Heart of Thorns

by Bree Barton

  They stood outside the Grand Gallery. The air was laced with tantalizing aromas, savory meats and sweet puddings.

  “We are expected,” her father said, and nodded to the guards, who threw the doors open. She felt her father’s hand, light and cool on her back, as he steered her into the Gallery. The heavy doors swung shut behind them, sealing them inside.

  The room was full of people, and they were all perfectly still.

  The long black feasting table had been set for a feast, steam curling off a lavish spread, as had the gray stone table across the gallery. Guests were dressed in silk gowns and tailored jackets, jewels on fingers, gems glinting around throats. Everyone held drinks or cutlery, their hands poised in midair, spines straight as books. The plates and platters were heaped high with food—cuts of roasted duck, smoked boar, trussed green goose, caramel courting cakes, gooseberry tarts, venison jellies, and candied fruits.

  No one ate a morsel. No one made a sound.

  The only noise was the cracking and popping of wood in the two giant stone hearths. Quin’s yellow dogs lay by the nearest fireplace, legs stiffly extended, chests rising and falling. They appeared to be pinned down by an invisible force.

  Mia’s gaze swept the gray stone table like a lighthouse beam sweeping the sea. She knew every face. The Hunters sat in one long line, all facing the feasting table, though there were no longer thirteen: without Tuk, Lyman, or Domeniq, the Circle numbered ten. Mia had never seen the men so richly attired. The lone Huntress was nearly unrecognizable, dressed in a high-necked sable gown sleek as wet crow feathers in the firelight.

  No one looked at Mia. Every pair of eyes was fixed on the feasting table.

  The hierarchy among the royals had shifted. Queen Rowena’s seat was conspicuously empty, with Tristan sitting stiffly to one side. And there were several new additions: Domeniq and Pilar, their eyes as glazed and black as schorl.

  But it was Quin’s face that rooted Mia to the spot. His eyes were as blank as the early days, back when she’d thought him an ice prince, and his uzoolion charm was no longer looped around his neck.

  Her eyes swept to the left. When she saw who sat in King Ronan’s gilded chair, she sucked in her breath.

  No. It couldn’t be.

  Zaga presided over the Grand Gallery. Her face wasn’t frozen; it was beaming bright. She lifted her goblet high and tipped it toward Mia.

  She had betrayed them.

  The walls were closing in. Mia stepped back and immediately felt the guards step behind her, barring the door. She was trapped.

  She turned to ask her father what he had done, only to find his face transfixed, eyes blacker than before. He was watching someone over her shoulder.

  “Beautifully done,” came the lyrical voice.

  A shape floated into her peripheral vision, a snowy-white gown richly embroidered with gold and green thread and emblazoned with the royal crest. Mia tried to make her eyes focus, but they could only absorb fragments: the slender waist, the heart-shaped face, the gloveless arms, the skin so pale it was almost diaphanous.

  A golden crown kissed her sister’s head, shimmering in the light.

  “Oh, Mi,” said Angelyne. “Welcome home.”

  Chapter 57

  Heart for a Heart

  ANGIE STEPPED FORWARD AND kissed her sweetly on both cheeks.

  “Aren’t you going to say hello? I suppose you’re not. Well, I’m happy to see you.”

  Mia couldn’t breathe.

  Angelyne held out her hand. “My stone, please, Father.”

  Mia watched as her father fumbled with a chain around his neck. Only then did she realize he’d been wearing the moonstone pendant. He unlatched the clasp and placed the pearly gem in Angie’s outstretched palm.

  “Thank you. You’ve been very agreeable. You may sit.”

  Her father’s eyes were thirsty gray again—and fresh with grief. He reached out a quavering hand.

  “Sit, Father,” Angie said, firmer this time. He turned on his heel and trudged to the feasting table, where he sank into his chair beside the others. Mia felt a cold so ferocious she staggered forward. It wasn’t just her own fear she was sensing. Everyone in the Gallery was afraid.

  Angie refastened the necklace, feeding the chain through the pendant until the jewel was centered at her throat. Their mother’s moonstone shimmered like a knife above her heart.

