The Heart is a Universe

by Sherry Thomas

  Vitalis: It was designed like one, and three of our instructors are soldiers. But none of the rest of us are in active service, even though I’m an honorary captain of the Civil Defense Force.

  [A montage of Vitalis and her training mates at various moments in their daily routine, followed by a shot of Vitalis opening the front door of her bungalow. She shows the pictures that line the hallway just inside the door.]

  Vitalis [gestures at the wall]: These are all the Chosen Ones who lived in this house. And this is Pavonis, my immediate predecessor. When I moved in, I found a really beautiful letter that he had left me, written the day before he met the Elders. Maybe it’s because of that, but I’ve always felt close to him, as if he were an older brother I’ve never met.

  Voice off-camera: Do you ever wonder what happened to him?

  Vitalis: We know what happened to him; we just don’t know how it happened. His remains were washed up on the beach outside.

  Voice off-camera: Images of the Chosen Ones’ remains have never been made available to the public. But I assume you, as a Chosen One yourself, must have seen them.

  Vitalis: I have. And it’s sobering. [She tilts her face up to her predecessor’s picture.] But this is how I prefer to remember Pavonis. And—[Her voice catches]—and I’m pretty sure this is how he would wish to be remembered too: smiling, and forever young.

  Vitalis’s heart pounded. Her fingers clamped her thighs. And she could barely keep herself from squirming like an earthworm suddenly dug up to the surface.

  The glider flew above one of Mundi Luminare’s five oceans—and it was her first time traversing maritime airspace, something that was strictly forbidden on Pax Cara. In fact, other than the Chosen One’s training compound, no dwellings or settlements were allowed within a hundred klicks of any coastline.

  Theoretically she understood that there was no such taboo on Mundi Luminare—or indeed anywhere else. But the interdiction on Pax Cara was so thorough and fundamental that she had to fight the urge to barge into the pilot’s cabin and order the woman to turn around and head for the nearest shore. This moment. And I’m prepared to use deadly force.

  “Ah, the people have sent flowers,” said Alchiba. “Would you like to see, Your Highness? There’s a promontory eighty klicks north on the coast. Flowers cast off the tip of the promontory are carried by ocean currents to Regia Insula in about a day or so. They are directly underneath us now.”

  She had turned the viewport next to her seat completely opaque, to reduce her body’s involuntary stress reaction to so much open ocean underneath. She took a deep breath and turned not only the nearest viewport, but the entire glider, transparent.

  A sea of flowers. Millions upon millions of blossoms, all in vibrant shades of fire, as if an entire sunset had turned into petals and painted the waves.

  “Orange is the traditional wedding color on Mundi Luminare,” Alchiba said.

  Before this outpouring of love, Vitalis forgot her discomfort. “Do the people send flowers for his birthday also?”

  At home they always remembered hers. Outside the gates of the Pavonis Center—the training compound was always named after the previous Chosen One—there would be volcanic eruptions of bouquets.

  “Yes, they do,” the chamberlain answered softly. “Though some years His Highness sees only the recordings we make.”

  Because he would have been confined to the recovery tank for weeks before and after his birthday.

  She glanced at the recovery tank. He had been transferred there directly from the stabilization tank at the end of Bridge travel, well before they had reached Mundi Luminare’s largest spaceport. She had a glimpse of a bare shoulder before the lid of the recovery tank shut with a quiet, pneumatic hiss. Several times she’d asked his physicians whether he was conscious; each time they assured her that it was exhaustion that kept him inside, not loss of consciousness.

  At first she had been relieved that she didn’t need to face him. But as minutes, then hours, passed, a new tension spiraled inside her, a fear that she would, in fact, never see him alive again.

  In reverence I offer myself to thee, o goddess great and exalted.

  At the time she had noticed the hint of slyness in his tone. But now, as she looked back, more than anything else she remembered the openness of his expression, so candid and wholehearted that it approached innocence.

  Innocence was often confused with naivety and likewise dismissed. But only the bravest could be innocent and only the strongest could, in the face of her cynicism and disillusion, offer himself without reservation.

  A man as fearless in love as he was in conflict and political turmoil.

  “His Highness and I discussed the facts of his health, but not the causes,” she found herself saying. “Would you happen to know, Master Chamberlain, what exactly ails him?”

  “I’m afraid that the facts of his health are all we know too, Your Highness,” answered Alchiba. “He’d never not been unwell, not since birth. At various points, different diagnoses were made—but in the end his physicians agreed that his condition isn’t one known to medicine. He refused to let them name it after him. So among ourselves, we call it the Devourer.”

  The Devourer, according to mythology—or ancient holy texts, depending on whether one believed—was the Destroyer of Universes, an inexorable force of darkness and annihilation.

  “Gallows humor?” she murmured.

  “Very much so. There’s a saying on Mundi Luminare, Even the gods can only keep the Devourer at bay. And that’s all we can do about His Highness’s condition, keeping him alive one day at a time.”

  Alchiba looked toward the recovery tank, an anxious tenderness in his eyes. And then he smiled at Vitalis. “We’re almost there.”

