by Sara Wolf
“Where’s the fun in seducing a nation’s hope for the future if you can’t be a little risky about it?”
Y’shennria gives something like a little groan. There’s a beat, and we watch the nobles flitter around one another, spewing compliments and pleasantries with no real staying power. Of course she isn’t complimenting me. I’m not expecting to be lauded by her of all people, but a “good job on not immediately being burned alive” would be awfully nice.
“An overly perfumed little bird sang me a fascinating song,” I press. “About Princess Varia being killed by Heartless.”
Y’shennria’s lips tighten. “I suppose it was only a matter of time before you learned.”
“Another little bird, this one with even worse perfume, told me the prince goes on ‘hunts.’ What did she mean?”
Y’shennria is suddenly solid steel, unreadable. She straightens her back as a noble calls her name, quickly drawing her into a conversation about my performance. Avoiding me? Maybe. Avoiding the question? Most definitely. No one wants to talk about the hunts, and because the gods shaped me out of the curious part of the clay puddle, that only makes me want to talk about them more.
Over the heads of the milling crowd I spot Prince Lucien leaning languidly against a far pillar. If I were a painter or a poet, I’d probably make art about him. Not some sappy love sonnet or romantic watercolor portrait, but a stanza or seven about the way he stands—arrogant, like he’s in his own little bubble where nothing can touch him. And the most infuriating part is nothing can; decorum dictates the prince approaches if he wishes to speak, not the other way around. I’d paint his silver vest glinting in the light of the cavern, his sable eyes shadowed by his dark, mussed bangs as he scans the crowd, and I’d point out that his silver vest could feed a thousand, and that too much of his country’s future is riding on him to have that much hair in his eyes. I’d flambé him alive in an acid bath of criticisms, and I’m sure he wouldn’t care one bit. He’s the Crown Prince, after all. He looks like he’s above it all, immune to the court’s relentless attentions, and certainly immune to the likes of a single loudmouthed Spring Bride.
Beside him stands a pale boy, his skin a bloodless paper-white color, no pink to be seen. He’s perhaps a little older than the prince, with short gray hair from which his pointed, bladelike ears peek out. The size of them startles me—longer than two handspans. That’s surely the prince’s Beneather bodyguard Y’shennria warned me of. Beneathers are a rare sight aboveground—I’ve never seen one in the flesh until now. They typically stay underground, beating the fire-breathing valkerax back into the depths. The claymore strapped to his spine is nearly as big as he is—certainly too big to be wielded by anyone his size, and yet he carries it and his heavy ceremonial armor with practiced ease. I’ve fought enough mercenaries to know the posture of a skilled fighter, and this Beneather is certainly one such fighter. If I’m to get anywhere near taking the prince’s heart, his bodyguard has to be removed from the equation. And experience tells me I won’t be able to do it by force. Trickery, then. Perhaps seduction will work twice—once for him, and once for his prince.
The Beneather’s eyes catch mine. His pupils are so strange—so much larger than any human’s. They almost eclipse his bloodred irises, leaving only faint rings around the black. He puts a long-fingered hand on the prince’s shoulder and nods toward me without a word. The piece of my heart in my locket gives an anticipatory shudder as the prince looks to me, his face absent of any smile. I’m almost jealous. He doesn’t have to force a smile, while that’s all I’ve been doing today.
Prince Lucien hefts off the pillar and begins to move. The crowd parts for him, his bodyguard following in his steps. He approaches Charm and speaks to her, her face reddening. Y’shennria elbows me sharply.
“Don’t stare,” she whispers. I skitter my eyes away, but I’m not the only curious one. The crowd of nobles continues conversing with one another. Occasionally they glance over to the prince and the girl. It’s subtle but effective. I mimic them, stealing a peek every few seconds. One moment Prince Lucien and the girl are talking, the next he’s making her giggle.
“They’re…flirting,” I mutter to Y’shennria. “That’s what that is, right? The reddened cheeks, the high-pitched laughter, the crooked smiles. Flirting.”
“Obviously,” she drones.
“Trees and animal droppings don’t tend to flirt, so you’ll have to forgive my slowness.”
“Could you refrain from being witty for perhaps a single minute?” Y’shennria inquires.
