Bring Me Their Hearts

by Sara Wolf

  “Then—am I the only one who feels this way? Tell me you don’t feel the same, and I swear to you I will never bring it up again.”

  I can’t tell him anything. I can’t even tell him who I really am, what I really came here to do. I scrabble for something to say, any scrap that will serve as a plausible lie.

  “I told you when we first met—I’m after your heart. The prince of Cavanos’s heart.”

  Lucien flinches, but a smile forces its way onto his face. “The throne, then. That’s what you’re after? I’ll give it to you. It’s a small price to pay, if it means having you at my side.”

  Even “knowing” I’m after him for the throne, he won’t stop looking at me like I’m a feast for a starving man, water for a thirsty flower. He’s willing to give me a seat of power in his kingdom, a precious and priceless thing, just to keep me at his side?

  “Why?” My voice cracks. “Why me? What did I do to deserve your heart?”

  The world can crumble in so many ways. I saw it crumble when Mother and Father died. I saw it crumble when I killed those five men. I saw it crumble when I had to say good-bye to Crav and Peligli to come here. I saw it crumble the first time I witnessed a purge.

  But unlike those times, when my world crumbles now, it gets rebuilt, right in front of my eyes. In front of my lips; his on mine, soft and sweet, his mouth hungry and his hands hungrier—lacing in my hair, resting on my hips. For one golden moment, nothing matters. I can’t think. The hunger is completely, totally silent as he kisses me. A kiss. This is a kiss—strange and tender and wonderful. So very human. If I had a heart, I think mine would’ve stopped completely.

  Can he taste the things I’ve done? The things I’m about to do?

  We part slowly, Lucien’s expression deadly handsome, glowing from within with pure joy. The hunger rises with a vengeance, reaching its clawed fingers deep into my brain, grasping desperately for him to come close once more.

  It’s ready this time.

  “I hope that’s answer enough for you.” Lucien finds his voice, hoarse on the edges. “Because I have no words. I can only show you.”

  It’s then he sees something by my feet and kneels, picking it up. Father’s sword. I must’ve been so shocked I let it fall.

  “You dropped this.” He smiles, offering the blade in outstretched hands. His smile is so innocent. So convinced I’m a beautiful thing, a thing worth being kissed. A thing worth being loved. It almost spills from me, then; that very moment when I’m left raw, when my world has crumbled and been rebuilt in a span of seconds—I almost blurt everything. What I am. What I came here to do. What he means to me.

  I take the sword gingerly. For a fraction of a second, I can see myself jamming the blade clean into his chest, right here and now. He’d bleed all over this floor. All over me. He’d bleed, and he wouldn’t stop, not until I pulled his heart off his arteries and put it in the jar, the jar that gleams with an etched snake, the jar I had hoped I’d never see—

  “I’m sorry.” Lucien’s face falls. “Was I hasty?”

  Outside the tent, I see the long-eared outline of Malachite shift from one leg to another. I can’t. I can’t kill him here—Malachite will know. Malachite will turn on me. He’s always been the problem, hasn’t he? But there’s a way, my rational self insists, pushing down the lovestruck girl deep inside that threatens to ruin everything.

  “This is so sudden. I-I need time,” I say. “An hour? Maybe two? That would be enough to get my thoughts in order.”

  Lucien nods. “Of course.”

  “Could we meet somewhere private, after that?” I dart my eyes to Malachite’s figure to get the point across. “Just the two of us?”

  The Crown Prince of Cavanos smiles at me, like a lamb smiles at a wolf.

  “I’d like that.”

  SO WOULD I, the hunger leers.

  Lucien and I agree to meet at the gnarled yew near the eastern hunting trail of the forest at midnight. He leaves with that same golden smile on his face, and it feels like half my chest is trying to cave, the other half trying to swell. Torn. Every bit of me is torn in two.

  I briefly overhear Malachite as he and the prince leave—the bandit sighting was a false alarm; the guards couldn’t find any sign of a camp or a single bandit. Whatever, or whoever, the lookout glimpsed disappeared. Or never existed in the first place.

  When the threat of the bandits has passed, dinner begins.

  It’s a strict affair underneath an open-faced white tent, a hardwood table hauled out here by who knows how many servants, lined with every silver utensil and dish afforded to the palace’s banquets. We seat the same way—according to rank. Nothing is different from the court here, save for the fact that most of us are in more casual clothes. The boys wear breeches and loose shirts and vague airs of nervousness. The girls wear outdoor dresses of simple flax, cotton pants beneath, their makeup painstakingly made to look more natural, glossed lips and bright cheeks. The meal is boisterous—without their parents around, the noble children feel freer, I suppose. They drink and flirt with more vigor than ever before, though beneath Ulla’s watchful eye nothing gets too out of hand. The heady musk of hormones and freedom is sweeter than any summer wildflower, lacing the suffocatingly warm night air. Fireflies flit about the oil lamps strung from the tents and poles of the camp, glittering off the guards’ armor like earthly strings of stars.

