Bring Me Their Hearts

by Sara Wolf

  I dread what’s coming next. Fione steadies herself, one hand against the back of a settee.

  “Varia went off when she was sixteen to tour the country, meet the people she was going to rule. She’d always wanted to leave Vetris. King Sref couldn’t stop her. We found out later he didn’t stop her, because Gavik wanted her to go. Convinced him to let her go.”

  “You mean—”

  Fione blurts out the next words, like they’ve been packed inside her for a long time. “I heard my uncle talk about it. Laugh about it. The courier came to him with the news, and he laughed and laughed. Drank half a bottle of Avellish brandy by himself in celebration. She’s dead, he kept saying to the fireplace.” She meets my eyes with her blue ones, sadness darkening them to gray sleet. “That was the night before her entourage returned to Vetris with her remains.”

  The night before. That means—

  “Archduke Gavik killed Princess Varia?” I croak. Fione flinches but finds her voice.

  “With mercenaries, I think. Or assassins. I’ve been trying to track down which branch but haven’t found anything solid—” She stops herself. “Regardless, I told Lucien. I tried to tell the king, but my uncle got to him first. He blamed it on the Heartless.”

  “That…that unctuous bastard!” I grit my teeth. “How do you stand living with such a man?”

  “I tell him I’m going to bed early a lot.” She laughs, though it has a despairing edge to it. “And then sneak out to investigate, or do business with the people who might have information or proof of what he did.”

  “And he doesn’t catch you?”

  Fione taps her leg. “He thinks me incapable of anything but hobbling about and saying ‘yes, uncle dearest.’ I’ve spent my whole life since Varia died building that particular illusion.”

  Amazed at her grit, I struggle with my response. “I still don’t get why Lucien hunts.”

  “I sneak out and investigate, probe the underbelly of Vetris for my uncle’s rare mistakes. But Lucien takes a different route. It’s a Vetrisian tradition to let an unmarried Crown Prince go on yearly hunts, which used to be just for simple fox or deer. But Prince Lucien requested from his father that he hunt witches, claiming he wanted revenge for Varia. He’s using those hunts to scour the woodlands where she died.”

  “For what?”

  Fione shakes her head. “I don’t know. He won’t tell me.”

  “I thought you two grew up together.”

  She exhales, a single curl flapping in her breath. “At first, Lucien and I worked together to bring my uncle down, but…our grief eventually tore us apart. It does that to people. He wanted to chase some imaginary tree, and I wanted concrete evidence against my uncle.”

  “Wait—what tree?”

  She rolls her eyes. “I don’t know. It’s what he’s said over the past few years whenever I ask him what he’s doing on his hunts: ‘Looking for a tree.’ It’s a terrible joke, if you ask me.”

  My mind flashes with an image of Y’shennria’s rosary. “Old God worship involves a tree.”

  “I know that. But that’s all it is—a symbol. It’s no more real than the gods are.”

  I quirk a brow. “I don’t know if I should be impressed that you talk like you know everything, or worried.”

  “You think the gods are real, then?” she fires back, and it catches me off guard. Where’s the sweet, pink-clad thing that simpered at me in this very room not two days ago? Is this the real her?

  I prefer this version—it’s much harder to be jealous of.

  “I’m not as certain as you are about anything,” I say. “If they are real, then they’re cruel, and if they aren’t real, all this carnage and hate is for the sake of a lie. Either way, it’s depressing. But have you ever stopped to consider why Lucien would be looking for a tree?”

  “Because he can’t deal with Varia’s death,” Fione insists. “Because he’d much rather pin it on some magical Old God tree than face the fact that we’ll never—” Fione’s voice catches, coming back scratchy. “That we’ll never see her again.”

  I choose my next words very carefully. “Do you know how a witch becomes, Lady Fione?”

  “No. Witchlore isn’t exactly the sort of thing you find poking around Vetris. Do you?”

  I open my mouth, then close it. I’m Zera Y’shennria to her, not a Heartless. “Of course not.”

  Her blue eyes flash. “Then why bring it up?”

