by Sara Wolf
“Then why do they not like being looked at?” Lucien asks. “Surely things without sentience cannot have preferences.”
“Does a bird not have a preference for gentle wind and sunny days?” the woman asks. “We have created life in the matronics, and so they prefer it a certain way.”
Malachite and I share a thoroughly worried look. Fione, meanwhile, appears lost in her imagination, thrilled at the polymathematics of it all, and Lucien looks likewise intrigued. But the beneather and I know better—if the Black Archives are making these matronics, then that means they’re the only ones who know how to control them. It’s worrisome. What are they making them for? I doubt they’ll ever tell us that. I glance back now and then, and it appears the matronics are here to lift the polymaths up to the higher shelves. There’s an indent in their backs well-suited for stepping on, and mortal-sized metal handles on their shoulders. The carved shelves turn into perfectly spaced footholds for the matronics to clamber effortlessly up, the polymaths pointing towards the book they require. That’s why the polymaths don’t need ladders. They’ve invented walking ladders. Walking ladders that have no eyes, but can still see. Walking ladders that aren’t flesh, but still have preferences.
And Fione just won’t stop staring.
“Fione,” I murmur to her. “Maybe don’t.”
The archduchess barely spares a glance at me, but I reach for her elbow carefully, trying to gently remind her of what we’re here to do. Thankfully, we don’t have much more time to dwell on the disturbing matronics, as the woman leads us away from the main library ward and into a thin-cut hall cleaving into the volcanic rock with many doors on either side. Once we’re out of sight of the matronics and their bulk, Fione seems to regain herself, the sparkle in her eyes hardening to determination once more as she walks.
After what feels like an unending trek down a repeating infinity, the woman finally stops in front of a specific door and motions for us to go inside. We squeeze in tentatively, the room barely big enough to accommodate a small polished table with four chairs.
“Please wait here.” The woman makes a bow. “I will return with the polymath of relevancy in a moment.”
“The polymath?” Lucien’s brow wrinkles. “We came here for books, for matrices. We need a codex to translate—”
Fione’s hand on his arm stops him cold. He looks down at her, but her gaze never wavers, and he finally gets the message and sits back down. The woman bows slightly and leaves, the heavy door clunking behind her. When she’s gone, Malachite props his muddy boots up on the table.
“So, good parts,” he starts. “They haven’t killed us thus far.”
“Bad parts,” I counter. “They’re making metal Heartless, essentially.”
“Not Heartless,” Fione argues. “Not really. It’s not as if they’re controlling something that was already alive. They made those matronics, from ore to metal to the legs and every other part of it. They’ve created it.”
“Like gods,” Lucien murmurs, and those two words ring powerful enough to make us all go silent.
The little room has a slot for a window, the bright sunlight squaring through no bigger than a peg. I stand on my tiptoes to see out of it, and feel a support underneath me as Lucien picks me up by the waist with his broad hands and lifts.
He smirks up at me. “Is that any better?”
“A little.” I feign disinterest, peering through the window. Outside is a lush expanse of vivid green, the sweltering humidity of the outside air so different from the coldness of the Archives—they must keep it cool to preserve the books. We’re closer to the meridian here, and so while the ocean is still relatively cool, the land is a different story. Palms and tallferns reach for the sun, piercing blue and purple and gold blossoms bursting from every crook of every shadowed canopy. Vines slick with viscous pink sap creep over bark, over the forest floor, over any rock they can find. It’s a different forest than I’m used to compared to the chilly pines and old moss of Cavanos—more alive, more active.
And I too am more active, considering my beloved’s arms are securely around my waist and his face perhaps the closest to my body it’s ever been. I motion for him to put me down and turn to him with a pout.
“Who taught you to approach ladies in such a brazen manner?” I look over at Malachite. “Was it you?”
“Oh, c’mon.” The beneather rolls his eyes. “Like Luc ever takes my advice.”
