“You are not yet one of us,” he said, in a voice that was deep and soft and terrifying.
“Nevertheless.” Her lips were dry and stiff. “I am your sister, and I am here by right.”
He looked at her. And then, in a movement more terrifying than all his pride, he bowed. The stag on which he sat bowed down as well, muzzle touching the ground, and all the Wild Hunt with him.
They bowed to Rachelle. Was her heart so cruel already, that they honored her?
Or were they simply bowing to what they knew she must become?
“Do you come to hunt with us?” asked the forestborn. “There is little time left, but plentiful prey.”
“No,” said Rachelle. “I would. But I have business back at home. Will you take me there?”
The hunter’s teeth glinted in a smile. “We would be honored.”
Two slender forestborn women helped Rachelle and Armand mount a huge white horse. Their fingers burned cold against her arm and made her shiver; their eyes were worse. When Rachelle was on the horse with Armand before her, she wanted to tell him, I won’t let them hurt you, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t even think it, because when the hunter looked at her, she felt like she was made of glass.
Instead, she stroked his hair like he was a pet and then said—her voice quiet but carrying—“Ride well for me, and you might live till morning.”
She could see the edge of his smile. “Yes, my lady,” he said, and then the horns called again and the hunt started. Armand straightened; Rachelle wrapped her arms around his waist. She could feel the movement of his ribs as he breathed.
And they rode, through the wind and through the night, the Great Forest whispering around them, the air full of hoofbeats and hunting calls and the wild, tuneless singing of the forestborn.
Far too soon, they stopped. Rachelle had so lost herself in the thrill of speed that it took her a moment to remember why they had been riding with the hunt.
“Dismount,” said the hunter, and Rachelle slid off the horse’s back. She staggered a moment, then straightened in time to catch Armand as he dismounted.
“Walk forward,” said the hunter, “and you will be returned.”
“Thank you,” said Rachelle, and instantly wondered if forestborn ever thanked anyone.
“Remember me,” he said, “when our lord returns.”
And then the Wild Hunt streamed around them and was gone into the night.
Rachelle realized that her heart was pounding and she was gasping for breath. They had ridden with the Wild Hunt, and they had lived.
She looked at Armand. “Are you all right?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Then walk,” said Rachelle, and started forward, Armand following her. They were out of the Great Forest now, she realized; the darkness was flatter, the wind thin and drab.
“The forestborn were stranger than I expected,” said Armand.
“Why?” she asked. “What was yours like?”
“Well,” Armand said after a moment, “he had more clothes on.”
“Clearly, yours was special,” said Rachelle.
Or had hers been special? She could remember the faces of the forestborn they had ridden with just now; they had been terrible to look upon because of the inhuman power she could sense dwelling within them, but they had been shaped like human faces. She could remember the lines of their eyes and noses and mouths. The face of her forestborn had always left her memory the instant she looked away from him. Was he older and more powerful? Or did all forestborn have the ability to hide their faces, and he was just the only one who bothered?
“They’re immortal children of the Devourer who have lost their human hearts,” she went on. “What would you expect them to look like?”
“What does that mean?” asked Armand. “Losing their hearts?”
“Do you know what’s the difference between bloodbound and forestborn? It’s not just how powerful they are. When bloodbound turn into forestborn, they lose their hearts. The power of the Forest burns them away, and they can’t love or pity anyone. They can’t want anything except destruction. That’s why some of them go mad. The loss of their hearts destroys their reason.”
In her first month at Rocamadour, she’d seen a mad bloodbound executed. He could no longer talk, and when he wasn’t chained up, he would try to attack anyone in sight. There was nothing left of him but the desire for blood.
Armand was quiet a few moments. Then he said carefully, “The forestborn I met was cruel. But he wasn’t mindless. Or much more inhuman than anyone at court. I don’t think it’s that simple.”
“Then what makes them all turn that way?” asked Rachelle. “Every time?”
“Maybe it’s just that, once they’re so deep in the Forest’s power, they don’t want to remember loving anyone.”
“Why are you trying to convince me that we can be saved?”
His grin sliced through the darkness. “You’re my jailer. Of course I want to think you might have a change of heart.”
For a little while they walked on in silence.