“What else did the Bishop talk about?” she asked.
“Oh, you know, the sins of the court and so forth.” Armand’s voice was light, his face slightly angled away so she couldn’t quite read his expression. “There has not been such hypocrisy since the Imperium, when they fed men to lions for amusement, yet called themselves righteous because of the sin-eaters they kept chained at their doors.”
“And let me guess,” Rachelle bit out, “I’m one of the sin-eaters.”
“You’ve said so yourself, haven’t you?” Without waiting for a reply, Armand strode forward into the shade of the not-stable and seated himself in a pile of straw.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Sitting down.” He poked at the straw and slid his silver hand under an egg, cradling it neatly. “Catch.”
Rachelle’s hand snapped out. She caught the egg easily, but too hard; it crunched in her hands, yolk running out between her fingers.
“You,” she said furiously, and then Armand looked up at her half grinning, half fearful. Memory sliced through her chest: Marc, her little brother, one morning when they were supposed to be gathering up the eggs carefully for Mother. They’d started tossing the eggs instead, and when Marc threw one too hard and it cracked against her hand, he’d looked at her just like that.
The forestborn had marked her the next day.
She stooped swiftly, grabbed an egg from among the straw, and threw it at Armand. He got his hand up in time: the egg crunched against the metal of his palm. He rocked backward with a laugh.
“What is wrong with you?” asked Rachelle.
He looked at the egg dripping down his hand. “I was wondering if you would snap and kill me.”
His voice was light, but with a strange alertness. And Rachelle felt like she had been kicked in the gut as she realized that he meant it.
“What is wrong with you?” she repeated.
“No talent for survival, but you already knew that.” He rubbed his hand awkwardly in the hay. “That will take a while to clean off.”
Rachelle knelt beside him, grabbed a handful of hay, and started wiping away egg. “Did you really think I might kill you?” she asked quietly.
He went still. Then he looked up at her and said, “You’re angry, but you’re never vicious. You’ve been kind to me, and I’m very grateful. I don’t think you would kill me unless you received orders.”
“An assassin.” Her voice was thick and rough in her throat. She shouldn’t have felt betrayed, and yet she did. “You think I’m an assassin.”
“Isn’t that what all the bloodbound are?” His voice was very quiet. “People speak out against the King and then they vanish. Everyone knows how it works.”
“I have never done that.”
“Have you?”
“No, damn you, I have begged Erec to keep me away from those missions, and if you don’t think that was a sacrifice, you haven’t ever owed him a favor. I hunt woodspawn. I save the lives people like you are too weak to protect. That’s all.”
“But you are the King’s bloodbound,” he went on quietly, relentlessly. “You serve him and support his rule, even if you let the other bloodbound kill for you and be your sin-eaters.”
“You support his rule,” she snapped. “And wear silks and live in palaces because of it.”
“So now I’m not a prisoner? That’s lovely. Do you mind if I get up and leave now?”
Rachelle was drawing her hand back to strike him before she even knew what she was doing. Then she saw him bracing himself. Feeling sick, she dropped her hands. How had they come to this so quickly?
“You know what I am,” she said. “You knew when we were in my village and you said—” She couldn’t force the words out. “I have saved your life how many times now, and you still don’t trust me?”
“You’ve said how many times that it’s only because I’m useful?”
He did have a point there.
“Why are you so desperate to hate me?” she asked quietly. “Why now?”
His mouth tightened and he looked away from her. Then he said quietly, “Because I am terrified to trust you.” He let out a shaky laugh. “I was ready for any kind of jailer but you.”
And the worst thing was, she understood. She had told him, right from the start, that she was a bloodbound and dangerous, that she was his jailer and didn’t want to protect him. He was only trying to listen to her. And yet now—even now, he was biting his lip and looking sideways at her.
“You shouldn’t trust me,” she said. “You shouldn’t.”
He looked suddenly distressed. “Rachelle—”
“Do you know who was the woodwife who trained me, whom I killed to save my own life? She was my aunt. I loved her more than my own mother. She told me and told me to be careful in the woods, but I thought I was clever enough to speak with a forestborn and outwit him. So he marked me. And I was too scared and ashamed to tell her until the last day, and when I did— When I finally ran to her for help, the forestborn had gotten there first.”
Then her throat closed up, and for a moment she couldn’t speak. She had spent so long trying so hard not to think of that day, but the memories were as sharp as ever and they shredded through her.
“He had taken his time with her. There was blood everywhere.” She could smell it even now, and her stomach roiled. “Do you know, when people are cut up enough, they don’t look human anymore? They look like . . . like dolls that were sewn by a monster. But she was still alive. She saw me, and she whimpered.
“Then the forestborn said he’d found a worthy sacrifice for me. I couldn’t move. He said this was the bargain I had made, and she whimpered again. He said he could make her live for days longer if he wanted. I would die screaming of the mark and her agony would go on and on before he let her die. Or I could kill her quickly and live.
“So I did.” Rachelle clenched her teeth for a moment, then went on, “She still tried to escape. Do you see this scar?” She held up her hand, showing him the tiny white mark in her palm. “She stabbed me in the hand with a needle—he’d found her making charms; there was thread everywhere—but she was so weak. And so horrible. I couldn’t bear to look at her. I hated her the way you hate a spider when you’re killing it. I cut her throat and I hated her for being hurt by me.”