“I take it sometimes,” the prince argues lightly. “When it’s relevant. Which is, well…never.”
Malachite throws his hand up. “My point exactly.”
Something about the moment sobers us. Maybe it’s the black rock fortress of our tiny room, or maybe it’s the height of the view outside the minuscule window. Whatever it is, it makes Lucien’s dark gaze wilt on the edges as he looks at me.
“I’ll be there with you. Sending magic. So. If they try to hurt you—”
“I’m sure some of it will hurt,” I cut him off. “About as badly as a scraped knee. They’re dusty old librarians, for Old God’s sake.”
“If anything, it will be a thorough cataloguing,” Fione adds, leafing through the precious green-backed book idly.
Lucien ignores her and pulls me flush to him, my waist against his, my forehead against his. Malachite makes a discontented noise and struggles to face his chair away in the small room, and Fione’s smile is the smallest saddened hint, but Lucien doesn’t seem to care. His eyes are on me, his gaze never wavering as he speaks, low, like I’m the only person in the room. In the world.
“If you need me, I’ll come for you.”
“You don’t—” My breath catches as he kisses a soft pond-skip from my cheek to the corners of my lips. “I’ll be fine.”
“I know,” he asserts, kissing the fullness of my lips. “But I want you to be fine with me.”
“You’ll—” His kiss this time feels like a slice, where the others were paper cuts. “You’ll have to let me go sometime.”
“Yeah, Luc,” Malachite grumbles self-righteously. “Who’s the one who’s ‘bad at sharing’ now?”
“Heard that, did you?” Lucien lilts.
Over the prince’s shoulders, I see Malachite tap his ears.
“I hear everything, dolt. And if I have to hear you two smacking over there for one more second—”
The door opens, framing three people in silver robes. Malachite kicks his shoes off the table and exhales.
“Oh thank spirits.” He jerks his head at us. “Do something about them.”
The silver robes enter wordlessly, and Fione closes the book and stands. I try to make what little space I can between us, but Lucien won’t let me go, his grip around my waist tight and high-strung. He’s worried. Worried like I’ve never seen him worried before. About me.
My unheart tries not to melt at the idea—worry is a natural part of caring about someone. He’s worried for me many times before this. But, still. Still, this feels different, deliberate, painted in absolutes and with two high-contrasting colors. He cares. About me. It’s a foolish thought, after everything, but he cares for me out of everyone in this world. He’s chosen me, out of all the Spring Brides, out of all the eligible, witty beauties of the world, and that makes my chest glow with buttery gold joy. As the silver robes take their places standing against the walls of the room, I lean up and whisper in his ear.
“You have strange tastes.”
He gives me a look, lips crinkling with a smile. “As do you.”
“The six-eyed Heartless will come with us to undergo preliminary examination,” one of the polymaths suddenly says. “The duration of our study will be approximately two halves. If the results of the preliminary examination prove the presence of further information, you will be allowed access to our materials.”
Malachite snorts. Fione stands, hands folded over the book, and the book
to her chest.
“You won’t harm her?” she asks. The polymath’s silver-robed head tilts to her and pauses, as if it’s a question they’ve already answered, or maybe one so obvious it doesn’t deserve an answer. Fione, worried about me, and Malachite in his own way. All of them, caring for me.
I ease Lucien’s hand off my waist, slow and reassuring, and give him my best smile. “I’ll be back.”
“You have to be,” he insists, the black of his eyes near-matching the volcanic rock. “We have a beach date.”
My laugh goes nowhere in the cramped room, and as I pass Malachite, he pulls on my ear softly. “Don’t put up with it if it stinks.”
“Yes, sir,” I agree, patting him on the head. The silver-robed polymaths follow me out the door, and I can hear Malachite’s grumbling all the way down the hall as he fixes his hair, the sound a comforting accompaniment into the unknown.
