Iron Heart

by Nina Varela

  First on the agenda: learning more about the mysterious Tarreenian weapons Storme had mentioned. What substance, or combination of substances, created bright blue smoke?

  If answers existed, Ayla knew where to find them.

  The library, said Crier’s voice in her head. Crier talked about the library like some people talked about temples. Holy places.

  According to Maris, there were nine libraries in the queen’s palace, each with a different theme: history, philosophy, arts and sciences, alchemy, ancient books, rare and precious books, human storybooks, law, music. Ayla made her way to the alchemy library in one of the high, fang-like towers, at the top of a dizzying spiral staircase.

  The door to the library was intricately carved wood, a symmetrical design of scrolls, swords, and the Varnian phoenix. Around the edges, alchemic symbols. To her surprise, Ayla could understand almost all of them. Sun, earth, iron, salt. The symbols associated with the human body. Moon, water, lead, gold. Symbols of change, transformation. Fire, saltpeter, copper. Energy. That which burned.

  Ayla pushed the door open and stepped inside, immediately enveloped with the particular kind of silence that she’d come to associate with libraries after sitting there, bored out of her mind, as Crier met with various tutors. A thick, musty silence, heavy with the smell of aging books. The library was a small circular room, windowless, the walls lined with bookcases so tall there were rolling ladders attached to them so you could access the topmost shelves. In the center of the room, there were a couple soft-looking chairs and a writing desk with parchment, a quill, a pot of ink. Ayla let the door close behind her and just stood there for a moment. She’d picked up the Zullan alphabet quickly, but she still couldn’t read more than a few words; she wouldn’t be able to decipher the book titles, let alone the contents. Suddenly she felt very foolish. She didn’t belong in this place.

  She turned to leave, only for the door to swing open, nearly hitting her in the face.

  “Benjy,” she said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

  “I followed you,” said Benjy. He was dressed in a green guard’s uniform, dark curls swept back off his forehead. Frowning, he glanced around the library behind her. “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for a book.”

  Benjy blinked at her. “You can’t read.”

  “What?” Ayla gasped. “I can’t? My gods, why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  “Ha, ha,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Seriously, what are you doing?”

  “Seriously, I’m looking for a book.” She turned away, pretending to browse the shelves, as if she hadn’t been about to leave. He was silent, and she couldn’t help but add, “A lot happened last night. You know, after you waltzed with the queen.”

  “Queen Junn is our most valuable ally right now,” he said stiffly. “She has more power and reach and resources than we’ve ever had access to. It’s in our best interest to stay on her good side.”

  “Well, you certainly seem dedicated to doing just that.”

  “You’re the one who’s going to decode messages for her,” Benjy snapped, catching Ayla’s sleeve. She whirled around, already crossing her arms.

  “What’s your problem, Benjy?” Anger surged inside her; she was a body caught in the undertow. She didn’t know what her problem was until she opened her mouth and it spilled out. “For weeks you warned me off Crier,” she hissed. “‘You’ve grown soft,’ you said. ‘You can’t trust her,’ ‘Don’t forget what her Kind does to us’—and now you’re dancing with the leech queen? Staying on her good side doesn’t have to mean that. Imagine if I’d danced like that with Crier. Waltzing in front of everyone, laughing like friends. Imagine what you would’ve said.”

  “What, are you jealous?” he asked.

  “You know full well I’m not,” she said coldly. His eyes widened with hurt, but it didn’t calm her temper. He deserved it for asking that.

  “I didn’t mean jealous about me,” he said pointedly. “I mean jealous that you didn’t get to do that. With her.”

  She scoffed. “Of course not.”

  “Really.”

  She stared at him for a moment. He’d always been able to read her, even when she tried so hard to hide. “So I grew soft around her,” Ayla said. “I’m still the one who came up with the idea to set off her chime. I still made that choice, in the end. For revenge. For revolution.”

  “And you’re still the one who couldn’t kill her.”

  She took a half step back. They glared at each other, the silence of the library deafening in the wake of their anger.

