“No,” said the Bishop in his deep, silky voice. He would have been laughed out of the city as a fanatic long ago if he didn’t make words sound so lovely. “I have come with a different request. Release Mademoiselle Brinon into my care.”
For a moment Rachelle couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. The Bishop had never paid her any notice beyond sneering at her as he did at all the other bloodbound.
People whispered as they stared at her and the Bishop. Probably they were marveling at how he had graciously condescended to be concerned with her soul.
Rachelle knew better. He must have decided he could make her into his personal weapon.
She stood. “I have a request,” she said loudly. “Arrest the Bishop for hiding fugitive bloodbound. D’Anjou and I found one last night, surrounded by rebels who tried to kill us.”
“And you think I aided them?” said the Bishop, infuriatingly calm.
“They were all madly devoted to you,” she said, but of course that wasn’t evidence.
She was suddenly, acutely aware of the silence as everyone in the room stared at her. None of them would believe her. People wanted the bloodbound to serve them or protect them, but they never, ever wanted to listen to them.
The Bishop gave her a pitying look. “I am sorry that they hurt you, my daughter. I would never want you harmed.” His voice was full of the gentle sorrow that made ladies weep into their handkerchiefs and then drop extra money into the collection plate. “That is why I want you to come with me: so you can be reconciled with God and find peace.”
“I’d rather confess to the devil,” said Rachelle.
“Enough,” said the King, sounding bored. “My dear bishop, I cannot give you Mademoiselle Brinon, because she is busy guarding my dearest son.” He looked at Rachelle. “Do you understand your orders?”
She understood them. She had no intention of following them. It would be difficult to hunt for Joyeuse while the King’s men were hunting her down for desertion. But she couldn’t afford to care about that now.
She would obey the King today. She would vanish tonight.
“As Your Majesty commands,” she said, bowing her head.
4
Rachelle’s heart pounded in her ears. She was vaguely aware that a crowd had gathered, muttering and laughing, but right now it didn’t matter any more than the smear of pain on her cheekbone where a punch had just landed.
Two paces away, Justine Leblanc showed her teeth. “Well?”
Now, thought Rachelle, and lunged forward into a kick exactly the same way she had the last three times. Justine dodged and blocked—as Rachelle changed direction, grabbed her shoulder, and took them both down.
The next few moments were a blur. Justine wasn’t the sort of fighter who gave up when she hit the ground; she wrenched, kicked, and slammed her elbows into Rachelle with methodical efficiency. There was no time for strategy, only instant, white-hot reactions—
And then Justine had her arm twisted back. Rachelle bucked and managed to wrench out of her grip, but as she broke free, her arm twisted out of its socket with a pop and a searing flash of pain. Rachelle gasped, barely choking off a cry.
Justine gasped too. She was always worried that she might be actually hurting Rachelle.
Grimly, Rachelle rolled onto her side and slammed a kick straight into Justine’s stomach. Then she collapsed onto her back.
For a few moments, neither of them moved. Rachelle’s shoulder throbbed with pain; her arm only tingled, but she couldn’t move it. She stared up at the golden fleurs-de-lis on the high ceiling of the sparring room and listened to the voices of the guards who had gathered to watch them fight. Normally she hated being a spectacle for anyone’s amusement. But right now—despite the exhaustion and the pain in her shoulder—the delirious song of the fight still hummed in her veins. Even the thought of the Devourer’s return didn’t feel so terrible.
“Truce?” Justine offered breathlessly.
“Truce,” said Rachelle.
“Do you want—” Justine started.
“Just do it,” said Rachelle, and clenched her teeth.
With practiced ease, Justine leaned over her, grabbed her arm, and shoved it back into the socket. Rachelle choked but managed not to make any other sound, which was better than last time.
She took a couple of slow breaths and sat up. Justine still crouched next to her. Even on the ground, she loomed: she was a tall woman, nearly six feet, with big bones and a square, big-nosed face that could not have been lovely even when she was young. Now she was nearly forty, and her dark braids were dusted with silver.
“You’re improving,” she said. “But you still get careless when you’re angry.”
“You still don’t expect me to grab your shoulders,” said Rachelle.
Justine smiled faintly. “Has the Bishop spoken with you?”
All the joy of the fight was instantly gone. She stared at Justine. “You were the one who set him after me?”
Probably she should have expected it. Of all the bloodbound, Justine was the only one to take the name Royal Order of Penitents seriously: she lived in a garret worse than Rachelle’s, she wore a hair shirt at all times, and she was in the chapel on her knees almost every day. Naturally, as soon as Bishop Guillaume turned up saying she was damned, she had demanded to serve him. The King had given in, since the people were enraptured with their new Bishop and it was easier to deny his requests if he’d been treated generously once already. Ever since, the Bishop had flaunted his triumph by having his lone bloodbound attend him at ceremonies.
“Yes,” Justine said quietly. “Do you really prefer d’Anjou for your keeper?”
Rachelle surged to her feet, forgetting about all the people watching. “He’s not my keeper. And yes, I do prefer him. At least he’s not a liar.”
Except when he was flirting, but Rachelle would take that sort of liar any day over the kind who preached that all the bloodbound should face judgment, then tried to hide them from the King’s justice.
Justine stood, her mouth pressing into a line.
“Ladies,” Erec called from behind them. “I hope you weren’t fighting over me.”
Justine ignored him. “Think about it,” she said to Rachelle, and strode out of the room.
“She didn’t even look at me,” said Erec, his voice mock sad. “I wonder what I’ve done to offend her?”
“Breathing, I think,” said Rachelle. “But also wearing that jacket.” The black velvet construction, stiff with silver embroidery, was by no means the gaudiest thing she’d ever seen Erec wear, but it was still painful to look upon.