The polymath who spoke leads me down the hall, but not to the central library ward. This time we hang a far left, arcing down and around a ramp built on the edge of a massive chasm, in which a huge pendulum made entirely of what looks like clear quartz crystal rocks gently side to side. It’s a miracle the thing doesn’t just ram through the walls of the room, but I suppose that’s all due to the polymaths’ careful calculations.
The rocking of the pendulum soon fades, our steps the only things daring to break the black silence. The hallway narrows down to a single ominous door, and the silver robes open it for me with a ring of keys from their belts. This room is far more spacious than the reception cell they put us in, but also sparser. The only things in the room are a large chair seemingly carved straight out of the volcanic rock, and what looks like gutters carved into the ground, centering around the chair. A single shaft of white sunlight pierces in from a hole in the ceiling, illuminating only the chair.
“Please.” One of the silver robes motions. “Sit. This will not take long.”
“Two halves, right?” I say, tempering the nerves in my voice as I sit on the cold, ominous throne.
“That was a generous estimate, to allay the fears of your companions.” The polymath who speaks is a new one, seemingly stepping out of the shadows. But when they step, the sound isn’t clipped, as boots or armor might be. It’s soft, silent. I look down—ochre paws, a vermillion furred tail tip thrashing excitedly between them. My eyes travel up to their hood, but before they lower it I know who it is already. I try to say his name, but my voice cracks down the middle, and it comes out true.
“Ironspeaker.”
There’s a pause, the darkness falling away from his feline face as the light spills over it and his own voice fills the gaps.
“Starving Wolf.” Yorl smiles, returning his true name with mine, all his fangs showing and his whiskers crinkling. “Missed me that much, did you?”
20
THE IRONSPEAKER
AND THE
STARVING WOLF
It’s been only a week and a half, bordering two, but I’ve never been more relieved to see the smartest being in the world.
And Yorl Farspear-Ashwalker is, objectively, the smartest being in the world. Or at least, the smartest I know. He and Fione tied, maybe. There might be others, too, but his dedication to helping Varia solve the mysteries of Heartless-valkerax communication made it possible for her to get the Bone Tree in the first place, and for me to get to know Evlorasin. We’d conspired together in the hopes I’d get my heart back, and his end of the deal was being able to conduct one-of-a-kind research—specifically, to finish his grandfather’s life’s work—in order to gain entry and ratify his grandfather’s findings in the Black Archives forever.
All of this is to say Yorl was there for me during the hardest parts of Evlorasin’s training, and, when I’d shoved Fione and Lucien and even Malachite away, he was there for me. When I was in the depths of loneliness, Yorl was my only source of levity, of positive interaction. He’s relatively new in my unlife, but after what we’ve been through, our friendship feels so old.
He bends the knee at the base of the throne.
“Finally,” I drawl. “The respect I deserve.”
Yorl’s laugh is deep, ragged in that celeon way, as he claps metal restraints onto my wrists and ankles.
“Strange way to show respect, isn’t it?” He plays along.
“Very.” I act puzzled as I look down at the metal, then slide a glance at the silver-robed polymaths bustling around the room. “Your new friends don’t trust me much, I take it?”
“My new friends don’t trust one another,” he murmurs. “Let alone total strangers. Interdepartmental feuds are the air we breathe.”
“So sad.” I try to draw a tear down my face, but the wrist restraints clang. The polymaths all look at me at once, alarmed, and I smile. “Sorry, sorry! No more sudden movements, I promise.”
Yorl smooths my hair away from my eyes because I can’t—a kind gesture, in his own way.
“If this was my project, I could ask them to forego the restraints,” he sighs. “But the high-running valkerax fears have been one of the only things from the mainland to take root here. The bastion won’t hear of it.”
“The bastion being your boss, I imagine,” I say.
“Something like that.” He nods, his vermillion-shot mane bobbing on the ends. It looks silkier than when I saw it last.
“You look better, at least,” I press. “It’s almost as if you don’t have anything to desperately prove anymore and can focus on the little things like eating and sleeping and keeping your body functioning.”