  “I’m thinking about the future, Ayla,” said Benjy. “We’re on the brink of war. Whether it’s humans versus Automae or the queen versus Kinok and the sovereign, or all of it, it’s war. I want to protect our Kind. Our people. I want us to rise up and win. If I have to team up with the leech queen for a while, so be it. I’ll do anything for the Revolution. I guess it’s not the same for you.”

  “Do you really think her intentions are pure?” Ayla demanded. “We know she wants Kinok’s head on a platter, but what after? Will she storm the sovereign’s palace? Rule over Varn and Rabu? You know the whispers about her. That she’s merciless. That she kills for entertainment. What if she kills Kinok, takes the sovereign’s throne, and decides she doesn’t like humans after all?”

  “That’s not going to happen,” said Benjy, but there was a hint of doubt in his voice. “And—either way, I don’t think you have any right to preach about pure intentions.”

  “Neither do you, after last night.”

  He sneered at her. “Oh, screw off, Ayla. You don’t know what you’re talking about. You are so naive, you’ve always been so damn naive.”

  “If you think I’m the naive one, you’re mad,” she spat. “But fine. Go ahead, make nice with her majesty. Just don’t let yourself grow soft, Benjy.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got a spine,” he said, and stormed out of the library.

  The door fell shut behind him. Ayla stayed where she was for a few minutes, trying to get herself under control. Her hands were shaking. She’d never fought with Benjy like this before. They’d had disagreements, petty arguments, childhood spats, but never a fight like this.

  What, are you jealous?

  No.

  But whenever she closed her eyes, she saw Benjy and Junn dancing. Junn tipping her head back to look up at the night sky, the curve of her throat gleaming bronze in the candlelight. In that moment, Junn hadn’t looked like the Mad Queen. She hadn’t even looked like a leech.

  She’d just looked like a girl.

  No, Ayla couldn’t think like that. Because if she did, she’d think of—

  That one night. Curled up in Crier’s bed, in Crier’s bedroom, in the place where she slept. Or more often read, or simply lay awake, staring up at the ceiling for hours. Big four-poster bed. Canopied in delicate white gossamer, like cobwebs. It should have felt like sleeping in a spider’s nest. It didn’t. Nothing with Crier ever felt like it was supposed to feel. Moonlight spilling in through the windows, blue blue blue. The night air and the blankets and the halls of Ayla’s heart, all blue.

  A whispered question. How can I help?

  This isn’t a game, Crier, Ayla had whispered back. Soft words into the blue between them. This isn’t a faerie story in one of your books. This is life and death.

  I’m serious. Let me prove it to you.

  And another night. Same place. But this time, Ayla was standing over the bed with one arm raised.

  If Ayla thought of Crier as just a girl, it would mean she’d brought a knife into that soft blue room for absolutely nothing. So she couldn’t think like that. She couldn’t.

  Blue-smoke weapons forgotten, Ayla left the library and navigated the hallways back to her room.

  “Ayla!”

  As she turned the corner, she heard Storme call her name. He caught up to her, falling into step beside her.

  “I’ve been looking for you. Thought may
be you were avoiding me,” she said.

  “I’m here now, aren’t I?” he said. “Come, follow me. I’ve been cooped up in the strategy room all day, I need fresh air and sunlight. Maybe some wine. Maybe an entire roasted chicken. But I think we should start with the sunlight.”

  He took a sharp right. “Where are we going?” Ayla demanded, scrambling after him.

  “For a ride.”

  People had feet for a reason, Ayla thought, seated atop one of the royal horses, and it was to prevent things like this from ever happening. Her thighs ached. Every muscle in her body was clenched tight. She hadn’t mastered how to move with the rhythm of the horse’s strides; her tailbone kept cracking against the saddle.

  “How . . . can you possibly . . . enjoy this?” she gasped, gripping the reins so tight it hurt her palms. The horse Storme had chosen for her was barely bigger than a pony, and still she felt miles off the ground. If she fell, she’d break her neck. Or get trampled. Or get crushed, if the horse fell with her. What if it threw her off its back? There was a spark of evil in its eyes, she could tell. The horse could not be trusted.

  “I love riding,” Storme said pleasantly. “It relaxes me.”

  Ayla might have throttled him, if she’d been able to let go of the reins.

