by Sara Wolf
“You—” Lucien’s face darkens, looking from my wound to Gavik’s face. The fire in his eyes sears, his voice suddenly fierce and hoarse, a force of nature. “It is time you learned just how little forgiveness I give those who’ve hurt my subjects.”
He raises his sword, looking ready to lunge at the lawguards all around him, at Gavik above him. He can’t. He’s outnumbered, and even if Lucien is the Crown Prince, Gavik of all people wouldn’t hesitate to hurt him, jail him—
“Is that all you’ve got?” I call out to the archduke, hiding the desperate edge to my tone. Desperate to distract Gavik from Lucien. When did I get so protective of a human? “Or do you not have the vachiayis to come down and finish the job yourself, milord?”
Gavik frowns at the Beneather word, his confusion buying enough time for another celeon citizen to slip to the exit. Suddenly he raises his hand, and the archers point not at me but at the people fleeing behind me.
“Stop where you are!” he bellows. “By order of the Vetrisian lawguards, you are under arrest!”
The running crowd freezes. My body moves before my mind does, standing between them and the archers, throwing my arms out to make myself as big as possible.
What are you doing, you pathetic worm? The hunger snarls at me. What in the gods’ name do you think you’re doing? If I get riddled with arrows, I’ll be “dead,” unable to show my face at court anymore. But I can’t stand by again and watch Gavik kill people like he killed that boy at the purge. I’d never be able to live with myself if I sacrificed this whole crowd for my freedom.
“Kill them with impunity, Archduke,” I shout. “But kill me, and you’ll have killed a Firstblood. And the king’s favored Bride.”
“You are nothing. You are expendable.” Gavik looks down his nose at me, staring, his six icy words ricocheting.
They will try to tell you that you aren’t good enough. Y’shennria’s words ring in my head. This is a lie. You are an Y’shennria. You have always been good enough.
I hold my head a little higher. “Then expend me. But do it quick. I get bored easily.”
“Lady Zera!” Lucien shouts—I’m surely imagining the ragged worry in his voice. “Stand down!”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, Your Highness,” I say without tearing my eyes from Gavik’s unblinking glare.
Gavik mutters something as he looks at me, the crowd nearly too loud to hear him. Lucien takes a step toward me, but the lawguard circle around him tightens, and Gavik sighs as he suddenly turns his attentions to the prince.
“Don’t you want to see these witches dead, Your Highness? They killed your beloved Varia, after all. What if one of those escapees was the one who controlled the Heartless that did it? You can’t let them flee from their long-overdue justice.”
Lucien narrows his eyes to hard, midnight slits. “The justice is mine to dole, not yours. And not with innocents as victims. My father might be all right with such causalities, but rest assured—I am not. And my father’s reign is more than half over. Mine will be long, and longer of memory.”
It’s a not-so-subtle threat. Gavik’s eyes dart from Lucien to me, and then he laughs.
“Very well. You may play folk hero this time, Your Highness. But I’d like to remind you that the people of Vetris don’t know how to wield swords. They don’t know how to kill Heartless. They don’t know how to drown witches. They don’t own a single scrap of white mercury or the machines that make it. But I do. I do many times over.”
His own threat lingering, Gavik turns and leaves through the arch behind him, every lawguard following suit until all that remains are terrified, bleeding people and their darkly furious prince.
Gavik’s words linger in my head. Not the angry ones, not the snide ones. But those words I could barely hear, an assertion of my character, his eyes narrowing as he uttered them.
He’d said, You’re not afraid of death.
It takes a good hour to clean up the bodies and bandage the wounded. In the crowd I spot the little girl Lucien gave the gold watch to, but she fell during the stampede, her left eye ground into a sharp corner. The bandage over her eye quickly stains completely red. Some aren’t so lucky—arms broken by reaching for a weapon to defend themselves, a leg or two crushed beneath the panicking stampede. But the people who are untouched come together in a way I’ve never seen before—fast, prepared. The vendors pitch in their wares—herbs to disinfect, thread for gaping injuries, blankets to rest on. Kettles of hot water are warmed over fires, fresh gauze and blood-soaking wool produced from nowhere. Those good with stitching close wounds, others move bodies dead and alive into quiet, restful places. Young children sing the younger ones to sleep, and I’m hit with an overpowering wave of nostalgia as I’m reminded of the nights I used to sing Peligli to sleep. Celeon hold down those who thrash in pain as tourniquets are applied, passing around flasks of strong celeon liquor to ease nerves.