“It hasn’t even been a quarter-half,” Yorl grumbles. “And you’re already patronizing me.”
“Lovingly,” I assure him. “So what are you going to actually do to me? Flay me alive? A bit out of style, but I’m game. Hmm…draw and quarter me? That’s always fun.”
“Nothing that extreme.” He shakes his mane. “They’re going to take the ten biological samples required for a full analysis. Blood, bile, liver, saliva, brain—”
“Brain?” I hiss. “How exactly do you plan to—”
A polymath walks up to Yorl bearing a full leather canvas packed to the brim with wicked hooked needles, and all the blood in my body curdles away from it.
“Yes, well,” Yorl sighs. “Because you’re technically a ‘dead’ specimen, they voted against the far kinder live-gathering methods.”
“But you voted for them, right?” My voice goes high as the polymath pulls out a hooked needle and wipes it clean with alcohol. Yorl snatches it from the human’s hand almost too quickly, and they look utterly shocked. Yorl’s green feline eyes widen, too, like he’s alarmed at what he just did, but his voice remains smooth.
“Please, scholar. This is technically messy, menial corpse work. Let an adjutant like myself ensure your hands remain clean.”
He’s good at covering, but the scholar doesn’t buy it, snorting as his thick eyebrows wrinkle under his hood.
“‘Menial corpse work’? You must be joking. If our suspicions are accurate, she’s the first nonhuman Heartless specimen in Arathess history. Surely even an adjutant like yourself can see how important she truly is.”
“Not important enough to spare her pain, though,” I mutter, perhaps a bit too loudly. The scholar’s dark eyes snap to me, a flicker of familiar Fione-like curiosity in them.
“Can you hear the song, Heartless?” he demands suddenly.
“I’m from the Vetrisian court, where a quartet accompanies every breath,” I chime. “I’ve heard a lot of songs—none of them particularly noteworthy.”
“No,” he presses, leaning in. “The song. The one all valkerax hear.”
he means us.
I pause, the hunger echoing. “You mean the Bone Tree’s hunger?” He nods, and I tilt my head. “I’d love to tell you. But on the condition I get a painkiller or three.”
&n
bsp; “There are no conditions,” the scholar snaps. “We will take your information, and your friends will receive theirs. So it has been deemed.”
I glance at Yorl, but from the way his green eyes slide around, I get the feeling he can’t interfere or assert himself. Not without risking his own position. Organizations are fickle like that. But thankfully, I’m a free agent.
I make a sweet smile. “Oh, sure. You can take all my information. Slice me up, take bits of me all you want, look at me under a lens. But my parts won’t tell you what my mouth can.”
“We don’t need your words,” the scholar insists, “to know you.”
“Yes, I’m certain you’re very good at sussing things out,” I agree placidly. “I saw your matronics, all your little machines. But that must be so much work. So much effort, so many long nights in your laboratories. So much brainwork, trying to analyze my brainwork. All my experiences, all my perceptions. I could just tell you and save you the bother.”
I’ve got him, and I know I’ve got him because he pauses on the brink of leaning in farther, like he’s pulling himself back from temptation.
The old me would have let them hurt me. The old me would have gladly thrown herself into the fire to achieve a means to an end.
But the new me has different ideas. The new me has people who care about her.
Twist the knife, Zera, salt the wound, make him want to wash it out. Save yourself.
being kind to yourself? The hunger laughs. a pathetic escape attempt.
“The first nonhuman Heartless in the world,” I murmur, looking down at myself. “Wow. That’s so amazing. Who knew?”
I look over to Yorl innocently, wide-eyed with my faux wondering. He can’t assert himself, but he can play along. He nods solemnly, an emotion he’s incredibly good at showing. Perfect, really. And it tips the scholar over the edge, the hooked needle in his hand retreating into his sleeve.
“Fine,” he assents calmly. “We administer pain relievers, then.”