  They joined a stream of fishermen and traders and merchants leaving Thalen, passing through a set of gates much smaller than the ones Ayla and Benjy had used to enter the city on the day of the Maker’s Festival. Then they were outside the high white walls at the northernmost point of the city, winter-yellow hills stretching out before them, dead grass rustling in the wind coming in from the sea. It was chilly, but nothing like the cold of winter in Rabu, which settled into your stomach and gnawed at your bones like a starving dog. Ayla felt almost overheated in her thick wool coat. The sky was the white-shot gray of a frozen pond. Above, the perpetual seabirds, crying out.

  Storme took the lead, though it didn’t seem like he was going anywhere in particular. He just kept a steady pace into the hills, in the opposite direction of the main road all the traders were using, the one that led to the port. After a few minutes, Ayla found herself not fully relaxing but loosening her grip on the reins, letting herself stop impersonating a statue, stone-stiff. She found herself looking around just because it was a pretty view, the sky and the golden hills, Thalen like a huge white crown. The air smelled like winter and the sea. It reminded her of home.

  “All right,” said Storme, slowing his horse until he and Ayla were riding side by side. “Let’s talk. What do you want to know?”

  “Brother, what do you think I want to know?” she said, incredulous. The sun hit his face, revealing freckles like her own. Like their mother’s. “Something about the last seven years, maybe? About how you went from a nine-year-old orphan in northern Rabu to adviser to the queen of Varn?”

  “I don’t know where to begin,” he confessed.

  “Well . . . If you don’t want to begin with the worst part, begin with this. Considering everything you and the queen know about Scyre Kinok, do you have any idea why he’d be interested in our family’s history?”

  That made Storme look at her.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked, wide-eyed.

  “He got me alone once,” said Ayla, unwilling to go into the details. “I thought he was going to hurt me, but he just asked where I was born. He asked about my—our parents. Our grandparents. Then later, I found a hidden safe in his study. Inside was a sole piece of paper with the words Leo, Siena, Tourmaline. He had spies in the sovereign’s palace, I think it was meant for one of them. Either way, we got to it.”

  Storme sucked in a breath. “Leo and Siena? He knew their names?”

  “Knew a lot more than that, I think. I just don’t know how much. Or exactly what our grandparents have to do with Tourmaline.” She bit her lip, thinking about the memory she and Crier had fallen into: a young Leo and Siena in the woods, embracing. In retrospect, Ayla should have pressed Crier for more information. Crier was the one who’d figured out how the locket worked; she must have seen other memories. But . . . right before they used the locket, they had kissed. (Fiercely, angrily, desperately, pulling at each other’s hair and clothes, Crier inexperienced but so eager, so breathlessly open.) Right after they used the locket, Rowan had died. And Ayla had thought of nothing else. Nothing but taking the palace. Nothing but Crier’s heart in her hands.

  She touched her sternum. The spot where the locket should have been. A tiny inorganic heartbeat echoing her own. Once, there had been two lockets. Storme should have inherited the other one, the other half of the matching set, as Ayla inherited hers, but it had been lost years before. They never knew what happened to it—the one time Storme had asked their mother, she’d refused to answer. Ayla had always thought it was just . . . gone. Destroyed, maybe.

  But, she thought now, but . . .

  She remembered being dragged to Kinok’s study, the shock of seeing her own necklace—which she’d lost just minutes before—sitting proudly on a bookshelf behind his desk. Then, later, Crier’s confusion, her claim that the necklace had been in her possession the entire time.

  Sometimes the simplest explanation was the right one. If the locket in Kinok’s study wasn’t Ayla’s, it must have been the other one. The one that was lost.

  Her stomach twisted. What if Kinok had figured out how to use the locket like Crier had? What memories had he accessed? What had he learned about Tourmaline? Ayla’s necklace had belonged to Leo, Storme’s to Siena. The idea of Kinok sifting through her grandmother’s memories sickened her. It felt like a violation.

  “How would our grandparents be connected to this?” Storme asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ayla murmured, far away.

  Lost in thought, they rode on. Until Ayla couldn’t bear it anymore.