  The glider was now only a hundred meters or so in the air, its shadow skimming along the tide of flowers. Or rather, the wide, curving boulevard of flowers, paving the way from the vertiginous coastal cliffs to the equally precipitous island that rose from the deep blue sea.

  Regia Insula.

  She’d been completely mistaken in her impression of where he lived, believing his retreat to be somewhere in the heart of a continent, uplands as far as the eyes could see. When in fact he lived on an island—a large, mountainous island, but an island all the same.

  Not just remote, but cut off from the rest of the world.

  “Life on Regia Insula isn’t as isolated as it might look from the outside,” said Alchiba, as if he had heard her thoughts. “We are approaching from the windward side, which is sparsely populated. In the interior of the island there are half a dozen villages, as many excellent vineyards, a wine cooperative, and a distillery. And the social and cultural life is much livelier than one might suppose, judging by first impression: year-round we enjoy festivals and village dances.”

  But it was difficult to shake off first impressions. The abrupt, rocky rise. The densely forested ridges and slopes. The near complete invisibility of civilization.

  A man who made his home here was content with very little.

  With just being alive.

  The glider veered around the island, instead of traversing its airspace—and Vitalis saw no signs of villages or vineyards, only more stern isolation, surrounded by pounding waves.

  Shel laid a hand on the recovery tank—and pulled back in surprise. The surface of the tank felt like skin, cool, soft, and very slightly moist.

  “Is it touch-sensitive?”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  “So the prince would know if someone was in contact with the tank.”

  “Correct.”

  “And does he . . . permit such contacts?”

  “The etiquette for such contacts is no different from how it is for normal contacts. There are interfaces on the tank through which we can hail him formally, if we require his attention. There are handles, casters, lift strips, etc, for transportation and repositioning, none of which are touch-sensitive.”

  “I see.”


  In other words, were she not the prince’s bride, she would have committed a large faux pas by putting her hand on the tank.

  But she was his wife and it was perfectly fine for her to touch him either in person or via the tank.

  She touched the tank again, but this time making sure to set her fingertips on a handle. Then she crossed her arms before her chest. For the next few minutes, until they arrived at the prince’s retreat, she kept her eyes on the landscape and her hands very much to herself.

  The princely retreat, likewise, was not what she had imagined. No castle, anti-grav fortress, or stratosphere-piercing spires greeted her, but a collection of dwellings that, from a distance, blended almost perfectly into their surroundings. They resolved, when the glider was less than a klick out, into houses that resembled yachts, which had been built, along their long axis, into the bones of the slopes.

  Modest houses too, considering the exalted identity of their chief resident. Not that the houses were small or sloppy—indeed Vitalis was sure they would be described as architectural gems—but they were hardly palatial, or even manorial.

  They were well-designed, well built houses with excellent views—no less and no more.

  The prince did not emerge from the recovery tank upon their arrival. Alchiba gave Vitalis a tour of the retreat. He pointed out the audience hall, the theater, the clinic, etc, etc; she listened with half an ear and repeatedly checked the time. How much longer would Eleian remain in the recovery tank?

  The prince’s residence was neither the largest edifice nor the one at the center of the property. Instead, it was so well hidden that she stood on its roof and thought herself merely atop an overhang above a steep drop.

  “We had some turbulent years in the principality,” explained the chamberlain. “Not here on Mundi Luminare, but still, the staff thought it would be best for the prince to occupy the site that could be best defended with limited security personnel.”

  And so it was that Eleian had moved to the building colloquially referred to as the bunker. Not a true bunker, obviously: the interior was much bigger and more comfortable than it looked from the outside. And it was all softness: thick carpets, deep seats, and silky, padded walls.

  As soon as she was alone, Vitalis called up the house’s internal monitors and checked the data.

  Normally, for a person as unwell as the prince, bare floors and plain chairs would be de rigueur, to avoid areas where pathogens could hide and multiply. But this house was ruthlessly clean—and fiercely antiseptic beneath its aura of rustic coziness.

  The softness, then, must be a necessity, for a man whose body was at times so fragile that hard surfaces would amount to torture.

  “Checking on me?” His voice came from the door.

  She tensed—she had been so intent on the information on the screen she had not heard his approach. Then her shoulders slackened with relief: he was all right. Or at least in decent enough shape to be up and about.

  “Have you been well?” he asked. “What do you think of Mundi Luminare?”

  She should pivot around—the most basic rules of civility demanded it. But she couldn’t, now that the wave of relief had surged past.

  The morning after their wedding, when she’d admitted to the true purpose of her departure the night before, the confession had been possible because she’d known they had to be at the assembly within minutes—the public was always an effective barrier. And because she’d also known, from speaking to his chamberlain, that he would be separated from her during Bridge travel and most likely for some time afterwards too.

  But her reprieve was at its end. Now he was up and about and now she must face this extraordinary man without her erstwhile halo of nobility, without anything except the sum total of her all-too-ordinary self.

  “I’m fine,” she murmured. “And what little I’ve seen of the planet is very beautiful.”

  She hadn’t moved at all, her gaze still on the screen that supplied everything she needed to know about the house.

