by Sara Wolf
I manage to trudge back to the noble quarter and cross the tightly guarded bridge by displaying Father’s rusted sword to the lawguards—an item the entire Vetrisian court knows Lady Zera Y’shennria owns, and the only thing of mine that survived the flames. The nobles are gathered on the palace’s front lawn in close-knit groups, all of them watching the fire with drawn and worried faces. No invading Heartless have been spotted from over the wall, and so the initial panic has died down, but still it simmers just below the surface.
I’m halfway up the gravel road to the palace when I hear the gasp of a nearby noble group gathered around a large brass tube, not unlike the small one Y’shennria gave me to see into the distance with the first time we met.
“The fire!”
“It’s gone out!”
I turn my head over my shoulder, and for once the nobles have decided to speak truth. The sun, beginning to set in bright shades of violet and ice, illuminates a smoky South Gate free of any black flames, ash and char the only evidence left. Whoever the witch was, wherever they are, they’ve either willed the fire to stop or they’ve been killed. Knowing what state the city is in, I’d hazard a rough guess at the latter. Varia would know. She has to—she has people up in the Crimson Lady, scrubbing her magical doings from detection. Surely they picked something up about this rogue witch.
I walk through the Serpent’s Wing back to Varia’s room, and briefly my eyes catch on the hall leading to Lucien’s apartments. A gaggle of royal polymaths linger outside, whispering with concerned looks on their faces. I want nothing more than to walk into his room and see him, see with my own two eyes if his chest still rises and falls.
“Lady Tarroux!”
I look up to see the polymaths fussing over a breathless Lady Tarroux. Her face is white, her hands clutched in front of her chest and her soft voice just loud enough for me to hear.
“Please, I beg you,” she pleads. “Tell me—will he live?”
My unheart sinks as one of the polymaths shakes his head. “I’m sorry, milady. It is still too early to tell.”
Lady Tarroux’s round face crumples, but she tries so hard to remain strong, her posture straight and true. “Please, there must be something I can do to help. Allow me to assist you in any way I can.”
“I’m sorry,” the polymath insists. “There is nothing. His condition is very delicate. The king and queen have already visited him—he must remain alone now. The only ones permitted inside are his polymaths and his bodyguard.”
My stomach sinks and then rises. Malachite must be inside. That’s good—I’m certain he won’t let Lucien die that easily. The king and queen have visited, but not Varia? Where is she? Maybe running damage control—trying to find out which witch did this?
Lady Tarroux swallows, her long, elegant neck bobbing. “Then I will remain here, as close as I can be, and pray to the New God for his life.”
The polymaths and I watch her settle on the carpet, the polymaths scrambling and insisting a noble lady such as she shouldn’t go on her knees in such a public place, but Tarroux ignores them. She sits with her back against Lucien’s wall and clasps her hands, her lips moving silently in fervent prayer. Something like affection for her springs up in me unbidden—pride means everything to a noble, and here she is, prostrating herself in the hopes it will bring Lucien back to life with no regard for how she looks.
I go to Varia’s room and throw on the nearest dress I can find before venturing into the hall again. As I approach Lucien’s door, the polymaths warily watch me, but when I make for Lady Tarroux, they seem to relax. Lady Tarroux doesn’t look up until she hears my boots in front of her. She blinks her large brown eyes up at me and gives me a wan smile.
“Oh, Lady Zera. Have you come to visit the prince, too? He’s very fond of you—your presence will no doubt strengthen his spirit.”
I clear my throat. “I’m not so sure about that.”
“I am.” She sets her mouth in a determined line, her brows drawn. “He speaks very seldom to me, but when he does, it is about you. He cares for you deeply. From what I have gathered, you are a very wonderful person.”
It’s such a strange thing for a noble to say—so different from the backstabbing compliments I’m used to from girls my age in the court. Coming from her, and from a face that serious, her words don’t feel manufactured at all. She’s so genuine, no noble mask to be seen. Is this how all Goldbloods are, or did she just never develop a mask to begin with? I almost laugh but manage to keep it to myself as I settle beside her.