It’s nothing like a purge, nothing like the barbarity I’d come to expect from the people of Vetris.
A celeon woman with a flowing turquoise mane hands me a clay flask, smiling.
“For you, in gratitude. The finest yolshil this side of the Tollmount-Kilstead mountains. Very delicious, very strong.”
I sip at the flask—the taste of something like ginger and rose apples warming my insides. “Thank you. But I did hardly anything.”
“You risked much by putting yourself between the archduke’s wrath and us.”
“It was no great feat.”
The celeon chuckles, though her face is too weary to move with it. “We have a saying: Modesty kills as a drought does—slowly and from within.”
“I’ll keep that cheery thought in mind,” I croak. The celeon pats me on the back with one clawed paw and drifts off, passing out more clay flasks. A figure in leather-clad armor parts the crowd—Prince Lucien. When he sees me he hurries over, lowering his hood and squatting at my side.
“Lady Zera, there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He’s winded. Two shards of me fight—one of them happy he’s concerned for me, the other dreading it, dreading what it means, what it stirs in me.
“Save your worry for a sweeter girl, Your Highness,” I tease, my cheeks burning. The yolshil is stronger than I thought it’d be. Lucien doesn’t enjoy the joke, frowning.
“I will worry for whom I please. Is your wrist all right? Did you get it looked at?”
I switched my shawl bindings out for clean gauze when no one was looking, just to maintain appearances, though by now the wound is long healed. I tamp my smile down, pretending to wince instead. “If by ‘looked at’ you mean some lady came along and poured herb water in it and sewed it shut with her mercilessly huge needle, then yes.”
“It’s my turn to ask you; does it hurt?” His expression is strangely soft as he looks me over. Why? Why is he looking at me like that? It’s tearing me apart. I take a huge swig from the yolshil. Maybe booze will lessen the pain.
“Not anymore. Is that girl you give the trinkets to all right?”
“She’ll live,” Lucien says. “But life isn’t kind to girls on the streets of Vetris with only one eye.” He falls quiet, golden firelight pooling in his dark irises. “You didn’t run when I told you to.”
“I might be a lot of things, Your Highness—a joker, a lightweight, a fool—but I’m not a coward.”
Lies. A coward by nature—killing unarmed bandits, taking this boy’s heart for your own gain, for the easy way out.
“Undoubtedly.” Lucien curls his fingers around my uninjured hand, his palm rough. “You’re far braver than anyone I’ve met before.”
It stings, coming from him. It soothes, coming from him. Pain and pleasure mixed, as if my brain can’t decide which one to embrace. Lucien’s serious expression doesn’t lift.
“Chin up, Your Highness,” I say. “We won this fight.”
“Lucien,” he exhales. “Call me Lucien.”
I start—first names are for friends. He
can’t be my true friend. I can joke about it, it can be a farce, but it can’t come to honest fruition. Not him. Anyone but him.
“Lucien,” I whisper. The tavern’s wine was water compared to what I’m drinking now. The world blurs, the heart shard in my locket aching strangely as Lucien’s dark gaze pierces through me.
“It looks like you two stole my thunder.”
The moment breaks, and we look up at the voice—it’s the girl in the robe I passed the old woman off to. Her blue eyes glimmer as she lowers her hood to reveal curly, mousy-brown hair and a rosy-cheeked face. Her cane is missing, but her robe hides most of her uneven gait.
“Lady Himintell,” Lucien breathes. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing, Your Highness.” She raises an eyebrow at the gauze around my wrist. No doubt she wants to ask if Y’shennria and I planned for me to be here, but she can’t while Lucien is standing right next to us.
Lucien? The hunger slides in. You mean the target. The prey.