“I’d rather eat gravel,” I say. She gives me a look. “Sugared gravel, preferably.”
Back in Flirt Kingdom, the prince bids Charm farewell, then moves to Grace, who smiles with all her teeth at him. She has very many teeth, and I marvel at the fact no one has slapped any of them out yet. Then I remember they don’t slap faces around these parts. If someone comes for you in court, it’ll be a dagger from behind.
They talk, laughing together. His smile is so bright and different from his past scowls it strikes me half blind. Is that what it means to be a prince—smiling at nobles you clearly dislike?
“Prepare yourself,” Y’shennria murmurs to me. “He’s undoubtedly coming your way next.”
I watch him tuck a strand of hair behind Grace’s ear tenderly. Just a moment ago he looked at her like she wasn’t worth his time, and now he’s touching her? Is he fickle or simply short of memory? I watch his expression more closely, and the edges of it look worn thin—an expression I saw on my own face in the mirror as I trained with Y’shennria. He isn’t fickle at all. He’s faking it. The crowd murmurs:
“He always does this—”
“—pays them all special attention, then never settles on one—”
“—what I wouldn’t give to have him look at me that way—”
“—a criminal flirt, if you ask me—”
Prince Lucien bids Grace farewell and walks toward us. I lift my chin and tense my shoulders, ready for him to fake interest in me, too. When he’s an arm’s length away, close enough to touch, the hunger beings to growl madly.
Take his heart, it thunders. Feast on him. Take him, right here and right now, and you have your freedom.
Images flash—images of blood and teeth and Father’s and Mother’s bodies. The pain that’s in my every breath, haunting me even now below my bodice—in one fell swoop I’d be free of it. His shoulder brushes against mine ever so slightly as he passes me by without a word. My teeth grow long and sharp instantly, ready to lunge at him, to end our suffering here and now, but I fight it desperately. Amid the raging inferno in my chest is a single moment of cold, clear silence; the smell of rainwater and leather follows him. That scent is unique. The sight of his dark eyes up close; the curve of them, the shadowed corners, the anger within—something about them is familiar. The crowd reacts immediately.
“—slighted—”
“—the first time I’ve seen him ignore a girl—”
“Is something wrong with her?”
“—the girl of an Old God family—”
“—must’ve truly displeased him—”
“Now that you mention it, she isn’t very pretty at all—”
The words lodge like that celeon assassin’s dagger did, square in my back and burning. They’re all watching me for some reaction—but I give them nothing. A snub from a prince is nothing compared to what they’d do if they knew my chest beats empty. I must never forget—no matter the compliments, the smiles, every single person in this room is my enemy.
All of humanity, the hunger whispers. Our enemy.
Prince Lucien’s gaze lingers in my mind. Those eyes. Those eyes. Where have I seen them before? And then it hits me, and I feel like an absolute moron for not realizing the moment I first saw him.
The gods must be playing a joke on me. They played one before, when they allowed me to be born into this world. And now they’ve turned to pure cruelty.
The thief
Whisper, Prince Lucien d’Malvane. They’re the same godsdamn person. His dislike for nobles, his voice. The boy I chased gleefully through the streets of Vetris. The boy who, for one fleeting moment, made me feel human again. He’s the Crown Prince of Cavanos, the one I’m destined to rip the heart from. I was too nervous, too bent on not failing, to see it before.
With a great internal wrench, I suppress my teeth and whirl around, saying clearly to his back: “Do you enjoy walks about the city, Your Highness?”
The crowd goes deathly still. Y’shennria stiffens beside me, and her ingrained lessons echo—I shouldn’t be speaking to him first. It’s a breach of etiquette. But etiquette isn’t who I’m here to impress. The prince freezes, his bodyguard fixing me with his crimson eyes. Only Whisper and I know what I’m really asking. My stomach churns; maybe this was a mistake. Maybe he doesn’t remember me as vividly as I remember him.
“Occasionally,” his voice rings out, though he doesn’t turn around. “Though I prefer to walk with a lady who knows her manners.”
Relief spreads through me like molten honey. A half insult. He does recognize me.