  “Seven years ago. That day,” she said. “What happened to you?”

  Winter wind. Rustling grass.

  He didn’t answer.

  Frustrated, Ayla started to ask again, but then she looked over at Storme. His dark brown eyes, so like her own, were fixed straight ahead, over the hills. His jaw was tight, mouth a thin line. The veneer of professionalism, the adviser to the queen, had disappeared. In its place was a sixteen-year-old boy. Young and haunted. Her brother. Her twin.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, voice shaking. “I’m sorry. I—I’m not used to trusting people, telling people things, and I know you’re my blood—I know you lived through it too—but it’s hard to believe it sometimes. It hasn’t sunk in yet. That you’re here.”

  “I’m here,” she said. “Storme, I’m here.”

  “Yes. Yeah.”

  She swallowed hard. “Get me off this infernal creature, and we’ll talk.”

  They ended up just walking alongside the horses, reins held loosely. Ayla felt a thousand times better with her feet on the ground again, swishing through the long grass. There were tiny white flowers dotting the hills like patches of melting snow, horseflies buzzing around, sometimes lighting on the horses and being shooed away by a flick of the ears or tail.

  “That day,” prompted Ayla.

  “The day of the raids, after I hid you in the outhouse . . . ,” Storme began. “They saw me. The sovereign’s men. They’d already killed Mama and Papa, right in front of me, I watched it happen, I was hiding behind the outhouse but of course they saw me. I ran. They chased me. They should have caught me in seconds, but everything was burning, you remember. I ran into the thick of it and the smoke helped hide me. I covered myself in ash and lay down next to—a body, I don’t know who it was, the face was—the ash was still hot, I ended up with burns all over. Here.” He pulled up his shirtsleeve, showing Ayla the skin of his arm, pockmarked and oddly shiny. She made a small wounded noise, and he pulled his sleeve back down. “I played dead for a while. With all the smoke, it was black as night even in the middle of the day. I waited until I couldn’t hear them anymore, and then I ran. Out of the village, all t
he way to the edge of the ice fields. You remember the Bone Tree?”

  Ayla nodded. They’d grown up in the north, in the liminal space between northern Rabu and the Far North, where everything was flat and icy and there wasn’t much vegetation at all. The Bone Tree had been the tallest thing around for miles: a tree that stood just outside the village, long dead but still upright, its bark the yellowish-white of bone. The children of Delan had always used it as a marker. Race you to the Bone Tree. Sit under the Bone Tree and count to a hundred while I go hide.

  “I hid in the branches. I was small, it was dark, I knew they wouldn’t be able to see me unless they stood right below the tree. I wanted to go back, I wanted to get you—but I could hear them. Calling out to each other, searching for survivors. I should have gone back anyway. I should have—but I was scared, I was paralyzed with fear, I didn’t have a weapon. I was a coward.”

  “You weren’t a coward,” Ayla said quietly. “You were a child. If you’d gone back, they’d have just killed you too. And I really would have been alone.”

  It felt so strange, talking about that day—the smoke-dark, the smell of blood and burning flesh, the roar of the devouring fire, the sound of wooden houses collapsing as the fire ate away at their foundations, the sound of death—on such a clear, beautiful day, walking slowly through the grassy hills. So far away from all of it. Seven years out. They weren’t even in the same country anymore.

  “This part is so stupid,” said Storme, letting out a shaky breath. “It’s such a ridiculous thing, but—I wasn’t wearing a coat. It was early winter; you remember how cold it was. I stayed in the branches of the Bone Tree all night, waiting for the sovereign’s men to leave, but it was so cold. I must have lost consciousness and fallen out of the branches. Because two days later, I woke up beside a campfire in the middle of the ice fields.”

  Ayla’s eyes widened. “Wait, what?”

  “It was a human rebel group. They’d heard about the raid on Delan. They’d come to look for survivors, and I guess they found my body under the Bone Tree and saw I was still alive. They took me with them. I was—I was the only one they found. They nursed me back to health. I’d been more than half dead when they found me in the snow. Though falling out of the branches turned out to be a stroke of luck. The snow kept my burns from getting infected. Almost freezing to death saved my life.”