“I told you to stay out of your uncle’s business.” Lucien narrows his eyes at her. “But again and again you ignore me. Do you really want to be hurt that badly?”
“If I do, it’s none of your concern,” Fione snaps, and then as if realizing who she’s snapped at, she calms herself. “You shouldn’t be here, Your Highness. You know as well as I my uncle will take any chance he gets to lash out at you.”
Lucien glowers at her. There’s something between them I can’t quite put my finger on—some resentment, some history. More history than just Fione being shunned at her Welcoming, that’s for certain. Fione turns to me and plasters a smile on her face.
“If nothing else, the two of you make a lovely couple. But this is a very poor spot for a date, if you don’t mind my saying.”
A couple? A fleeting, impossible thought. It’s dangerous to say anything to her, to give away even one inkling that I know her outside of formality. Thankfully, Lucien asks the next question for me.
“You knew Gavik was going to be here, didn’t you, Lady Fione?”
Her smile doesn’t crack. “Of course. He’d been talking about it for weeks with the captain of the guard, taking walks in our lily garden and hashing out all the details. I’d planned to come ahead of time and herd away as many people as I could before the chaos broke, but—” Fione’s blue eyes flitter over the injured, exhausted crowd. “But no one would budge. There’s a tipping point in one’s desperation where the song of food and necessities becomes far louder than one’s safety. And these people have perhaps lingered on that point longer than possibly bearable.”
Lucien’s face grows somber as he looks over the crowd, too. He massages his forehead tiredly, muttering, “I could barely do anything. If she could see this, she’d be so ashamed. Disappointed in me.”
She. The weight with which he says it can mean only one person—Varia. Fione hears, her expression souring even through her actor’s smile.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Your Highness. Their suffering isn’t entirely at your hands. If she’s ashamed of anyone, it’s my uncle.”
Lucien falls quiet, and Fione snorts derisively, her hand resting on a small dagger at her waist. She pulls it out, inspecting the blade carefully. It’s a beautiful thing—jeweled with rings of sapphires and pearls, the blade gold-kissed silver. A noble’s dagger. No—a royal’s dagger.
“I promised her, you know.” Her blue eyes grow hard. “I promised her I’d never let him tear us apart.”
The resolve in her words shakes me. I’m used to her playing stupid, shy, meek. Even when I first met her at Y’shennria’s manor, her smiles were pervasive despite my attitude. She played happy, then. But now she burns, no careful calculations, no pretending. Only honesty. Only old wounds, still bleeding. Still bleeding…for Varia? Is that why she’s betraying Gavik and risking so much?
Fione turns to me then. “You surprised me, Lady Zera. I’m sure you surprised my uncle, too. He’s not used to people standing up to him who don’t have d’Malvane as their family name.”
“He should get used to it,” I say. “Because I intend to do it as often as I can get away with.”
She giggles. “Do you hear that, Your Highness? All that’s left is for either you or me to recruit her to our individual causes.”
Lucien narrows his eyes. “No. That’d only put Lady Zera in more danger.”
The locket on my chest gives a little shudder—he’s worried about me? “I’m flattered,” I start. “And simultaneously mystified.”
Fione inhales. “His Highness and I have tried for years now to thwart my uncle. I’ve proposed we simply work together, but that never turns out well—neither of us especially enjoys the other’s company.” She stops, thinking. “But now that you’re here, Lady Zera—”
“Absolutely not,” Lucien says.
“I haven’t even said it yet!” Fione stamps her foot.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he insists. “Gavik isn’t to be toyed with, treated like some group project for our old tutors. I’m nearly immune to his influence because of my status, and you because of your blood ties to him, but Lady Zera has none of those things to hide behind. She’d be the perfect lamb for him to slaughter.”
“Implying I wouldn’t at least put up a fight?” I frown. “You give me far too little credit.”
“No,” Lucien presses. “I simply know the extent of Gavik’s power. This isn’t me underestimating you—this is a fact. He would rip you to pieces.”
Just as I will to you, soon enough, the hunger sneers. Fione clears her throat.
