by Sara Wolf
“Witches?”
Y’shennria lowers her voice, so much so it’s hard to hear her over the priests. “It’s Vetris’s best kept secret that the d’Malvanes are witches themselves.”
“But not anymore?”
“Surely you know how a witch becomes.”
And that’s all she says, turning back to pretend reverence at the high priest’s song. Of course I know—I read Nightsinger’s books. Witchblood is a requirement—passed down from parent to child. A witch baby grows but never comes into magic of their own accord. It must be given to them by something the books called “the Tree.” The same Tree Y’shennria clings to as a rosary even now, perhaps? But that’s where the books became hazy—never detailing exactly how a humble forest sapling could bestow magical power on a witch. It’s undoubtedly a metaphor for some sort of magical ceremony.
I watch Lucien, his dark eyes boring a hole into the altar he’s fixated on. If Y’shennria knows the d’Malvanes were a witch family once, then surely he knows. Surely King Sref knows, and yet still he sanctions Gavik’s purges of his own people.
The song surrounds me, and despite the atrocities Gavik promotes through Kavar, I find myself praying. Not to the New God, but to the dead. To my parents.
This city will kill me if I so much as show my teeth. If that happens, when I come to see you in the afterlife, I hope you can forgive me for what I did. To you. To those bandits. To even this twisted prince I have to drag into the darkness with me.
“Fire!”
The serenity inside the temple shatters. Shouts filter in through the open doors, panicked shouts of magic and fire. Gavik goes on point immediately, ordering several of his guards to come with him. When he’s gone, the nobles begin to titter nervously, King Sref the only one looking calm. Queen Kolissa seems utterly lost, as does Lucien. Y’shennria’s knuckles are white.
“It’s today? That bastard,” she murmurs.
“What’s today?” I ask. “What’s going on?”
Some of the nobles let curiosity win out over their fear, and they move toward the temple exit. Their exclamations of shock and horror only incite others to leave and see what’s going on, too, Prince Lucien included. I get up, but Y’shennria’s hand on my sleeve stops me.
“Be careful,” she manages.
I approach the crowd at the mouth of the temple, craning to see over their heads. I hear it before I see it—the roar of an enormous fire, guttural and furious. But these flames aren’t red; they’re a deep black, like shadow come to life. The dark fire consumes everything around the temple in a perfect ring—wagons of hay, abandoned food stalls, stocks of barrels and boxes. I start—it’s the same color of fire I saw in Nightsinger’s hearth every day for the past three years. Gavik and his lawguards are desperately trying to put out the flames with buckets of water from a nearby pump, but the blaze doesn’t diminish in the slightest.
The nobles mutter frantically:
“Black fire, immune to water? It can’t be—”
“—witchfire used in the war against us—”
“—the very same that scorched Ravenshaunt—”
Ravenshaunt. The ruined castle Y’shennria showed me on the way to Vetris: her ancestral home. Is that why she isn’t out here with me, because it’s too scarring to see these flames again? How in the afterlife did she know this black fire was going to happen?
Gavik raises his sword. “Fear not! I’ve called for the polymaths. Surely they will know how to put this cursed witchfire out!”
I glance around the crowd, only to find Prince Lucien missing. I see the tail end of a white suit flit around a cornerstone of the temple, and I start after it. Sure enough, Lucien’s there, searching for something in the western side of the ring of flames. His posture, usually so straight and perfect, is totally different away from the eyes of the court—limber and easy. Whisper’s posture. He spots me and glowers.
“Go back to the crowd.”
“Is that concern I hear in your voice?” I tease. He rolls the sleeves of his suit up, wrists strong, the slight tendon there rising against his skin beautiful in a way.
Delicious, in a way, the hunger hisses.
“You’re awfully cheery, considering we’re under attack by the witches.”
“We’re not. It’s not witchfire,” I say. Lucien quirks a brow.
“It’s black fire that can’t be extinguished. That’s the very definition of witchfire.”
I knit my lips. I can’t exactly tell him the witches themselves told me they aren’t able to get into Vetris, let alone spell a fire.
