Louis did not move. “Anne,” he said. “I have not the strength for too many more. It is starting to blur, what is real and what is not, especially when there are rooms that I—wish were real. What are you looking for?”
“Our wedding-feast,” she said. She gave him a sidelong look, half-despairing. “I think there will be one. Don’t you?”
And he nodded, wordless.
It took a long time. Anne was stumbling, leaning into him with each step, and they were bruising each other’s hands, so desperately were they clinging on, when they walked into a great hall bright with flowers, people in glittering clothes, laughter, sunlight. All the delicacies in the world were spread upon the groaning boards. Two great chairs in the center of the high table stood above the others, twined with flowers.
A roar of acclamation shook the room as they entered.
“Here,” whispered Anne.
“I do not understand.”
“The lady outside said that if we hurried we might even attend the feast. Well, here is our wedding-feast; Moreau’s will not be far. That is how I found you.” She shivered. “And Isabeau will be with him.” She was straining her eyes, looking for the shadow of Moreau in the crowd. Abruptly, she pulled Louis forward, into another light.
Into a different wedding-feast.
The walls of this hall were scarlet, like oxblood when it has dried. Her sister sat with clenched hands, perfect as a doll, dwarfed by the great chair he’d put her in, the twin to his. Julien was leaning on the table, ashen-faced but expansive too, a glass raised in mockery of merriment.
Anne and Louis took three steps into the room and then Moreau looked up and into Anne’s face. He smiled. “Well met, Highness, I knew you’d not stay away. But what can you do? I am king of the korriganed and this girl made me a promise. You must make me a promise now, to ransom her.” His face was damp with sweat. Madness sparked and glinted in his eyes. Isabeau cried,“Anne!”high and furious as a bird, but Moreau’s hand fell heavy on the back of her neck and she could not move.
The hall was packed with men and women feasting, dressed in courtly finery, but all their teeth were sharp; she saw long fingers everywhere, and yellow eyes. She felt Louis tense beside her. He had no sword.
Anne went forward slowly, collecting all their eyes, a trick she’d learned in her early days after her coronation, when she had to employ every scrap of will, instinct, charisma, merely to be heard.
“No farther,” said Moreau, his eyes glassy. Anne stopped. A dagger had appeared in his hand; he had hold of Isabeau with the other. “You may beg to marry me instead if you like. But first I will punish your willful sister who broke mymirror!” The last word was a shout. Isabeau thrashed; he struck her face and she stilled. Her eyes were murderous.
“Kill the duke,” said Moreau, and half the korriganed at that great table rose. Drawn blades caught the light of fires and torches. Were these then his subjects, since he called himself king?
Louis’s jaw set hard. “Come on, then,” he told them, almost conversationally.
She edged away from him, afraid for him. But he didn’t need to be trying to shield her too. She must get to Isabeau.
The first sword came at Louis and he dodged, swearing, and tripped the korrigan, smashing an elbow down. A quick movement and he had a short sword in his hand, and the light of battle in his eye. He was taller than the korriganed, more sturdily built. “Now, you bastards,” he said.
They were moving in like a ring of wolves. But before they could close with him, the great double doors of the hall wrenched open, and of all things, a cat, a child, and a knight in dented jousting armor camerunning into the room. Elesbed was yelling, “I told you my cat was clever,I told you!”
Anne’s heart leaped in astonished gladness, for the knight was Henri. “Christ!” he said fervently. “One moment I am questing for a black tower and a fair maiden and the next this imp is telling me it’s all a dream, and kicking my shins and shouting at me to follow her cat.” His drawn sword caught the next blade that swung for Louis’s head. He kicked the wielder—these korriganed did not seem to be as strong as men—and Louis swiped off another head. Then it was a mêlée, quick and savage, but these two men knew their work.
Moreau was holding Isabeau tightly, his eyes on her. “Marry me, let the child take her punishment, and I will be satisfied,” he said.
Anne was remembering the chapel with red walls.Always here,Moreau had said.If I do not take care.
She could feel it looming now, always nearby in the map of his soul. Hardly a step away. But how to make him take it?
She’d forgotten the cat. Butter came out of nowhere and leaped onto the table, yowling. Moreau fell back in surprise. In that moment of distraction, Anne half-fell across the boards and got both hands on his doublet, and then they were rolling together, Anne and Moreau—and Isabeau too, snatched at the last moment. And the cat. Rolling through the wild shadows.
Moreau struck Anne across the face as she rolled; she felt Isabeau throw herself at him, screaming a high-pitched war cry. Anne hardly noticed. She was looking for the shadows of women in the darkness round him.
Strangled and drowned, burned and bloodied.
When Anne and Moreau and Isabeau came to rest in the chapel with red walls, the dead women stood silently, watching him. One held a long blue sword in her bloody hand. Moreau, breath sawing in his throat, groped in his sleeve for his mirror. His hand came out empty and he spat a curse. Isabeau ran to Anne, helped her to her feet. Arms around each other, they backed up. The cat was with them, her fur bristling in fury.Anaon,Anne thought.But once they had flesh.
She locked her eyes upon them andpulledwith all her might, doubling over, dragging them into the same pallid light that shone upon herself and her sister.
If the light changed upon their bodies, Anne couldn’t see it. Moreau had got to his feet, begun to stalk her and Isabeau across the floor.
But then the dead lady with the sword put it to his throat.