  He took a few steps and stopped again, his body coming into contact with the padded wall with a soft bump. “And my home?”

  “I like it.”

  Another few steps, another soft bump. He was probably leaning against the back of a sofa.

  “Should I keep up the small talk?” There was a smile in his voice. “Or would you prefer to speak of something else?”

  She forced her head to turn a few degrees. A slender volume of meditation instructions met her gaze from behind its display case. She’d had the same book, a title left behind by Pavonis: valuable, but not so rare that she’d have given it a prime spot on the wall.

  “I imagine we can pass hours talking about the history of your home,” she heard herself say.

  “It isn’t that ancient, only two hundred years old. And it isn’t linked to any great historical events—since it has always been a true retreat and not a secondary seat of power. But I can find enough to say about it to fill, oh, three quarters of an hour. Would you like me to?”

  Now there was a challenge to his voice. And he was no longer advancing toward her: she was to meet him at least part of the way.

  “No, not really,” she said, at last turning around.

  And immediately lost her breath. She had allowed herself to forget how luminously beautiful he was, and how otherworldly that luminosity, as if he had acquired physical form only a fraction of a second ago, and still levitated half a centimeter from the floor.

  Little wonder he had been declared a godly incarnation. She was only surprised that it hadn’t happened years ago.

  “My chamberlain tells me there is some local wine decanted in the sunset room,” he said, leaning on the titanium cane she had given him. “Would you care for a taste?”

  He offered her his hand. She tucked it into the crook of her elbow and made herself a crutch for her frail god. He seemed to appreciate the gesture, leaning into her solidly as they made their way to the sunset room, which was a large veranda that ran along the entire exterior of the house.

  The lowering sun radiated warmth. In this part of Mundi Luminare, it was the beginning of summer. A breeze, fragrant with the clean breaths of trees, ruffled her hair. It would turn cooler with the onset of night, but for now, the early evening air was the temperature of a caress.

  A table had been laid out with wine and delicacies. The wine was strong—and would have been too sweet were it not for its potency. As such it was boldly delicious with the spiced nuts, pickled sea plums, and savory little pastries that served as accompaniment.

  The prince, as usual, took only a glass of water. “So what shall we speak of on our honeymoon?”

  They were seated on a luxurious swing, a large plate of nibbles between them—though of course, it was only for her. He leaned his head against the backrest and tilted his face toward her, his gaze ever attentive, ever perceptive.

  What he lacked in physical strength he more than made up for in perspicacity and sheer will power. And it felt odd to think that way, given how brief their marriage was doomed to be, but he also embodied patience, a deep faith that in time his efforts would bear fruit.

  “I find myself wondering how you pass time in the recovery tank,” she said. “It’s struck me lately how large a portion of your life you must spend in there.”

  He lifted the decanter, which fit neatly into a slot on the back of the swing, and refilled her glass. “What do you think?”

  A question designed to make her reveal more of herself. She brought the wine close and inhaled, a heady aroma with hints of pepper and nutmeg. “I, of course, hope for a state of constant meditative bliss for you.”

  A nice thing to say, echoing with good will and kindheartedness.

  She did not let slip that she needed for him to be a spiritual giant, he who had stripped her down to nothing but fear and uncertainty. She needed his fortitude to counter her weakness, his serenity to calm her turmoil.

  “I have experienced meditative bliss, but on
ly outside the tank. Most of the time, when I need to be inside, I’m not well enough to sustain the effort required for meditation.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  Her obliviousness, the obliviousness of the healthy, became apparent. She had viewed ill health as a mandatory holiday, regrettable because one must be laid up, but rather enviable at the same time as it was an opportunity to participate in all the passive entertainments that a busier schedule didn’t permit.

  Failing to take into consideration such things as pain and suffering.

  “When my physicians believe my life to be in danger,” he went on, “they typically choose to induce a coma, during which I am unconscious the entire time.”

  She hoped she didn’t appear too dismayed. “What about when you aren’t in a coma?”

  “Sometimes I sleep. Sometimes I render dreamscapes. I’ve tried to take in news and lectures, but that doesn’t work very well because I fall asleep and don’t retain what I’ve learned.”

  So in the recovery tank he was truly only an ordinary patient, drifting through the long hours, straining not so much toward enlightenment as toward the moment he would at last be let out.

  “Do you not pray at all when you are in there?” she asked, and wondered whether he heard in her question the answer she wished to receive.

  “I prayed a great deal, in and out of the tank, when I was younger—when it looked as if Terra Illustrata would be a lost cause. Since then, not so much.”

  Not a very religious man, by his own admission. How then did he emanate such inner radiance? And make her feel such a desperate need for his approval, as if all her flaws would sublimate into incorruptible virtues, if only he would think well of her for a fleeting moment?

  His eyes were deep and clear, as beautiful as the soul within. Despite the scythe of mortality that hung over him by a slender thread, fear did not stain him, as it had stained her. More than ever, she wished to be like him. More than ever, she wished he wasn’t there to hold up a cruel mirror in which she saw herself all too clearly.

  He studied her as closely as she studied him. What did he see? What was there to see in her at all, without her aura of heroism, now forever tarnished?