  When I don’t say anything, she approaches, looking me square in the face.

  “I saw her, Lady Zera. I saw the parts of her, all that was left. I saw her blood, her fingers, her—” Fione winces. “She’s dead. And no amount of chasing superstitious beliefs about the gods—Old or New—will bring her back.”

  There’s a long, yawning abyss of silence as I take it all in, and Fione regains her poise. I misunderstood Lucien. I counted him a murderer. A part of me squirms with shame. Another part laments—he’s untouched, unstained. He’s not the kindred spirit drenched in blood I thought him. He merely pretended, just as Fione pretends. These nobles move in dances more complex than I’ve ever seen.

  “This hunt thing of the prince’s…it’s such an elaborate farce.”

  Fione folds her arms, begrudging admiration in her voice. “He’s maintained it flawlessly for six years now.”

  “You’ve both maintained facades,” I say. Fione’s grin is small.

  “And now you do, too.”

  The sandclock ticks into the shadows between us.

  “Why did you volunteer me for teaming up with you and Lucien?” I ask.

  “I’m an archduke’s niece—and Lucien is a prince. He has access to areas of the palace I can only dream of. And he likes you.”

  Something catches in my throat, and I cough wildly. Fione smirks, holding up a nearby jug of water.

  “Would you like some?”

  “I’m perfectly…capable…” I manage between breaths.

  “Oh, I’m sure you are. That’s why Y’shennria brought you in to marry the prince and restore status to her family, after all. I had plans in place to deal with you if you were dumb as rocks. But thankfully, you aren’t—”

  “You should see me before I’ve had my morning cup of chocolate drink.”

  “—which makes this whole thing much easier.” She ignores my quip. “I need the prince on my side to access certain areas of the palace. He needs you to even consider helping me. You need me to carve out more time with the prince for you.”

  “Y’shennria’s doing a stellar job of that, thanks.”

  “Without guards,” Fione presses, a sly smile on her face. “Without being in public. Dozens of opportunities to be with him, just the two of you, in many secluded locations.”

  Her smile betrays her confidence—she’s so certain she knows that’s what I want. And she does. But not for the reasons she thinks.

  “You’ll be queen in no time,” she asserts. “And as for me—four years of planning, gathering, waiting—it’s all going to pay off in the next several days. If I can get into a few places that are off-limits, my uncle will lose everything. All the respect and power and fear he’s accumulated—gone. And to him, that is worse than death.”

  I stare at my hands, at the faint smears of blood on my outfit from my long-healed wrist wound. Something stirs in me, uneasily. You’re not afraid of death, Gavik had said to me.

  “Isn’t that what you want? Time with Prince Lucien?” Fione presses. I look up quickly.

  “More than the Red Twins want to dance with each other,” I answer. “More than anything.”

  “Then why do you look so sad at the thought?”

  Her words grip me in fingers of ice. I rub my eyes, worried she can see the truth in them. “I’m simply tired and in pain.”

  “I know the feeling.” She taps her leg and flashes me a facetious lawguard salute. “I’ll leave you, then. If you agree to this arrangement, do let me know through a watertell. Nothing detailed, just a ‘yes’ will
do. Good night, Lady Zera.”

  When she’s gone I stumble up to my room, the yolshil finally wearing off, and collapse into the feather bed. Reginall knocks on my door—I’ve memorized his knock, two short raps followed by a pause. I answer it wearily.

  “There you are, miss.” He bows. “Milady was looking for you. She asked me to send you to her room when you got home, but…” He trails off, looking at Y’shennria’s closed door. “I’m afraid she fell asleep some time ago. She hasn’t been sleeping well.”

  Of course she hasn’t—with every day Verdance grows closer, we run out of more and more time. The stress must be killing her—even if she does have a plan for the Hunt.

  “Let her sleep,” I say softly. “I’ll go to her first thing in the morning.” Reginall bows, and as he turns to leave, I stop him. “How many people did you kill in the war, Reginall?”

  He freezes, back turned to me, but he doesn’t miss a beat. “Forty-seven, miss.”

  “Do you remember their faces?”

