them seemed to be true now. And none of the things she had actually learned made sense.
He could see the Great Forest all the time. She had never heard of anyone who could do that, bloodbound or woodwife. To have that power, he must have been touched by the Forest somehow.
But if he really had met a forestborn, if he really had been marked, then how did he survive?
It took him over an hour, but he did find an answer. The bells had just tolled four when Armand looked up and said, “The wine cellars.”
“What?” Rachelle turned; she had been at the other side of the room, slowly weaving through a sword form.
“Listen. ‘It baffles me not that my cousin would risk her reputation in a rendezvous, but that she would attempt it in the wine cellars; for I have heard it said that the ghost of Prince Hugo still walks those corridors, searching for the way home.’”
Rachelle snorted. “Clearly the court hasn’t changed in a hundred years. But just because somebody once claimed to see his ghost there, doesn’t mean it’s where he disappeared.”
“It’s a place to start, anyway,” said Armand. “And it makes sense; those cellars are one of the oldest parts of the Château.”
He was smiling; he seemed genuinely excited about hunting for the door. Without meaning to, Rachelle found the edge of her own mouth turning up, and a tiny shiver of excitement growing in her own heart.
It might be nothing. But it was more of a clue than she’d ever had before.
She’d try anything to find Joyeuse.
“Then let’s go look,” she said.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
The problem was not getting down to the royal wine cellars. Rachelle had the authority to go most places in the Château. All she needed to do was ask a footman, and they were shown the way.
The problem was in getting there without attracting an entourage of onlookers. They got enough attention just walking through the public areas of the Château; once they stepped into the servants’ corridors, nobody could look away.
Rachelle knew that they could just wait until the middle of the night, and sneak down under cover of darkness. But she didn’t want to wait. Now that she finally had a hope of finding Joyeuse, she couldn’t stand to wait another hour.
So instead, she resorted to telling the truth. Almost.
“Please keep everyone out of the cellars,” she said to the gaping majordomo. “In order to secure the safety of the Château, I must perform an inspection.”
“Of course,” he said dazedly, and then seemed to notice the sword hanging at her side. “But—but why are you bringing Monsieur Vareilles?”
Armand smiled self-deprecatingly. “I promised I’d go with her, to lend whatever help I can.”
There was going to be gossip. Erec would hear and doubtless tease her. But if she had Joyeuse in her hand, she wouldn’t much care what happened after.
The wine cellars were long, low tunnels, their sloping walls paved in the same cobblestones as their floors. The air was cold and still, with an absolute, muffled quiet; even Rachelle’s boots hardly made any noise against the floors.
“I’m surprised they obeyed so easily,” said Rachelle.
“You offered to protect them from the Forest,” said Armand. “Everyone’s afraid of it except the nobility. And some of them are too, they just won’t admit it.”
“So instead they turn to treason,” she said.
“Or saints. I’m sure the King will find a way to outlaw that as well, soon.”
Rachelle snorted. “That was a nice little lie you spun for them. Do many people think you can bless the Great Forest away with a wave of your hand?”
“That was a nice little lie you spun for them,” said Armand. “A pity you aren’t actually trying to protect them.”
She caught her breath in anger, then remembered that she had not actually ever told him that she was trying to find Joyeuse and save the world from the Devourer.
“How do you know I’m not?” she said.
“I don’t know, are you?” He was turned away from her, so she couldn’t see his face, but his voice was light and teasing. It shouldn’t have felt like a fishhook between her ribs.
For one moment, she wanted to tell him the truth. She also wanted to slam him against the wall and scream at him to be silent. Instead, she asked him evenly, “Do you see anything?”
“Moss.” The light, easy tone of his voice didn’t waver. “And flowers with teeth.”
“Well, the moss isn’t real.” She peered at the stone walls. “Maybe