Iron Heart

by Nina Varela

  “I see,” said Crier.

  “Do you want to know why I tried?”

  Crier looked pained. “Do I?”

  “That night, we were trying to steal something from Kinok’s study,” said Ayla. “That special compass you told me about. The compass that points not to the north but to the Iron Heart. We were trying to steal it, so we needed a distraction. It was me who came up with the idea of setting off your chime. Drawing the guards to your bedroom.”

  “Your idea,” Crier repeated, more to herself than Ayla. “Right. Yes. Of course.”

  “I was angry. At Kinok. At your father. Your Kind. You. Myself.” She let out a sharp breath. “Myself more than anyone. I was fucking furious with myself, Crier. And terrified.” Of what I felt for you. I still am. “So I made a choice. It was the wrong one. Not—I don’t mean not killing you was the wrong choice—I mean everything leading up to that. Planning it. Letting myself into your bedroom that night. If you hate me for it, I can’t blame you. I’d hate me for it, if I were you.” She swallowed hard. Her voice sounded harsh and miserable even to her own ears, that same anger bleeding through. That same fear. At herself, of herself. “It was stupid, okay?” she said. “It was stupid.”

  Crier’s lips parted.

  It wasn’t the full story. But Ayla had spent years thinking only of revenge on Sovereign Hesod. He’d killed her family; she would kill his. Blood for blood. Ayla hadn’t told anyone that story. There had only ever been three people who knew the truth of her past: Benjy, Rowan, and Storme. The truth was sunk so deep inside her. She wasn’t yet ready to haul it up from the ocean floor.

  “I will not make that choice again,” she said only. She grabbed the nearest bit of broken shell and dragged it through the clay by her foot, drawing whatever symbols came to mind—salt, iron, gold. “Anyway, I think we’re on the same side now. So.”

  “We were always on the same side,” said Crier.

  Ayla shook her head. “No. Not when I was your handmaiden.”

  “Oh.” Crier seemed to consider that, gazing out past the tree roots to the river beyond, the quiet rush and roar of the water, smooth on the surface but surging beneath. “I see,” she said. “But now that I’ve defected . . . ?”

  “Tell me the story of how you ran away from your wedding, Lady Crier,” said Ayla.

  “Crier,” said Crier. “It’s just Crier.”

  “Okay, Just Crier,” said Ayla, and listened as Crier told the story of Faye risking her own life to help Crier escape. The story of confronting her father about Kinok’s plan to destroy the Iron Heart.

  It was all Ayla could do to not visibly react.

  The Revolution’s goal had always been to destroy the Iron Heart. To wipe out the leeches in one go, the way the servant Nessa had sprayed poison over a swarm of locusts until their tiny iridescent bodies littered the ground in the thousands, the tens of thousands. That was what Rowan wanted. What Benjy wanted. What Ayla wanted, beneath the fire. For so long.

  Sitting here on the riverbank across from Crier, Ayla forced herself to imagine it: destroying the Heart, the source of heartstone. The leeches wouldn’t die out immediately. There was plenty of heartstone circulating outside the Heart—in traders’ caravans, in storehouses, in cellars, in every town, village, city, estate, in Rabu and Varn and Tarreen. The humans would have to take up post in the Heart, to defend it when the leeches came, which they would. But say they lost. Say the humans held the Heart, and there was no new heartstone. It might take months, even years, for it to run out. But it would.

  Ayla imagined what it would look like: Crier wasting away. Crier, starved and limp. Eyes glassy, skin cold to the touch. And she imagined Queen Junn, and Wender from the Queen’s Feast. The children in the Midwiferies. Lady Dear, newbuilt. The faceless Delphi. Small bodies beneath white sheets, created and destroyed just like that. Made. Terminated.

  That was what Kinok wanted for humankind, Ayla thought. That destruction, that endless crush of death, that massacre . . . He was evil for wanting it. Rotten inside, worm-eaten, putrid.

  The Automae did not deserve Ayla’s forgiveness. She would not give it. But she also wouldn’t let them turn her into that kind of monster.

  “I’m going to stop Kinok,” said Crier. “I don’t know how. But I will.”

  Ayla shook away the images of death. Refocused. “We need to make a plan.”