  “Every night, miss.”

  The wind blows the spines of a cherry tree’s branches across a nearby window. I’d told Peligli that sound was the forest’s good night to us, once. I breathe deep.

  “If I make the prince into a Heartless, he’ll have to kill. He’ll have the hunger. He’ll have a number like we do.”

  Reginall doesn’t say anything. I press on, my words clear in the setting moonlight.

  “What do you think is worse, Reginall? Killing, or forcing others to kill? To make it bigger, worse? To take a heart, knowing full well you’re condemning them to bear the chains of this horrible guilt, this horrible hunger?”

  He is perfectly still, silent.

  “What’s worse, Reginall—to be a monster, or to make monsters?”

  We both know the answer. But only one of us goes laughing like she’s mad back into her bedroom, closing the door behind her.

  Only one of us realizes how alone she is, and leaves her room to pause before Y’shennria’s door.

  Only one of us raises our hand to knock, saying a silent prayer for comfort, for an embrace from someone, anyone. Only one of us freezes just before, and realizes how futile such a prayer is for a monster.

  It’s when I’m lying on my canopied bed, counting the darkwood stars in the ceiling pattern and wondering, as always, what that strange embossed star in the corner of the ceiling is for (aesthetics? To hang something from?) that I realize something is wrong with me. Something has shifted, like an itch deep down where I can’t reach. Something won’t stop playing an endless loop of tonight’s events on the back of my eyelids—all of them focused on Prince Lucien’s face, the crook of his golden neck, the shadow of his collarbone, the look in his eyes as we danced, the smile on his lips, that fierce bravery of his facing down Gavik with his blade raised—

  I throw myself out of bed and walk over to where the glass jar meant for Lucien sits on my dresser. The snake etched in it taunts me. I envision a heart inside, and in this vision I’m utterly free, my own chest filled, pulsing again with a true human heartbeat. I pack my things and leave over the Cavanos border, to Pendron, to Avel—Crav and Peligli in tow—to the farthest corners of the Mist Continent where I can find peace at last. Peace. That dance, his laugh, the heat of his skin, they made me feel at peace—

  I shake my head and focus inward. I envision carving his heart out with my sword, but it cuts off the moment I plunge the blade into his chest, turns into his tensed arms wrapping around my waist ever so gently, hesitantly, as if he were afraid—

  He should be very afraid, the hunger snarls. I am coming for him.

  I could tell in your eyes; you weren’t afraid. Of me. Of anyone. And that’s the exact moment I knew you’d be a thorn in my side.

  He’s mine to destroy, mine to ravage, mine to sink my teeth into—

  But now I’m not so sure. Are you a thorn? Or are you a flower?

  Sunrise shatters the night-locked loop of my thoughts, and I make my way downstairs to eat. The livers in the kitchen taste like ash in my mouth, worse than usual. Raw meat might keep me alive, but now that I’ve tasted so much delightful human food, I long for herbs and spices and slow-cooked fats. I used to fear it, the pain that came after, and now it’s the only thing I want to eat, the pain be godsdamned.

  Halfway through my reluctant meal, Y’shennria joins me, lips pursed and hair perfectly fluffed.

  “Sleep well?” she asks.

  “You could say that.”

  “What is that bandage on your wrist?” she asks, brows knit in impossible concern. “Lady Himintell sent me a watertell about the raid, but not that you got injured.”

  “Ah, so you knew all along I didn’t get any sleep.”

  “It’s polite to inquire.”

  “Aren’t we beyond politeness at this point? Can’t we just—I dunno—loosen up a bit?”

  “If we ‘loosen up,’ we risk mistakes. Mistakes mean you die. And our hopes die with you.”

  There’s a quiet in which I stir the chocolate drink I made to cover the taste of the livers, and Y’shennria delicately begins to pick apart a nearby starfruit. Our hopes, she’d said. Not the witches’ hopes. She considers herself one of them, even after what they did to her and her family.

  “I’ll repeat it only once,” she says firmly. “How did you get that wound?”