“I’ll be sure to bring Your Highness one such lady, then, as tribute.” I swear I hear him snort at that. He strides away, bodyguard following, and the crowd breathes only when he’s gone.
I’m still smirking as Y’shennria yanks on my elbow (is it getting easier for her to touch a monster, I wonder?) and hisses, “Do you have any idea—”
“I can explain,” I insist. “But only somewhere without a thousand prying eyes.”
Her hazel irises look me up and down for truth. “The carriage, then. We leave, now, and you pray to the Old God your reasons for breaching the most important rule I taught you are sound enough.”
We leave the Hall of Time, leave the decadent halls of gold and marble behind. The prince is Whisper—Whisper is the prince. Two very different presentations of the same personality. How did a prince learn to steal so well? How does a thief sneak in and out of the palace grounds regularly? I’m so lost in my questions I barely hear the deep voice on the way out to our carriage.
“You will tell no one.”
Y’shennria ducks into a bow instantly, and I look to my side to see Prince Lucien, waiting just outside the door. He nods once to acknowledge Y’shennria, but his dark eyes are narrowed squarely on me. His bodyguard lingers at his side, bloodred eyes lazily fixed on a butterfly settled on his long finger. I know I should bow to the Crown Prince, but the idea of bowing to the snarky thief Whisper is intolerable. My pride makes my back stiff. Y’shennria’s sideways glances demand I do, but as I bend my ankle, Prince Lucien scoffs.
“Don’t. You didn’t do it the first time we met, and if you do it now, I’ll start to dislike you.”
“I’m sorry.” I laugh. “Do you not dislike me already? I couldn’t tell with the way you shunned me and left the entire court to dogpile on my good name.”
“I warned you about the court, and you ignored it like a fool.” He breathes, tired and long, and runs his hands through his hair.
“I’m not in the habit of taking advice from strangers in dark alleys,” I retort. His eyes snap to Y’shennria, but she betrays nothing on her face. I press. “I haven’t told anyone about you. Yet.”
“And you will continue to remain silent on the matter,” he says imperiously. “I’ve worked very hard to keep it quiet. I won’t have you ruining all those years of effort.”
I can’t help my laugh. “All right. Say I keep your secret; what’s in it for me?”
“Zera,” Y’shennria says sharply. “You will speak to the prince with respect.”
Prince Lucien waves one hand at her. “I’m taking no offense, Lady Y’shennria. This girl is a…” He narrows his eyes further at me. “Special case. And an especially annoying one.”
“Don’t try to change the subject by flattering me,” I singsong. “Do you know how hard it is for me to keep my mouth shut? Spectacular compensation is the minimal requirement.”
Y’shennria watches in absolute stillness, coiled tight, as if she’s ready to pounce the moment the conversation turns sour. The Beneather bodyguard chuckles, the sound sending the butterfly on his finger into the air.
“She’s not afraid of you, Luc.”
“I’m aware,” the prince drawls without taking his eyes from me. “And I hope you’re aware you’re blackmailing the prince of Cavanos.”
I sigh greatly. “And here I was, thinking of calling this the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
“Your Highness, I—” Y’shennria jumps in, but the prince holds up a hand and silences her. Silencing stern, to-be-obeyed Y’shennria? I hardly believed it possible until this moment. He leans in to me then, so close it’s breaking at least a hundred thousand rules of decorum.
“I could run you out of this court with nothing but a single slipped rumor to my bedchamber servant,” Prince Lucien says softly. My hand twitches toward my sword—my usual reaction to men threatening me. If this were Nightsinger’s forest and he a witch-hunting mercenary, I would’ve sliced part of his ear off already. I preferred him as Whisper, not this arrogant, insincere royal pain in my ass. At least I could fantasize about punching Whisper without the fantasy immediately being ruined by the threat of dungeon-jail.
“You could,” I ponder. “Except then I would stalk the streets, wait for you. Don’t you think the lawguards will appreciate a citizen pointing out every fish barrel and shadowy alley a person”—I refrain from saying “thief” with Y’shennria right here—“of your caliber would hide in?”
Now his eyes narrow to deadly cold obsidian slits. “You wouldn’t.”
I smile sweetly. “Of course I wouldn’t. Just like you wouldn’t run me out of the court with a rumor, right?”