“It’s just—the Crimson Lady detects all magic, right? So no witch could’ve gotten through to do this.”
“The polymaths’ inventions are fallible,” Lucien insists. The Crimson Lady isn’t, but I still can’t say that. “A witch could’ve slipped through. Or five, according to Gavik.”
“Do you really trust the word of a man whose guts you hate?”
Lucien’s dark eyes flash. “Are you here to remind me of my enemies at court or to actually help?”
“You doubt I can do both at once? I’ll have you know I’m very talented.”
“Talented at stalking me,” he groans.
“What can I say?” I shrug. “You’re an eye-catching person. Very…visible. All that dark hair, I suppose. Oh, and the palpable aura of bitterness helps, too.”
“And you prefer bitterness in your men? Or just the ones you blackmail for something as vague as their time?”
He’s referring to the note I sent this morning. I smirk. Before I can get a word out, a patch of black fire near us spits sparks, the wooden wagon it consumes giving a resounding crack that startles me out of my skin. Lucien looks me up and down.
“You’re lucky it didn’t get you.”
“I’m lucky it didn’t get you,” I say when my breathing resumes. “The other Spring Brides would have my head for not jumping between you and certain fire scarring.”
He rolls his hawk eyes, then points into the distance.
“Before we entered the temple, I saw someone suspicious kneeling at a wagon in that direction.”
“And what about them was suspicious?”
“When you’ve patrolled these streets as long as I have, you know when someone doesn’t fit into the usual crowd. This was one such person. A robe, hood covering their face.”
“Like them?” I point over his shoulder, to where the outline of a hooded person wavers through the fire. It must be the same person, because in an instant Lucien starts running in that direction. I don’t even blink before chasing after him, the heat of the fire growing hotter the closer we near, the crackle deafening as it consumes every inch of fuel its dark tendrils can reach. The hooded person bolts when Lucien gets close, and he stops, frantically looking up and down the wall of fire.
“You’re not seriously trying to find a way over that?” I yell. He ignores me, eyes settling on the low, still-untouched roof of a stable. Faintly, I hear lawguard voices shouting “Prince!” and “Secure the prince!” They’ve figured out he’s missing.
“Your Highness,” I insist. “I’m not one to give good advice, so let me give you a good idea instead—don’t scale the wall of fiery death! Let the lawguards handle it!”
“So Gavik can boast to my father about arresting yet another witch?” Lucien scoffs. He bends his knees and in one remarkable leap clears the fire and reaches the roof of the stable, pulling himself onto it. He looks down at me, lit from the dark flames below. “I think it’s time I took matters into my own hands.”
He whirls, and I lose sight of him.
“Prince Lucien!” I call. No answer. I try more creative names. “Unimpressive daredevil!” Silence. “Hey, you arrogant horse-arse!”
No response. Whoever set this fire is doing it to make it seem like the witches’ fault. Caution tells me to stay. The hunger tells me to go after the prince—he’s escaped. He’s away from his bodyguard. Now’s my chance to take his heart. Or back him
up. Back him up? No—if this robed mystery wants to kill him, I just have to be there to take the heart before his body goes too cold.
I get a strange, sick feeling thinking about Prince Lucien dead, the same feeling I got seeing that boy purged by Gavik—disgust at myself, at my thoughts.
Perhaps death would be kinder. The hunger slithers into the forefront of my mind. Than what you have planned for Lucien.
I plant my feet and jump for the edge of the stable’s roof, scrabbling desperately to pull myself up. The black fire licks my boots, eager to feed on the white leather, but I push all my strength into my arms and heave. From the roof I can see the robed figure running a few alleyways down, Lucien close on their heels. This city isn’t so different from the forest, if you consider the buildings as trees. I’ve been chased—by man and beast alike—through the woods many times. I leap for the flattest nearby roof I can find, and wait. I listen carefully—the sound of panting is close. The hunger in me smells the robed figure—the warmth below their flesh faint but very much there. The figure tips barrels into the street behind them, Lucien staggering to avoid being run over. He’s losing ground, and fast. But I’m still here. When the robed figure turns into an alley below me, I jump down and cut them off, Lucien coming up behind them. The figure looks between both of us, a visible quiver in their shoulders.