  The we hung between them like the bone-handled knife. Another offering.

  “We do,” Crier murmured. She raked a hand through her tangled hair, an oddly human movement. She seemed almost flustered. “And you? Why have you come all this way, if you were safe under the queen’s protection in Thalen?”

  Ayla let out a breath. “Have you heard about the monsters?”

  “The Shades? The Automae poisoned by Nightshade? Yes, I know a fair bit.”

  “Well, the queen doesn’t,” said Ayla. “I was supposed to talk to heartstone traders. Gather information. It was supposed to be easy. I should’ve known better. But really, I thought if I had anything to worry about, it’d be the monsters. The Shades. I didn’t expect bandits.”

  “People rarely do,” said Crier, and Ayla was startled into laughter, and Crier’s eyes went very wide.

  “Plan, we need a plan,” Ayla said abruptly. Her face felt hot like she’d been basking in summer sunlight, not sitting on a cold riverbank in winter. “We can figure this out.”

  Crier nodded. “Yes.”

  “We’re gonna stop Kinok,” said the part of Ayla that felt new, nascent, like the bud of a sun apple blossom right at the tail end of winter. “We’ll find Tourmaline. Before he does. Before he destroys the Heart.”

  “First . . . you’ll need this,” said Crier. She reached beneath the neckline of her shirt, pulling out—a delicate gold chain. Ayla’s necklace. Her locket, dangling from Crier’s fingers, winking in the sunlight. Crier had tried to return it to her once before, in Elderell, but at the time . . . at the time, Ayla had been reeling with shock and confusion, trying to make sense of the memories they’d fallen into—and everything that came before. (Crier’s hands on her face, Crier’s breath on her lips.) She’d rejected the locket. I don’t want it. Keep it, I don’t care anymore, just stay away from me. Then, in Crier’s bedroom, she had seen it once more. As she stood over the bed, clutching the knife, trying to convince herself she could do this, she could kill, she could draw blood—she’d seen the locket in Crier’s hand. Crier had been sleeping with it.

  Had kept it all this time, despite everything.

  “Take it,” Crier said now, holding it out to Ayla. “It’s yours. It belongs with you.”

  This time, Ayla didn’t fight. She took the necklace and looped it around her neck, fingers clumsy on the tiny clasp. For the first time in so long, the locket was a familiar weight on her sternum. Warm gold, red gemstone, eight-point star etched into the surface. Her locket.

  “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “It’s yours,” Crier said again. “So is this one.” And she pulled out a second locket. The one Ayla had seen in Kinok’s study, her locket’s twin. She wanted to examine it, to explore whatever memories and secrets were tucked away inside, but that would have to wait.

  “You keep it for now.” If something happened to Ayla, then at least one locket would be safe. “Keep it hidden.”

  “I will protect it with my life.” Then Crier’s brow furrowed. “Ayla. Your arm.”

  “Hm?” Ayla twisted from side to side, inspecting her arms. And she hadn’t even noticed, but her upper left arm was singed, her green wool sleeve blackened and tattered, revealing scraped-up skin beneath. The wounds were shallow, but even the smallest wounds could become deadly if infected. “Damn,” she said. “Okay, I need to clean this.”

  “One moment,” said Crier, and got to her feet.

  “What? Where are you going?”

  “One moment.” With that, she headed off down the riverbank, picking her way around slick, half-frozen patches of mud.


  All right, then. Ayla scooted to the water’s edge and began cleaning the wound as best she could, washing away the soot and dried blood with palmfuls of clear, icy water. It felt good. The coldness cut through the shock at seeing Crier again, the haze of confusion, awkwardness, guilt. Dread, for what was to come.

  Crier returned a few minutes later with a handful of soft green moss. She crouched down beside Ayla and offered the moss, wordless. Ayla took it and pressed it to her arm, and the relief was immediate, cool wet moss on her prickling skin.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Crier, and turned her face back to the river and the forest beyond.

  With darkness came a chill, heat leaching away as the shadows grew. Ayla tried halfheartedly to catch a fish for dinner. Crier offered to go hunting, to track down a rabbit or something, but neither of them were keen on being separated for more than a few minutes. For all they knew, more bandits—or worse—were still prowling the woods. So Ayla drank from the river and spent the evening pressing her hands into her belly, trying to trick it into feeling full, and Crier sat quietly, listening, always listening.

