm and waiting for her to hurt him. Ever since they met, he had been waiting.
However she hated him, she didn’t want to give him that satisfaction. She was going to rescue him.
Then she realized she couldn’t move. The air was cold and sweet in her lungs and her limbs would not respond, no matter how she tried. She couldn’t see even the shadow of a leaf, but she still felt the power of the Great Forest all around her.
At least one of the men in the library wasn’t impressed. He laughed, and said, “Pretty words won’t—”
And suddenly, overwhelmingly, there was silence.
Then she was loosed and staggering into the door just as she heard the thuds of falling bodies from inside.
Her hands were still slightly numb; for a moment she scrabbled at the door handle, and then she flung it open.
There had been three men in the room, and they were all collapsed to the floor. Armand sat slumped in a chair between them, and dread sliced through her body, but then he lifted his head and she saw that while he was tied to the chair, he was alive.
“You’re late,” he said. “You missed all the fun.” He was smiling but he looked a little dazed.
Rachelle poked one of the fallen men with her boot. His chest still rose and fell with breathing, but otherwise he didn’t stir.
“What happened?” she asked.
“They wanted to question me on my secret plans,” he said. “They told me they were going to kill me, and then that they would kill me if I didn’t tell them everything. They weren’t very thoughtful people.”
“What happened to them?”
He shrugged. “Maybe God heard my prayers.”