“Remove your hood,” the prince commands, long braid whipping as he comes to a stop. The figure looks to me like I’ll be easier to get past, but I draw Father’s blade and smile.
“Try me.”
Prince Lucien advances, and so do I, the two of us closing in. The figure throws off their hood suddenly, revealing the terrified face of a young man a little older than Lucien, with hair like spun sunrise and freckles crowding his skin.
“P-Please!” He gasps. “Please, don’t hurt me! I was doing only as they asked!”
“You.” Lucien frowns. “I’ve seen you before. You’re one of the apprentice polymaths for the palace.”
“Y-Yes, Your Highness!” The man bends one knee to him.
“Who is ‘they,’ and what did they ask of you?” Lucien demands. The apprentice darts his eyes around.
“Please, Your Highness. If they know I told you, they’d have me run out of the city! Or worse!”
“The Crown Prince can just as easily run you out if you don’t tell him,” I say lightly. “You’re in the pits either way.”
The man flinches. Lucien flickers his gaze up at me, then back down to the man.
“If you tell me, I promise you it will never get back to your superiors.”
“It will!” the man insists. “It always does!”
He’s too fearful—it binds him like iron shackles. I hold my sword higher, inspecting the rusty blade. This could be the perfect way to gain a bit of the prince’s favor. The man needs more pressure, and I’m in a perfect position to act dangerous, in the same way I always did to scare off Nightsinger’s hunters.
“In my experience, Your Highness, cutting someone usually makes them sing the sweetest songs. Say the word, and I’ll try to make it only slightly painful.”
The man’s eyes go wide, and he scrabbles back from me.
“No,” Lucien suddenly thunders, obsidian eyes tearing into me. “You will not touch one of my citizens as long as I draw breath.”
The full force of his shadows press inexorably on me, and for a moment I feel paralyzed in the same way as when I stumbled into a starving bear in the woods. His protection is fierce, instant. I may not be facing one ton of muscle and claws this time, but it certainly feels like it. I back down quickly.
“As you wish.”
Lucien relents, pulling his gaze from mine. He kneels so he’s eye level with the man and fishes a gold pouch from his belt, handing it to him. His eyes—so furious before—are now oddly soft, the same softness he had with the little girl. He keeps it so well hidden from the court, but here in the streets with the common people, he lets it shine.
“With this, you can leave the city—the country—before they find you. Now tell me—who are you so afraid of?”
The man swallows, clutching at the purse like it’s a lifeline. “The royal polymaths, Your Highness. They—they gave me this powder.” He holds up an empty pouch, a bit of green-tinted dust spilling from it. “They told me to come here before dawn, told me to sprinkle it around the temple in a ring, and then to set it ablaze once I heard Kavar’s songs!”
“And what were you to get in exchange for this?” Prince Lucien asks. “No—don’t tell me. A full position as a royal polymath.”
The apprentice nods frantically. “The money, the experiments I could do with their equipment, the prestige—it seemed such a huge reward for as small a thing as starting a fire.”
Lucien dips a fingertip into the green powdery remnants on the ground, bringing it to his nose. He recoils violently at the smell.
“Gods, what is this stuff?”
“I don’t know—they wouldn’t tell me. But it smells like bearingbud to me, Your Highness, thrice-refined with copper and tar. Though I’ve never seen bearingbud produce such dark flames.”
“Dark flames,” Lucien mutters to himself, then stands. “Go. While you have a head start. The caravans leave from the west gate around this time. You can still catch one if you’re lucky.”
The man staggers to his feet and bows a dozen clumsy times before tearing through the streets. Soon it’s just a thoughtful prince and me, the sound of the roaring flames distant.
“It seems I was right,” I drawl, never sheathing my sword. Now would be the perfect time to run him through. “You have a heart after all.”