  “You’re wondering about the stone. I thought you’d know all about that, since you’ve been off studying magic.” Angie’s words had an edge. “I’ve been experimenting with various gems, but the moonstone is unequivocally the best. There’s no question why Mother used it—it can store an enthrall for days at a time. Particularly helpful when you’re trying to, say, send someone out on an important errand. Such as a certain duke, sent to retrieve a certain Mia Rose.”

  She glared at Tristan. “Not that the stone ensures success. The duke did not bring you back to me.”

  Tristan was motionless. He stared blankly ahead, a thin line of sweat glistening at his scalp.

  “You have magic,” Mia said. Her voice was unrecognizable, an invasive species of vowels and consonants swarming her mouth.

  Angie fixed her with a curious look. “Of course I do. You thought you were the only one? Just imagine the things we’ll do together! A little raven and a little swan.”

  She laced her fingers through Mia’s, but her skin felt coarse, foreign. Mia retracted her hand.

  “It was you who sent the swan.”

  “Macabre, I know. But I didn’t want you getting too comfortable out there. We have work to do here, in our own kingdom.” She shot Zaga a withering glance. “Never mind that I was never invited to Refúj to study magic.”

  Mia kept her voice low. “If you had studied magic, you’d know to free the people in this room from whatever enchantment you’ve put them under. Someone is going to get hurt.”

  The smile slid off Angie’s face. “You think I don’t know that? I’ve been practicing magic for almost three years now. I’m self-taught. I’m far more powerful than you.”

  Angie’s betrayal was a knife to the gut. Her sister had wanted this. She had orchestrated the whole thing.

  “You were the castle spy.”

  Angelyne combed her fingers through a strand of long strawberry hair, then rubbed the moonstone’s pearled surface.

  “I don’t care for that word. Spy. It sounds so nefarious. I serve the Dujia. I fight for our mother’s true family. Not her family of origin—her family of choice.”

  “You told Pilar to put an arrow through my heart!”

  “I told you to run! Remember? I sat in your chambers the night before the wedding and begged you to escape and leave me behind. You had the same kind of headaches I had when I bloomed.”

  She shook her head. “But then you practically ordered a massacre of Gwyrach as a dinner toast. Our own kind. Our mother’s kind. You brought this on yourself, Mi. Pilar heard what you said at the final feast, which only confirmed what I’d been telling Zaga for months. After that, it wasn’t really up to me anymore. Things were already under way.”

  Mia’s eyes found Pilar’s. She thought she saw a trace of regret beneath the black glaze.

  She turned back to Angelyne. “If you knew Mother had magic, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You’ve always been so black-and-white. You know it’s true. You fancied yourself a Huntress, a cool-headed scientist, but you were a bit of an ogre, weren’t you? All you had was hate and fury in your heart. If I had told you I had magic, you would have killed me.”

  “I would never hurt you.” Her hands were shaking. “You were all I cared about.”

  “That’s what you told yourself. But you’ve never cared about me. Not really. You cared about the version of me you kept safe in your head, the fragile little sister who couldn’t survive without you. You don’t even know me. What’s my favorite color?”

  Mia paused. “Lavender.”

  “Wrong. Green. What’s my fa
vorite song?”

  “I don’t . . . ‘Under the Snow Plum Tree’?”

  “I can’t stand that song. It’s been stuck in my head for years, ever since you and I went dancing around the house pretending to be ladies.” Her gaze was piercing. “What did I want to be when I grew up?”

  Mia’s palms were sticky with sweat. “An explorer.”

  “Wrong again. That was you. You wanted those things. I wanted to get married and have a family, and you thought those things made me weak. I dreamed of being a princess. A queen.” She touched her crown. “And here we are.”

  “You were willing to let me die for it.”

  “I never wanted that. You’re my sister. Sisters do anything for each other.” She twisted her hair into a rope and tossed it over her shoulder. “But the Dujia are my sisters, too, and I had to protect them. You know all about that, don’t you? A sister who needs protecting?”

  Mia had misinterpreted everything. She was so fixated on avenging their mother’s death, her little sister had bloomed into someone else right beneath her nose. Angelyne was an equation she hadn’t known she needed to solve.

