“Well,” said Armand, “it narrows down the options, anyway.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“And at least I know there is an answer, even if I’m going to die without finding it.”
“You’re a saint. Isn’t God supposed to tell you these things?”
And then he gave her the familiar, razor-gleam smile that he used to defy her. “Yes. Right after he grows my hands back.”
They stared at each other a moment longer, and Rachelle realized that her mouth was inexorably twisting into a smile.
She wished, suddenly and with her whole heart, that she could make him want to help her. But whether he was a saint or a fraud, what could she ever have to offer him?
IN A CERTAIN VALLEY, BETWEEN THREE LOW hills, there was a marsh. Nothing lived or grew there: no rushes, no moss, no fish, no birds. There was only soft, dark clay, and pale tendrils of mist, and a multitude of cold little pools.
And bones. A hundred thousand bones and more. For here was where the forestborn threw the spent husks of the Devourer’s vessels.
Zisa walked among the pools, bones rustling beneath her bare feet. She picked one up, and asked it, “Who are you?”
The bone sang to her:
“My mother, she killed me,
My father, he ate me.
I once had a name,
But now I have none.”
And so sang every bone she asked.
Back and forth Zisa wandered the marsh, sliding into pools, clawing through the mud, and asking every bone its name. Until at last, near the very center, she found a bone that sang,
“My sister, she killed me,
My sister, she ate me.
My sister, I loved her,
And her I remember.”
“Tell me,” said Zisa, “what was your sister’s name?”
“She was Joyeuse,” said the bone. “But she offered me to the Devourer, and I do not know what happened to her after.”
Then Zisa cried out, “Tell me, bones. Which one of you was named Joyeuse?”
But there was no answer.
Again, Zisa cried, “I command you, bones, to tell me: which one of you offered your brother as a sacrifice?”
From the farthest edge of the marsh, a tiny, dry voice sang out:
“My brother, I killed him,
My brother, I ate him.
My brother, he loved me,
Too late have I loved him.”
Zisa found the other bone and kissed it. “Tell me, Joyeuse,” she said. “What was your brother’s name?”
“His name was Durendal,” said the bone.
“Tell me, bones,” said Zisa. “Would you like to destroy the Devourer?”
13
Near the end of the salon, one of Erec’s lackeys turned up to whisper a message that made him rise swiftly, kiss Rachelle’s hand, bow to the entire company, and leave. Doubtless it was time for him to arrest someone, or else meet a particularly beautiful lady.
So Rachelle and Armand were able to walk back by themselves, and as soon as they were away from the biggest crowds, Armand drew her into a small alcove.
“Tell me the truth,” he said softly, so that the servants standing near couldn’t hear them. “Why do you want to find that door?”
He was a liar. She knew he was a liar, but right now he looked as simply and wholeheartedly earnest as he had in the salon, arguing about when it was right to stab your sister through the heart.
So she decided to tell him a bit of the truth.
“To protect Amélie,” she said. His eyebrows drew together. “My friend,” she added hastily. “The girl who applies my cosmetics.”
“I know her name,” said Armand. “But that’s not an answer.”
She shrugged. “That’s what you’re getting. Help me, and you’ll find out the rest.”
They regarded each other silently for a few moments.
“Why haven’t you threatened Raoul?” he asked.
“What?” asked Rachelle.
“Raoul Courtavel. The only member of the royal house I care about.” He was almost whispering, to keep from being overheard; in the small alcove, they were standing practically shoulder to shoulder. “Why haven’t you threatened him to make me cooperate?”
He was looking at her directly, defiantly, but his body was tense, as if he were bracing himself for when she attacked.
Rachelle felt suddenly sick.
“I’m a monster and murderer,” she said quietly, “but I’m not going to kill your half brother to make you help me. I don’t want to kill anyone. I never wanted to be a monster either. That is the last thing I ever wanted. But we don’t always get what we want, and—and—” She managed to choke back the flow of words. She was humiliatingly certain that she had been about to beg him, to say please, please, just help me.
“All right,” said Armand. “I’ll help you.”
Rachelle stared. She had been concentrating so hard on not pleading with him that it took her a moment to understand what he’d said.
“You will?” she finally said, and hoped she didn’t sound too relieved.
He grinned. “I suppose I’ve got nothing to lose. And I don’t believe I’m supposed to be anywhere else this afternoon.”
Rachelle nodded, feeling dizzy. “As soon as I change out of this dress.”
Half an hour later, Rachelle was back in her normal hunting clothes and they were striding down the hallway together.
“I wish the story was a little more exact than ‘above the sun, below the moon,’” said Rachelle. “Every surface in this place is covered in the sun and moon. It’s not helpful.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Armand. “Looking at the decoration’s useless because every room in the Château’s been redecorated, oh, at least twice in the last hundred years.”
“How do you know?” she asked.
“Everybody knows that,” Armand said easily, then looked at her. “At least, everybody whose mother was banished from the court and comforted herself with creating doll-sized models of the Château,” he amended. “So I can assure you that while parts of the building are quite old, none of the rooms look the same as they did in Prince Hugo’s day.”
“That’s why you’re going to use your gift,” said Rachelle.
“Yes,” said Armand, “but first we’re going to the library.”
“Why?” she asked. “You think the door is in there?”
“No,” he said calmly, “but there are books in there, and a lot of them are chronicles or memoirs. There might be something that could help.”