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.
Then the screams started.
The hunt, thought Rachelle, and there was nothing she could do—nobody fought the Wild Hunt and lived—but she was already running forward, Armand right behind her.
There were not just screams, but shouts and crashes. Clangs. Snarls. Woodspawn, perhaps? She could fight woodspawn. She pushed herself to run faster.
And there was an open field ahead of them, with the low stone wall that all northern folk used to keep the trees back from their lands. Rachelle vaulted it in a moment, then remembered Armand, but when she glanced back, he was already over the wall.
Rachelle flung herself forward into an all-out run. At the far end of the field, she could see flickering lights from the village. Bonfire? Torches? Or had an actual fire broken out?
She was closer now. She could see human figures running between the houses—yes, one of them was on fire—and wolf-shaped creatures running among them. Woodspawn.
She caught a glint of metal and heard a clang. They were trying to fight the woodspawn with scythes and hoes. Not bad weapons. But against this many woodspawn, human hands were much too slow.
And then she was charging into the ring of houses and the flickering firelight, and there was no more time to think. She drew her sword and lunged at the nearest woodspawn; the blade slid easily into its neck, but as the creature dissolved into muck, two more sprang at her.
One of them she got in time. The other one slammed into her, knocking her to the ground. Instinctively Rachelle threw an arm over her face, then screamed when the woodspawn’s jaws crunched down on her arm.
She’d dropped her sword. She couldn’t see it.
So she reached up with her free hand and slid it into the woodspawn’s eye socket. It was scalding hot, but she clenched her fist on the slimy mess and ripped it out.
The woodspawn howled, letting go of her arm. She rolled free, found her sword, and stabbed it three times.
Panting, she looked around. There were only two more woodspawn left. One of them was already injured and surrounded by a crowd of men with scythes; they could probably manage to kill it.
The other one was crouched atop the roof of a cottage.
Rachelle groaned. She could barely use her right arm, so she had to sheathe her sword before she clambered up the side of the house and hauled herself onto the roof—just as the woodspawn sprang at her. She grabbed it by the scruff and they went over the side of the house together. Luckily she landed on top; she felt its ribs crunch underneath, and that bought her an extra moment to grab her sword and slice its head off.
She staggered to her feet.
The first thing she looked for was the other woodspawn. It was dead, only a puddle of dark, viscous mud left to mark its passing. The men who had been attacking it turned to face her.