  No. That was just it. Angie wasn’t an equation at all: she was a person. A hurt, sad, lost, angry girl. And somehow Mia had missed all of it.

  Angie coughed, then smoothed her gown.

  “My point is that we can put all that behind us now. You’re a Dujia. That changes everything. I’m glad it happened this way—glad our archer was atrocious.” She glowered at Pilar, then turned back to Mia. “I’m grateful you’re alive. Zaga tells me you’re talented.”

  Angie’s eyes narrowed. “Very talented, I hear.”

  Mia felt bile burbling in her throat. She had to close her eyes to keep the Gallery from spinning. So this was jealousy. It had a taste, foul and putrid, like a slab of cheese gone moldy. It had a color, too, but that wasn’t surprising. Envy was green.

  Her gaze combed the feasting table, lighting on her father’s face, then Quin’s, then Domeniq’s. Their eyes were all empty, wiped clean of agency. No one could help her. Standing in a roomful of people, she’d never been more alone.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” Angie smiled.

  “I don’t understand. You’re not even touching them.”

  “You’re being very stubborn about this, Mi. Magic is not what we think it is. Our father lied to us.” She gestured toward Zaga. “Even she lied to us. It’s more powerful than we were ever taught. There are ways to test it—to push beyond the existing boundaries. While you’ve been daydreaming about exploring the four kingdoms, I’ve been exploring a far richer kingdom: the magic brewing under my own skin.”

  “What you’re doing is wrong, Ange. You’re taking away their choice. To enthrall someone is to—”

  “Oh, this isn’t an enthrall. What gave you that impression? Enthrallment is for juveniles. I told you: I’ve been practicing magic ever since Mother died. I’ve taught myself all sorts of wonderful things. I haven’t enthralled these people. I’ve enkindled them.”

  Angie’s mouth twisted into a smirk. “In the old language, kindyl means torch or flame. Enkindyl means to light something on fire. But for my purposes, it means to inspire or ignite. When I enkindle someone, I ignite a fervor in their heart. That fervor shifts the way the blood flows through their limbs, rewriting the messages their brain sends to their body. They desire something with every fiber of their being. They yearn for it. It replaces every other thought in their head.”

  “That’s mind control.”

  “Wrong again. If anything, it’s heart control.” Angie smiled, pleased. “I know you like your logic and your theories, but a message forged in the brain will never carry the same weight as a feeling forged in the heart. Once that feeling has taken root, it’s powerful. The brain has to accept it. Because, when all is said and done, the heart is the mind’s master. Our minds can only accept the things our hearts tell us are true.”

  She smiled at the guests in the Grand Gallery, an indulgent smile, as if they were dogs waiting to have their ears scratched. “I’m not hurting them. Their bodies are intimately in tune with mine: they want what I want, feel what I feel.”

  She flourished a slender hand. “Speak!”

  A cacophony of voices flooded the Gallery—screams, shouts, pleas for help, frantic words tumbling out in an ardent jumble.

  “Be silent,” Angie said.

  Instantly they fell silent. The fires breathed and crackled in the hearth.

  “Eat!”

  The Grand Gallery clinked with the ding of cutlery on plates. Everyone in the room began to eat, chewing and grinding, gurgling and smacking, the sound of hundreds of teeth ripping into soft animal flesh.

  Mia had never seen anything so horrific.

  “This isn’t what Dujia are meant to do. Magic is not about lording power over innocent people. It’s meant to correct the imbalance of power.”

  “Who here is innocent?” Angie gestured first toward the Hunters, then the royals. “Who among them hasn’t hurt or raped or killed women like us?”

  Mia shifted, uncomfortable. Her sister wasn’t wrong.

  “But you’ve taken over their bodies without their consent.”

  “Just like they’ve spent centuries taking over ours.” Angie plucked an invisible speck from the bodice of her gown. “You’re just not used to seeing me strong.”

  “If you were strong, you wouldn’t need to enkindle people to make them follow you.”

  “You always do this!” Angie said, suddenly vicious. “My whole life you’ve treated me like a victim—your sick little sister. How could I ever survive without you? It’s why I knew you’d come running back the minute I sent you that swan. Gods forbid sweet little Angie be without her big brave sister to save the day. You always wanted to fix me, but you were wrong. I was never broken.”

