“Indeed, sire,” said Erec. “It is much too late to care who rules this kingdom.”

In a heartbeat, his sword whipped out to slice the King’s head off his shoulders.

Nobody moved. It was too sudden, too unreal, for anyone to believe what had just happened.

“You have looked on the last daylight,” cried Erec, his voice ringing through all the garden. “Now begins the rule of the Forest again.”

SO ZISA WAS FOUND WORTHY TO TAKE HER brother to be sacrificed on a hill of raw, dead earth. Here on a throne of black rock sat the previous vessel with flowers on his head. His ribs still moved with each breath, and his skin still stretched across his face. In this sense he was alive, but no other.

“O my daughter,” said Old Mother Hunger, “tell our lord he has a new body.”

“With gladness,” said Zisa, “but first I would dance before him.”

So Zisa unbound her hair and danced. When she had finished, the Devourer hissed through the lips of his vessel and said, “I once granted your mother a wish in return for her dancing. Would you have the same of me?”

“Yes, my lord,” said Zisa. “I wish to see you face-to-face.”

The Devourer breathed upon her, and she vanished from the hill. Let us say that she walked into his stomach. To her, it seemed that she walked through a wood where the trees wept blood, and among the roots of a tree covered in ice, she found what looked like a glowing pearl, and she knew it was the moon. She cupped it in her hands and stole back the way she had come.

Back onto the dead hill she stepped, and she held high the moon. Old Mother Hunger screamed and leaped for Zisa, but it was too late: the moon flew out of her fingers and up into the sky, and as its light dropped down upon the eldest of all forestborn, she withered and faded and fell to ash.

“Farewell, Mother,” Zisa whispered.

But while the light of the moon had killed Old Mother Hunger, it restored to Tyr his name and his wits, and he opened his eyes and saw his sister.

“You have found a way to destroy him?” asked Tyr.

“Yes,” said Zisa, “but there is something else I must do first.” She turned to the Devourer’s vessel and said, “I still have not seen your face, my lord.”

He hissed, but then he breathed upon her. This time she wandered the bleeding forest until she found a tree charred black from root to twig. Beneath it lay a kernel of golden light. When Zisa stepped back again onto the hill, the seed flew up into the sky and became the sun, and the world filled with light.

“Now for the final stroke,” said Zisa, and from her skirt she took the two needles and gave one to Tyr. In their hands, the needles became swords, Durendal and Joyeuse.

Brother and sister were ready to strike; but the Devourer said, “O my daughter, have you wondered what befell the souls of your mother and father?”

“They are dead,” said Zisa. “You can trouble them no more.”

“The souls of those my servants kill are mine by right,” said the Devourer. “Lay down your sword, come face-to-face with me, and perhaps I’ll give them back to you.”

She had hated her father; she had loved her mother. But Tyr, the fool, had loved them both; so she could not resist. Though Tyr begged her to say no, she laid down the sword and let the Devourer’s vessel breathe on her a third time.

Zisa hunted the bleeding forest without success until she came to a desert. When she stepped upon the sand, a voice behind her said, “Turn around and face me, little girl.”

She turned and saw his face and, seeing him, knew he held no souls that did not willingly turn to him.

But seeing him, she belonged to him. And on the hill, the old vessel crumbled to dust, and the Devourer opened Zisa’s eyes and said to Tyr, “You never yielded to me. So you cannot touch me.”

Tyr looked at his sister whom he loved more than life and who loved him more than reason.

And that is when he stabbed me in the heart.

33

Finally people started screaming. Justine drew her sword and charged toward Erec.

And the bloodbound attacked.

They had stood in such orderly rows that Rachelle had assumed they were the same as she had been: infected with the power of the Forest but still able to speak and think, obedient to the King because they had chosen obedience over death. But now they burst into wild, wordless screams and flung themselves on the crowd, wielding swords and knives with desperate, animal ferocity.

The world slowed to a crawl. It seemed to take forever for Rachelle to pull up the hem of her skirt and grab the knives. By the time she had finished, the closest bloodbound was nearly upon her—but he was moving slowly too, and it was the easiest thing in the world to whirl and kick. He dodged back, but a little off balance, and she was able to lunge forward and slide the blades into his ribs.

He had been human once. But his eyes were filled with the same sightless madness as the woman she’d killed in Rocamadour.

Then time was moving normally again. The soldiers were trying to pull the nobles into a group that could be protected. Justine was fighting two bloodbound at once, her sword whirling—the Bishop was fighting too, wielding Joyeuse, and his childhood must have included fencing lessons at some point because he had the stance of an aristocrat—

But there were still too many of the mad bloodbound. There were far too many.

“Stop,” she said, as she whirled to slice another bloodbound across the face. But none of them seemed to hear. Then she thought of the Forest and she filled her lungs with the cold, sweet air, and she said, “Stop.”

And they stopped. They dropped their weapons and straightened to attention, glazed eyes staring blindly ahead of them.

She felt them, a vast, dragging presence like a thousand dull little pebbles in her head. How could Erec have controlled them so easily?

“Kneel,” Rachelle said, and they knelt.

She could hardly breathe.

“Sleep,” she whispered, and they fell to the ground and her mind was free again.

From the other side of the garden, Justine looked at her with raw surprise.

Something cold burned against the back of Rachelle’s neck. She whirled and staggered, falling to her knees in the grass. There behind her stood la Fontaine, her makeup smudged. In her hands, she held three roses, their stems plaited together in a knot that looked vaguely familiar.

“I grow more and more curious,” said la Fontaine, “whether I should call you Mélusine or Zisette.”

Rachelle realized that there were three more roses lying on the lawn around her in a triangle.