“I’ve never prayed before,” I admit. “You’ll have to teach me.”
Tarroux’s eyes sparkle with joy. “Yes, of course. I would be honored.”
I sit by her side and repeat her prayers, my hands clasped. She prays for Lucien’s well-being, his strength, his longevity. She prays that he will live a long and happy life, going slightly out of breath with the effort of saying so many things so quickly. Her earnestness is obvious, and more than once I have to smother a laugh at how adorable it is.
We sit there for a half before I get tired and thank her and excuse myself to Varia’s apartments, where it’s easier to sulk and worry about Lucien without battling the urge to barge inside his room. The image of him unconscious and unmoving in the carriage is burned into my eyes, perhaps literally. Even when I come out, hours later, Lady Tarroux is still there, not having moved an inch and praying fervently. Her hair’s plastered to her forehead with sweat, her shoulders sagging from holding that one position for so long.
She’s staying by Lucien’s side. She’s unwavering, while a traitor like me contemplates, every hour of the day, retrieving my heart and leaving Vetris for good.
“Has our little lady eaten?” I ask the guards. They shake their heads. New God’s eyelash, she might be more stubborn than Lucien himself—they’ll give each other a run for their coin. But she has to eat, or she’ll do no running at all. I turn and make a trip down to the kitchens. A few words and a lot of careful steps later, I return with a plate laden with cold meat and warm bread, sweet fruits and dark, dense nuts. Kneeling, I place it in front of her and smile.
“Hey, milady priestess,” I tease. “Take a break and eat. I’m fairly certain the New God doesn’t listen to the prayers of shriveled-up corpses.”
Lady Tarroux’s eyes blink open, falling on the plate, and then my face. “You—Lady Zera. You brought this for me?”
“Do you see anyone else around here silly enough not to eat for seven hours?” I smirk.
Lady Tarroux’s milk-blond hair catches the moonlight as her lips pull into a gentle smile. “I see now. His Highness was right—you truly are kind.”
“All I did was pile some things on a plate.” I sigh. “It’s not as if I grew the fruits out of my own arsehole.”
I expect her to recoil at the word, but Lady Tarroux just laughs, like a thousand little happy birds in a tree. “And it is also true that you are very funny!”
I flush red—hearing it from someone so straightforward is different than hearing it from the usual noble flatterers. “Just hurry up and eat before you faint.”
“Yes, thank you,” Tarroux agrees, tearing apart a piece of bread and offering me the other half. I shake my head with a wry smile.
“I’m a…picky eater. It’s all yours.”
She speaks around mouthfuls, an unexpectedly delightful breach of etiquette that reminds me so much of Crav, who could never stop talking with his mouth full.
“You said you’ve never prayed before today,” she says. “Are you not religious?”
“Not particularly,” I say warily, waiting for her admonishment. But it never comes. She just nods sagely.
“My father is like you. We’re originally from Helkyris. Religion is less of a priority there than polymathematics. But when I came of age here, I found Kavar’s light. His temple just called out to me. My father is a little disappoin
ted in me, but he has my other sister, at least. She’s the smart one.”
“Don’t be modest. I’ve seen those hymn books in the temple,” I say. “You’ve gotta have at least a cupful of intelligence to memorize so many words. And it’s all Old Vetrisian, too.”
“Oh…” She goes a little red on her cheeks. “But I enjoy it so. It barely feels like effort.”
There’s quiet as she chases the bread with a gulp of water, picking up a grape and looking at it thoughtfully. She sings something soft and under her breath, the language like nothing I’ve heard before.
“Is that a hymn?” I ask.
Tarroux nods. “My favorite one. It’s very flowery, compared to the other hymns. It uses many metaphors, most of them about the natural world.” She repeats the lyrics in Old Vetrisian, speaking them more than singing now.
“What does that line mean?” I quirk a brow.
She smiles brilliantly. “It’s the main chorus. The priest told me it means ‘glory to the first tree and no others.’”