  Mia nodded toward Quin. “The prince has never hurt anyone. He’s only tried to correct the wrongs of his father.” She gestured toward the feasting table, where her friends moved their mouths and hands in sharp, manic motions. “Domeniq is innocent. So is Pilar. And yet you hold them hostage, too.”

  “An unfortunate consequence.” She waved a hand. “Be still!” she shouted, and the Gallery grew quiet. She coughed again, this time more violently, and clutched the moonstone to her chest.

  Mia had a new theory.

  “I think you’ve warped the magic inside Mother’s stone. She enthralled Father for years, and she struggled with the weight of that every day. But she also tried to use her magic for good. That moonstone was where she stored her magic—it helped her heal people who were sick or hurting. But you’ve taken the stone and twisted it into something else. And in return, it’s twisted you. It’s making you sick, Ange.”

  Mia summoned all her courage. “Let these people go. It’s not too late.”

  Angelyne’s smile was bent, her eyes bright with an emotion Mia couldn’t place.

  “But they haven’t seen the entertainment.”

  Her gown whispered like a summer breeze as she paced the Hunters’ table. Their weapons were all within reach—knives, daggers, bows—but their arms remained glued to their sides.

  “Hunters, stand.”

  The ten remaining Hunters stood. Angelyne lifted a goblet of blackthorn wine. She held it high and beamed her beatific smile.

  “To the heroes of this feast. You are the warriors who purge the four kingdoms of magic. You are the ones who live and die by the Hunters’ Creed: Heart for a heart, life for a life. And so, for all the hearts you have destroyed, for all the lives you have taken, I give you: justice.”

  She let the goblet drop, the glass shattering on the floor, red wine puddling between the shards.

  The Hunters fell.

  Chapter 58

  Grief and Shame and Magic

  THE HUNTERS COLLAPSED IN one solid line, some tipping forward and crashing into their dinner plates; others falling backward, smashing their heads against the hard stone. Except for the skulls t
hat cracked open, no blood was spilled.

  Mia was suffocating on air. She felt each death echo in her own heart, so many doors slamming shut, so much emptiness. The lone Huntress slumped forward, her face meeting an ignominious end in a pot of stew. Her white hair was thin and brittle at the scalp. She seemed so exposed, so achingly human.

  Compassion welled in Mia’s chest. If the Hunters believed Gwyrach were dangerous, it was only because that was the truth they had been taught. Theirs was a culture in which Gwyrach were demons who brought nothing but pain and suffering. Maybe the Hunters were evil heartless killers and murderers—or maybe they were simply misguided. After all, they, like Mia herself, had thought they were doing the right thing.

  They were all victims of the river kingdom, she realized. Infected by centuries of living under Clan Killian—their lies, their cruelties, their hate.

  “I showed compassion,” Angelyne said. “I could have boiled their blood, burned them alive from the inside out. That’s what I did to Tristan’s little friend.” A smile played at the corners of her mouth. “That rapist deserved it. But I showed mercy on the Hunters. Ten hearts ceasing to beat; a quick, painless death.”

  Mia’s eyes alighted on her father at the feasting table, then Domeniq. At least Angie had not grouped them in with the Hunters. At least they were still alive.

  This was all her fault. Angie’s words echoed her own at the final feast, when she had evoked death and vengeance, a perverted sort of justice. Her sister was merely following her example—and giving that justice one final twist.

  “I was wrong, Ange. I know I was. But you don’t have to make the same mistakes I did. Whatever that stone has done to you . . . whatever lies Zaga has whispered in your ear . . . this is wrong.”

  “Is it? Are you sure? Because this was the Creed you lived by: hearts and lives for hearts and lives. You can’t deny the Hunters have slaughtered hundreds of Dujia, maybe thousands. I am simply repaying the debt.”

  “There has to be another way. This isn’t you, Ange. You’re not a murderer. You’re gentle. You love music and dancing and reading novels. Remember how we used to twirl through the cottage in Mother’s gowns?”