  “Do you mind if I sleep?” Ayla asked, breaking the silence. For almost an hour, the only sounds had been the world-noises: singing frogs, rushing water, the rustling of the forest all around them. Sometimes, the cry of a lone owl. The sky had darkened from blue to black, the moon a ripe yellow fruit, and Ayla felt bruised with exhaustion. And half frozen. They couldn’t risk a campfire, and neither of them had anything warmer than the clothes they were wearing. Ayla was trying not to shiver too violently, but she couldn’t help it. Why hadn’t she thought to grab one of the furs from the carriage before it burned? She had to keep consciously relaxing her jaw so her teeth would stop chattering.

  “Oh—yes, sleep,” said Crier. It was too dark to see her expression, but she sounded startled, even embarrassed. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I forget you need to do that every night.”

  “Unfortunately.” Ayla lowered herself onto her side, trying to find a patch of ground without too many rocks. Again she longed for a fur, a shawl, anything to put between her and the frozen dirt. “Are you . . . sure you’re all right? You can wake me in a few hours and I’ll take over as watch.” Gods, she felt so awkward.

  “I’m fine,” Crier said. “Sleep. You need it.”

  Ayla turned her back to Crier and curled up in a little ball, arms wrapped around her shins. Trying to preserve as much body heat as possible. And though she’d been yawning just a minute ago, the moment she lay down, her mind became a lantern she couldn’t douse. How was she supposed to stop thinking about everything Crier had told her? How was she supposed to sleep when she knew Kinok was out there somewhere? Kinok, and other monsters in the dark?

  “I can hear you thinking,” Crier whispered.

  “No you can’t,” Ayla whispered back. “Not even with your ears.”

  “How would you know?”

  Ayla opened her eyes. Crier was sitting with her back to Ayla, facing out over the river. When Ayla’s sight adjusted to the blue darkness, she could make out the bloodstains on the back of Crier’s shirt.

  “All right, then,” Ayla said, just above a whisper. “What do thoughts sound like?”

  “Bees,” said Crier.

  “You’re making that up. You mean the sound of buzzing?”

  “No. The sound of a bee’s footsteps as it walks across a flower petal.”

  “That’s not a real sound!”

  Crier sniffed. “Maybe not to you.”

  “You’re lying,” said Ayla. “I can tell because you’re terrible at it. You’re using your storytelling voice.”

  A pause. “My . . . storytelling voice?”

  Ayla shifted, pillowing her head on one of her arms. There was a tree root digging into her hip, another at her ribs. She longed for the cloudlike bed she’d left behind in the queen’s palace. “Mm. Like when you told me the story of the princess and the three animals. The princess in the”—she yawned—“snowstorm. With the rabbit.”

  “Hare,” Crier corrected her.

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “. . . No.”

  Ayla was still far too cold, but she felt her eyes slipping shut. “You should do that again sometime,” she said, not really paying attention to what she was saying.

  “Do what again?” Crier asked, soft.

  “I d’nno,” Ayla mumbled. “Tell me a story. You know a lot of stories, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Crier said. “I know a lot of stories.”

  “Mm. Well. Don’t keep ’em all to yourself.” Ayla’s words were slurring together. “Don’t be . . . don’t be selfish.”

  The last thing Ayla heard before the lantern of her mind finally winked out was the sound of Crier’s quiet, helpless laughter.

  She woke once in the night. Judging by the black sky, she’d only been asleep a couple hours. It wasn’t yet her turn to take watch. Satisfied that all was well and Crier was still sitting straight-backed at the edge of the water, Ayla closed her eyes, ready to slip back under. Then a thought occurred.

  Slowly, so as not to make any sound, Ayla took out her locket. She rubbed her thumb over the gemstone, then felt around until she found a bit of broken shell. Without letting herself think too much about what she was doing, she brought the jagged edge of the shell to her thumb. A prick. A drop of blood. Mimicking what Crier had shown her in Elderell, Ayla pressed her thumb to the locket, letting her blood smear against the red stone. And she was—

  —she was—

  Not alone.