I stop fiddling with my dress hem. “The first tree?”
She nods. “The priest said it’s an old metaphor for Kavar.” She leans in and whispers conspiratorially. “One time I was looking for the song in the hymn library of the temple, and I found an old version from before the Sunless War. It talked about all manner of strange and wonderful things. But the priests don’t use that version anymore.”
I lean in. “Why not?”
“It mentions the— Well.” She frowns and whispers even softer. “The Old God.”
“How heretical,” I whisper back, feigning awe. “But fascinating.”
“Isn’t it?” She smiles. “I know we aren’t supposed to speak of him because Kavar’s eyes are always watching, and I try not to. But it’s my favorite hymn. It was being sung when I first walked into the temple here in Vetris, and so I’ve always had a soft spot for it.”
The first tree. It could, like Tarroux says, just be a metaphor. But something about it doesn’t sit right with me. The first tree in the hymn, the song Gavik and Yorl’s grandfather know…
“Do you remember how the old hymn you found went at all?” I press. “In Common Vetrisian, of course.”
The sudden opening of the door next to us has us both jumping up to stand as a polymath scurries out of it.
“He’s awake! His Highness is awake! Inform the king, quickly!”
The tight undercurrents of anxiety loosen within me instantly. Sheer relief floods me down to my toes, weakening the bones keeping me upright. Lucien’s awake. He’ll live. One of the guards trots off to tell the king, and next to me, Lady Tarroux steadies herself on a nearby wall with one of her hands, making the sign of Kavar by touching her other hand to both her eyelids.
“Oh, thank the New God.” She turns to me. “Lady Zera, should we greet him together? I’m certain he’d be pleased to see you.”
I stare at the dark crack in the open door. To go in, to see him awake and alive with my own two eyes— No.
I’ve heard he’s alive. That’s enough for me.
I smile at Tarroux. “You go on. I have business to attend to.”
Her face is hurt, but only for a second before she makes a bow. “Of course. Thank you for your companionship, Lady Zera.”
“You can thank me, Lady Tarroux”—I make a deeper bow—“by staying by his side.”
The words sting coming out, as if I have cuts on my lips and each syllable is salt and vinegar. Her pale brows knit, and I can hear the courtly cogs working in her mind; Prince Lucien’s Spring Bride, the one he was rumored to ask to marry him at the Hunt, asking another girl in turn to stay with him. It’s a strange pivot, a bizarre path for a Spring Bride to take—rejecting the prince, pushing him away from her when her very existence at court is meant to pull him in.
I’m gone before she can speak.
The king doesn’t send for me to continue the inquiry, other things clearly taking up his plate right now—Lucien, the witchfire, the war. I pace back and forth over the carpet in Varia’s room, the urge to find Malachite and demand to know if the prince is recovering well gnawing greater than the hunger. The briefest flicker of possibility from the other timeline of my life flashes through my mind—visiting Lucien’s bedside, holding his hand. Bursting into tears with relief, and his soft smile as he embraces me and tells me not to worry.
fourteen days of lies and fourteen men, and still you expect a happy end—
I snatch up the nearest wine decanter and down the glass I pour in one swallow.
The hunger blurs into a smooth river, but guilt is the sharp rocks waiting at the foot of the waterfall.
14
The Name
of the Wolf
Princess Varia doesn’t return to her apartments until the early hours of the dim melon-pink morning, when the sunbirds first start to screech. I jolt awake from my wine-induced slumber to see her standing at the shelf of porcelain dolls, stroking the ribbon hat of one absently. Somehow, using that witchy awareness Nightsinger had, too, she knows I’m awake and speaks without turning around.
“No one died in the fire, but several dozen were injured. A great amount of property was lost.” She pauses, her languid sheet of dark hair quivering, and then, “My father has drawn up a formal declaration of war. It was announced at midnight.”
My insides sink down to my knees. War. The war the witches and Y’shennria and I dreaded for so long. Part of me knew it was inevitable after the fire, but I never thought Vetrisian bureaucracy could move so fast.