  I smirk. “It’s nothing. A small trifle, and besides, I have the tendency to heal quickly, Auntie. Or did you forget?” When she stares me down unblinkingly, I heave a sigh. “The archduke had his men shoot me.”

  Her grip around her fork turns white, and I swear she mutters something under her breath that sounds like, “Bastard.” Is she angry on my behalf—on behalf of a Heartless? How unlike her. She composes herself quickly, though.

  “You will act wounded, then, for the rest of your time in Vetris. I’ll invite several of the more palace-distanced polymaths over, to make it look like you’re being intensely treated. The cover story is you fell and twisted it.” She scoffs. “Don’t give me that look. We need a cover story. Telling everyone Gavik had you shot would paint targets on both our backs.”

  We move upstairs to the dining room, Maeve hobbling about as she sets the table and brings breakfast around.

  “You aren’t angry with me?” I quirk a brow.

  “Of course I am,” she insists. “Becoming involved with one of Gavik’s raids, getting shot—you’re lucky he didn’t discover what you are right then and there.”

  You’re not afraid of death. Gavik’s voice lingers between my ears. I shake him out and get up, closing the distance between our seats on the opposite ends of the long table. I sit beside her and lean in as close as I know she can stand.

  “Fione thinks Gavik killed the princess.”

  “I know.” Y’shennria nods. “She told me that a year ago.”

  “What do you think?”

  The older woman sighs. “He was certainly capable of it at the time, and he truly did hate her. I think if Fione is right, and manages to prove it to the king, Vetris could change for the better. But I believe she’s playing the most dangerous game of anyone in this city.”

  “Even more than me?”

  Her mouth twists. “A game requires you to enter of your own free will. What you’re doing is a battle.”

  “This is the first battle I’ve been in that requires so many silk dresses and faked smiles.”

  “Pray that it never requires more than that,” she says softly. The whitish scar tissue on her neck is freed to the air, her dress uncharacteristically low-cut. She isn’t bothered with hiding today. The urge to tell her about the uneasy alliance I’ve struck with Fione and the prince in taking Gavik down nags at me. Fione promised me time alone with the prince. It’d be the perfect opportunity. But then I remember how insistent Y’shennria is on the Hunt being the time I strike, and no other.

  After breakfast, Reginall comes in and announces there’s someone waiting for Y’shennria and me in her study.
We shoot each other befuddled looks and head upstairs. I glance at the fire-calendar on the wall. Seven days? Is that really all I have left? Time is slipping from my fingers, slipping away the more I’m distracted by unimportant things like a parade dance or human food. I can’t become one of those girls Y’shennria has no faith in—human girls. She values me for my monstrosity, after all. And yet I’ve changed since stepping foot into this city. I’m an insufferable jokester, but I’m not stupid. I can tell I’ve grown weaker. My resolve slips away like sand every moment I spend with the prince, with Y’shennria, with the human illusions of food and dances. Comfort, after so many years in the woods, has begun to soften my edges.

  I can’t surrender to it. But neither can I resist it. I have to act, the sooner the better. So I keep the secret of my alliance to myself, and pray to the gods I don’t regret it.

  I straighten my shoulders and walk into the study only to see Malachite there, legs splayed out as he slouches on a settee. His long ears nearly touch the headrest of the low cushions, silver hair mussed. The pupils of his bloodred eyes narrow as he sees me, smiles crookedly, and stands.

  “There you are. I was beginning to think you hated me.”

  “How could I hate that face? Especially when it always looks as if it’s swallowed a particularly fat canary.”

  “Are you calling me smug, Zera?”

  “You will address her as ‘milady,’” Y’shennria sniffs, reaching for a scarf with which to cover her throat. Malachite laughs, then stops at the strict look on her face.

  “Right. Sorry, ma’am.”

  “Milady,” she corrects icily. He flinches, and I smother a laugh at how much he looks like a little kid being chastised.

  “Uh, anyway—this is for you.” He hands me a folded note, and I take it.

  Our mutual acquaintance from last night has invited me to a watering party on the western lawn, and I’d hate to go alone. Blackmail me this time, won’t you?