  Firelight, yellow and alive. The bundles of drying herbs hanging from the rafters cast odd shadows on the walls, like hands reaching down from above. Ayla was sitting on the lip of the hearth, fire a wall of heat at her back, and she was not alone. Leo was standing beside her, observing two figures in the middle of the room. One was Siena, with her freckles and dark curls, so similar to Ayla. The other was clad all in white. A Midwife.

  They were leaning over a table, murmuring to each other. Ayla got to her feet, trying to be silent even though she knew they could not see or hear her. She crept around the edge of the room, eyes adjusting to the gloom where the firelight didn’t quite reach.

  “Are you ready?” said the Midwife.

  “Does it matter?” Siena replied.

  And Ayla saw there was one more person in this room. A girl. She was lying on the table, asleep or unconscious or—gods, was she breathing? Ayla counted out ten seconds, fifteen, and the girl’s chest didn’t rise and fall. Even an Automa would have taken a breath in that time. Was she dead?

  Ayla crept even closer, until she was standing right next to Siena. My grandmother, she thought, but it didn’t feel real. Siena died before Ayla was born, and Ayla’s mother had always been reluctant to talk about her. Ayla never thought of herself as a person with grandparents. With a bloodline.

  But here it was: Her bloodline. Her heritage. Siena.

  Her bloodline was holding a knife.

  Not a knife—the blade was small and curved. It looked more like a physician’s instrument than a weapon. Ayla watched, growing more and more confused, as Siena began to unbutton the dead girl’s shirt. She pulled it open, careful not to bare the girl’s chest entirely, and let out a shaky breath. “I’m ready,” she said, more to herself than the Midwife. “Gods, I hope this works.”

  She brought the knife to the girl’s skin, right over her heart, and pressed down. Ayla grimaced, expecting blood, but there was none. Siena hadn’t made a cut. Her blade traced a path that seemed predetermined, revealing a hairline seam that hadn’t been visible only moments ago. Painstakingly, using only the tip of the knife, she lifted a small section of the girl’s chest. Like the tiny door of a locket, hidden away in this Made girl’s skin.

  Ayla leaned forward. The opening in the girl’s chest was only palm-sized; she could see nothing but a sheen of r
ed inside. The girl’s heart. Unlike Automa blood, which was an oily, purplish fluid, the heart was human red. Heartstone red. Something felt very wrong, and then Ayla realized: it wasn’t beating. Automa hearts beat slower than humans’, and the beat sounded more like the tick of a clock than anything else, but it was still a beat. Still a pulse. This girl had none. Her heart was silent as a tomb.

  “Be quick, but be careful,” said the Midwife, and Ayla startled; she’d forgotten the Midwife was here. “The veins are delicate, especially without blood flow.”

  Siena nodded. Her dark hair was sticking to her temples with sweat, but her hands were steady.

  “Now,” said the Midwife.

  And Ayla watched, fascinated, as Siena cut the Made girl’s heart out of her body. Gently, she wrapped it in a white cloth and set it aside. Every movement was measured, purposeful. Siena knew what she was doing, Ayla realized. She knew how to navigate the inner workings of this body; she knew it like a Scyre, a Midwife, a Maker would; she knew it like breathing. Ayla found herself focusing on Siena’s face more than her hands. Studying her profile, finding all the similarities between them. My nose, she thought. My chin.

  The memory shifted, Ayla’s surroundings blurring for a moment. When the world settled again, the Midwife was holding something out over the girl’s body, offering it to Siena with both hands. A lump of deep blue stone. Smooth and polished, no bigger than a clenched fist. There were tiny etchings on it, so faint Ayla could see them only when she leaned in. Alchemical symbols. Arranged in concentric circles. She caught the four elements, then gold.

  Siena took the deep blue stone and lowered it into the hollow space left behind. Ayla heard the faintest noise, like a latch clicking into place.

  A pulse of blue light. The heart flared for an instant, glowing, and Siena’s memory began to shift again, colors bleeding into each other, the world like wet paint smeared by a giant hand. The last thing Ayla saw was silver. Two spots of bright, starlike silver.