“What do you want from me, Lady Zera?” He snarls. “Gold? Gems? A position of power?”
And now I finally see it—real emotion. I’m getting to him, peeling away a bit of that princely shell. No more arrogance or faked smiles. Something about the way he looks at me—so intently, like a starving hawk on the hunt—makes it near impossible to lie to him. And I lie to everyone. But now my mouth and mind refuse to. Is it deep-seated pity for what I’m going to do to him? Is it pity because I know his fate, and he doesn’t? Pity is dangerous. A wildcat doesn’t pity its prey.
It’s a small mercy that my lie is also a truth. I throw on my best genuine smile.
“I simply want your heart, my prince.”
Y’shennria goes terribly stiff and pale beside me. The Beneather raises one blade-thin gray eyebrow. Prince Lucien doesn’t so much as blink as he studies my face. The naked truth hangs in the air, too bright. I have to shade it.
“Oh!” I clap my hands. “And perhaps a dress or two along the way. I’m awfully fond of pretty dresses.”
“I hate to disappoint you,” Lucien starts finally. “But I have no heart to give.”
“That’s strange. I could’ve sworn princes who give golden watches to beggar girls qualify for at least one whole heart.”
Y’shennria’s eyes dart between us, and the prince scoffs. The heart that pumps his blood, moves his breath—that heart that lets him scoff so is exactly the one I need. Something like bewildered amusement melts the stone in his eyes, that bitter, thorny exterior he keeps up, but it’s cut short by the newcomer who exits the door just then. In a blur, Lucien separates from me, his courtly reflexes quicker than mine.
“What’s the meaning of this, Your Highness?” Archduke Gavik approaches, Y’shennria and I bowing to him only slightly. The prince refuses to bow at all. “A nigh-private rendezvous with Lady Zera? Have you already chosen which Bride will be yours? Impressive. I counted you more particular than that.”
It’s a sly insult to both of us, but I do my best to look stupid and unaware of it. The dumber Gavik thinks I am, the more I can get away with. Prince Lucien’s whole face changes in an instant at Gavik’s words. The slight warmth and humor in his expression f
ade rapidly, until all that’s left is the princely mask.
“I don’t recall asking your opinion on the subject of my future wife, Archduke,” Lucien says.
“Of course not. But your father asked me to oversee this Welcoming,” Gavik interjects, smoothing his silvery mantle between two fingers. “Considering the last three have been such…disappointments for you.”
The prince and the archduke stare each other down in a moment of utter stillness. I know I’m supposed to be polite to Gavik, but I can’t get out of my head the image of him ordering that boy to be purged. It’s all I can do not to sneer at him constantly.
“Your Graces, please,” Y’shennria slides her words in sideways, smooth as fresh cream. “My niece would be heartbroken if you gave her false hope as to the prince’s affections. Let us remain on neutral ground until the Verdance Day announcement, shall we?”
Gavik reluctantly pulls his veiled glare from Lucien’s more outward one and glances at Y’shennria with white-hot venom. “Indeed. Does your ladyship plan to attend the blessing this week? I didn’t see you at the temple last time.”
Y’shennria’s eyebrow gives a little twitch. It’s the same twitch I’ve seen the last few days every time I’ve done something to irritate her.
“I was traveling to retrieve my niece then, Your Grace.”
“So you were. Yet my lawguards in Northgrove tell me you came and went through the town without joining in the midweek blessing.”
Y’shennria’s brow grows sharper. “I’m sure Kavar, in His infinite kindness and wisdom, would forgive a woman who’s lost her family some urgency in retrieving her last living relative.”
“Perhaps He would,” Gavik agrees. “But a mortal such as myself, who knows your family’s proclivity for heresy, wouldn’t.”
“You’ve forgotten far too soon what it’s like to lose someone dear to you, Archduke,” the prince says coldly. Gavik fixes him with a look.
“I’ve never forgotten, Your Highness. Not once in fifty-eight years.”
There’s a taut sinew among the three of them, dangerous and barbed and heavy with history I’m not privy to. Fisher pulls the carriage up to the bottom of the stairs then, and I grab for it as an escape route.