People will die now. Maybe not because of me, but neither did I do anything to fulfill the witches’ plans to stop the war. I try to put the guilt behind me, slowly, like a freshly whetted knife—always aware of its ability to harm, always aware of its usefulness as a tool.
“Was it real witchfire?” I finally ask.
“Yes,” she says.
“You didn’t do it. You wouldn’t. That would sabotage all your plans to lay low. So who did?”
Varia picks up the doll, and my memory of her breaking the other one has me instinctually leaning away.
“Whoever the poor fool was,” she mutters. “They let their magic spiral completely out of control.”
“What?” I blink.
“The bulk of the soldiers currently gathered will be deployed to raze the forests east and west of Vetris.” She continues, voice clear this time. “That’s first protocol—destroy any hiding places they may have close to the city.”
My unheart leaps and stumbles. But that means—
“Nightsinger,” I start. “She lives in those woods. Crav and Peligli and…” I jump up off the couch. “I have to warn them.”
“Because sending a message to a witch from Vetris will certainly still be possible with the city in full wartime alert,” Varia drawls.
“Yes, well, I’d rather not sit here and drink tea while they die,” I bite back.
Varia sighs. “Focus on teaching the valkerax. I’ll send word for you.”
“You know where she lives?”
“Approximately.” The princess shrugs. “I could feel where she was when I pulled your ownership from her. I’ll have my people send her a dried rat’s tail—a witch warning. If she’s still there, it will reach her, and she will know to flee.”
“Do you promise?”
Varia sighs. “Yes. I promise. She’s a citizen of Cavanos, and I’d be remiss not to save her life.”
Her words are echoes of Lucien’s—or is it the other way around? “Are you sure it’ll get to her? Don’t you think they’ll tighten security around the city?”
“Worry about the valkerax.” Her voice is hard. “I’ll take care of everything else.”
“Until you can’t anymore,” I say. “Until the burden becomes too big for your shoulders.”
“‘Too big a burden�
��? A d’Malvane doesn’t know the meaning of those words.” She laughs, but the sound is somehow thin. “I heard your inquiry was interrupted. I’m nearly certain that with the war in full swing, Father will have no time for it anymore. You got lucky.”
“Is that what being your flesh puppet is called these days? Lucky?”
Varia laughs again and heads toward her bathroom, the steam of an already prepared bath billowing through the open door. I watch her pull out the bag with TRAITOR on it and the bag with LEECH. Gavik’s heart and mine. My blood races at how close my heart is. She puts them down onto a small table, throwing me a smirk.
“You’re aware, of course, that your witch must put your heart back into your body for you to become human again.”
I scoff. “I spent three years in the woods with Nightsinger. Of course I know that.”
She’s quiet before she turns, walking into the bathroom. When I hear her slip into the water, I walk over to the table, stroking the TRAITOR bag. It’s so warm. I can feel the soft lump of flesh. I can feel my own heartbeat, and I fight back the tears it brings to my eyes. My other hand grips Father’s rusted sword.
“Soon,” I whisper.
My hand glances over something else in the bag—something hard and sharp. I nearly jolt back—it almost speared me. Whatever it is in there is sharp enough to cut. Curiosity buzzes through me, and, gingerly and listening for Varia’s movements the whole time, I pull open the strings of the bag. There, glimmering next to the pinkish lump of my heart, is a clear splinter. I reach in and touch it warily—it’s smooth in an unmistakable way. Glass. What is glass doing in a witch’s heart bag?
“Please don’t,” Varia calls from the bathroom, and my hand retracts instantly.
“Why is there glass in there?” I snap.
Varia’s laughter is low. “There’s always glass, Zera. That’s how Heartless containers are made.”
“But,” I start. “Nightsinger had glass jars, and no splinter on the inside—”
“The splinter was in the jar itself,” Varia answers lightly, like I’m an infant asking about the alphabet. “Melted down alongside regular glass. Why do you think so many witches choose to use jars instead of more economical bags? Because it’s a far more elegant solution to combine the two.”