“Listen, Your Highness, you saw how brave Lady Zera was. I’ve seen her in court—she’s clever, too. Always has some witty thing to say. She isn’t savvy like we are to the ways of Vetris, but she’s something more important—neutral ground. For both you and I. I like her well enough, and you—” She looks between Lucien and me, a smile growing on her face, kitten-like. “Well. Let’s just say I can tell you like her, too.”
Lucien makes a noise in the back of his throat like a snarl cutting off a retort, but Fione presses on.
“I’m so close, Lucien.” She uses his first name, sincerity and determination blazing across her face. “All these years, and it’s almost complete. The cage for my uncle just needs the lock, and it’s over. Everything will be over, and I can finally rest. I can finally visit her portrait holding my head high.”
Lucien stares at Fione, and she stares back. And then the moment breaks, and her blue eyes find mine, a smile blossoming.
“What do you say, Lady Zera? The three of us against Gavik? With your wit, and my charm, and the prince’s glowers, we might be able to actually do it.”
“Do what?” I ask. Her smile only grows bigger.
“Destroy my uncle from the inside out, of course.”
11
Bloodrule
I expect Lucien of all people to say no, to shoot it down like he’s shot down everything else of Fione’s. But after a long, strained silence, he nods.
“All right.”
Even Fione seems wary of how fast he agreed. “Just like that?”
“The witchfire incident at the temple.” He exhales. “And now this raid on the black market that kept the poor fed—Gavik’s attempts at sowing fear and dissent to fuel his war aren’t slowing. And my father will never stop him. Someone has to.”
War—the same war I’m trying to stop, or at least delay. The war the witches are so terrified of—the whole reason they sent me here.
“I thought—” I bite my tongue before it can spill dangerous opinions. I hate that my opinions are at all dangerous. I’m used to saying whatever I want, whenever I want. But Lucien knits his eyebrows at me.
“What is it, Lady Zera? Ask, and I’ll answer.”
I glance to Fione, who pointedly won’t meet my gaze. “I’ve heard you go on hunts. For witches and Heartless. Why are you trying to stop a war against them if you hunt them? Don’t you hate them?”
Fione and Lucien share a look that, for once, isn’t full of barbs.
“We should be getting home.” Fione takes my arm and smiles. “It’s awfully late, and I’m sure Lady Y’shennria is worried about you.”
Prince Lucien clears his throat and bows to me. “Thank you, Lady Zera. For tonight. Take care to clean that wound properly, for my peace of mind, if nothing else.”
I quickly bow to him, utterly bewildered as Fione forcefully leads me off—on any other night I’d be strong enough to rip away from her, but the buzz of alcohol and the fatigue of my wrist wound catches up to me. The prince watches us, and I watch him over my shoulder until he’s a tiny speck in the distant streets.
“What—”
“He doesn’t hunt witches, you silly girl,” Fione interrupts me. “He pretends to. It’s a cover.”
“For what?”
Her eyes dart around. “Not now. Wait until we have four walls to hide us.”
I squirm impatiently the whole walk to Y’shennria’s manor. Reginall lets us in, offering Fione a glass of warm goat milk and hazelnut sweetrounds, but she declines both politely. When he gets the hint and leaves, she turns to me.
“Since Y’shennria obviously hasn’t considered it important enough to tell you, I will.” She inhales once, hugely, like what she’s about to say takes strength from her very core. “I told you I grew up with Lucien. But I grew up with Varia, too. The three of us—” She swallows. “We were very close. Varia hated the witch-human tension, especially the aftermath the Sunless War caused. When she could escape the palace she’d head into the town, offering her labor to shelters, to the polymaths, to the veterans and the widows. To anyone who needed help. That’s just the kind of person she was.”
Fione looks around, going over to the drawing room door and closing it. She turns back to me, leaning against the door tiredly.
“I looked up to her more than anyone. But my uncle hated her more than anyone. She argued with him. Foiled his machinations where she could. She even turned King Sref against him, sometimes. She was a constant headache for him. If only I’d realized just how much of a headache, perhaps I could’ve saved her.”