But not for long, the hunger cackles. I can’t let him know what I’m planning, so I make my posture relaxed, my steps light as I near him. So close. Just a bit more, and I’ll be within striking distance.
“He was simply a tool being used by someone else,” Lucien says, dusting his hands free of the green powder. “A tool is blameless. Your eagerness to break him was unfounded.”
“There’s a handy little something called a bluff, Your Highness.” I flush, feeling somehow chastised.
“There’s also a handy little something called empathy,” he fires back.
“I-I was trying to help.”
“That man feared for his life. You told me yourself that sometimes the choices are made for us.”
I’m struck silent for once, not a single joke or comeback on my lips. Lucien fixes me with every piercing arrow in his gaze.
“If I ever see you threatening my people again, I will show you no mercy.”
“That man started a fire,” I insist. “He could’ve killed people—”
“He was a tool. You break the wielder, not the tool itself.”
I freeze in place, all thoughts of taking his heart momentarily blown out of my head. Break the wielder, not the tool? A tool. I’ve felt like Nightsinger’s tool more than once. I’ve felt like a thing to be used ever since my heart was taken. Even now, dressed in these silks and lying my way through the day, I’m her tool. A tool is blameless. Is it? Is it truly blameless, when it will take a human’s heart just to secure its own freedom? Is it truly blameless, even when it took pleasure in killing five men?
“Regardless of your missteps, I owe you, Lady Zera,” Lucien interrupts my rigor. “That polymath was on the cusp of getting away before you stopped him.”
I swallow hard, my voice cracking. “Don’t be modest. You would’ve caught him eventually.”
“Eventually. That’s time I don’t have. The lawguards and Gavik are looking for me. I’m the prince, after all—I should be cloistered and protected, not learning about what nefarious deeds my royal polymaths have committed.” He scoffs.
I watch the black fire burn and, beyond it, the cadre of royal polymaths on gilded horses approaching the flames. Gavik yells something to them, and they descend from their steeds and pull out a nozzle-like tool from their belts, spraying down the black flames with an oily yellow
substance. It kills the fire remarkably well, leaving behind the scent of something like old yeast. More important, the royal polymaths make their way toward us as they spray, ensuring I can’t take Prince Lucien’s heart easily anymore. Godsdammit! I squandered my chance. The prince threw me off-balance once. But he won’t do it again.
“That stuff works fast on the fire.” I struggle to turn his attention from my blade, from me.
“Of course it does.” Lucien snorts. “The polymaths, for all their scheming, are geniuses first and foremost. If they invent a weapon, they invent a suppressor for that weapon at the same time. Pe deresas, in deresas.”
The foreign accent sounds like the Old Vetrisian songs of Kavar I just heard. “What is that?”
“Their motto. Create the power, control the power.”
“Why would they do something like this on blessing day?” I muse. Lucien’s quiet, staring at Gavik, and it’s then I put it all together. “Because the nobles are here.”
“They control the land of Cavanos, its resources, and its soldiers,” Lucien agrees.
“Make them think witches are attacking again,” I say. “Make them afraid.”
“Eager for another war,” he adds. My stomach twists uneasily. Then the witches were right about an impending war and someone in the city egging it on.
And that someone is most certainly Gavik.
The dark flames are all but dead now, only embers on the cobblestones. The archduke is doing his best to calm the frantic nobles on the steps. The panic is over. Without the firewall, the guards will find us soon. The royal polymaths are finished with their firefighting, returning to Gavik, their backs to me. I have to strike now. Just as I gather the willpower to approach Prince Lucien with my sword again, there’s a sudden crack above me, and I look up too late—the fire-weakened beam of a nearby house topples at breakneck speed toward my skull. Time slows, every sound coming into my ears dulled and muted.
“Lady Zera!” I hear the prince shout faintly. My body is suddenly assailed by a brute force knocking me to the ground, hard cobblestones digging into my back and something very warm and heavy pressing on top of me. The smell of rainwater and ash.