  Fione sits close to me, teasing me relentlessly every time the prince’s and my eyes meet across the table. I don’t eat much, my nerves dancing too fast, too hard. Y’shennria couldn’t send me with fresh meat, so she packed dried livers in my trunk. It isn’t ideal, but it has to last me only a day. Or less. Midnight is mere hours away.

  I’ve set the perfect trap. I am the perfect bait. I’ve played the part of the perfect bait so well, Lucien fell in love with me for it. Or—was it myself he fell for? The monster beneath? The orphan girl with no heart?

  IMPOSSIBLE, the hunger thunders.

  Prince Lucien sits at the head of the table, barely touching his food, sneaking glances at me over his water glass. When our eyes meet he smiles, and my heart locket tears itself apart on the inside. He stands once, to make a toast, the table rapt at attention.

  “You who are gathered here are the privileged few,” Lucien says. “I’ve chosen you to be my witnesses as the future of Vetris and Cavanos is shaped in the next few days.”

  Some clap politely. Whispers move around the table; he’s talking about his impending engagement, surely. The future of Vetris will rest with him, and his Princess Consort, who is no doubt seated at this very table. Eyes fall on me, but I concentrate on the bubbles of my sparkling wine. I know better. I know how this ends, and they don’t.

  Lucien especially doesn’t know.

  “You are the new blood of Vetris,” the prince says. “My peers, who will come to power someday in your own right. But I, too, will come to power soon.” His eyes tear from mine as he stares down Lord Grat, Fione, all of them one by one. “I am not my father,” he continues. “I will not threaten you as my father threatens your parents with his approval, his power. In my Vetris, in the days to come as I rise to the throne, suffering will not be tolerated any longer.”

  Lucien sweeps his eyes beyond the nobles—to the servants, to a shocked Ulla, to the guards.

  “We all grew up in a world newly ravaged by war. We’ve seen the veterans, our parents and grandparents and uncles and aunts, the people who work our fields, drive our carriages—all of them scarred by the Sunless War. We’ve seen our elders force Vetris relentlessly down a road of hatred and pain—purge after purge.”

  The nobles murmur to one another, but Lucien raises his voice.

  “I’ve seen a little girl crushed under the feet of a desperate crowd, left with only one eye. I’ve seen men and women die, all because a red tower in the center of Vetris told a certain archduke they deserved to. And I’m tired of it. I’m tired of seeing it. I’m tired of being a part of it. It has to end some
time, and that time will be sooner rather than later, if the blood of the d’Malvanes that runs through me has anything to say about it.”

  Lucien unsheathes Varia’s sword. “I know it’s hard to comprehend. But I know too that you have seen it—caught glimpses of the suffering from between the gilded bars separating you from reality. I know you have seen it, and I know your first instinct has been to turn a blind eye. But I don’t blame you for it—our parents taught us only how to blind ourselves. They drowned us in tradition—tradition like these Hunts, the Spring Brides.” He pulls his braid over his shoulder. “Even this hair of mine is a tradition, chaining me to the nest of suffering we call Cavanos.

  “My Cavanos will be a new Cavanos. Humans and witches will live in peace. The Old God, the New—neither of them will stand in the way of mortal progress any longer.”

  Lord Grat grimaces, and Fione is pale, though she looks faintly proud. This is heresy. What he speaks of will certainly reach the ears of the adults, of the court where the power truly lies. Lucien stands.

  “Your Highness?” Ulla clears her throat, clearly nervous. Malachite stands with him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

  “Luc,” he murmurs. “What are you doing?”

  Lucien ignores him and takes his long braid in his other hand, placing the bite of the sword just beneath the midnight hair at the base of his skull. In one fell movement, he slices the braid from his head cleanly, his hair hanging short. It suits his sharp face even more than his long locks did. The nobles give an audible gasp, clutching at their mouths. The royal family’s hair is their pride, a symbol of their utmost power and regality. He might as well be cutting off the very crown from his head. The guards and nobles are so quiet in the moments after, you can hear the buzz of the fireflies hanging in the stillness. Lucien drops the braid to the ground, the hair skittering across the grass with a faint wind. He sheathes his sword, lifting his water glass again.

  “For a new Vetris,” the prince says, voice clear. “A new Cavanos.”

  The stunned silence is deafening. Something clear and crisp breaks it—a slow, strong clap. Next to me, Fione applauds, standing tall, her cane forgotten and her blue eyes shining at the prince. He looks so incredibly determined, so perfectly poised and ready for anything. Admiration glows on my cheeks—admiration diluted with despair. He’s ready for so much. But not for his heart to be gone by the morn.

  Fione’s clapping breaks the spell of silence over the camp, and the nobles echo her hesitantly, one by one rising to their feet and clapping, as if unsure this is what they’re supposed to do. Following the flow. But wariness gives way to murmurs, then smiles, then a deafening racket as some nobles begin to cheer. Some remain seated, glowering into their plates, clearly unenthused by the prince’s vision. But most are on their feet. I stand, and I clap with them.

  “Long live Prince Lucien! Long live Prince Lucien!”

  Lucien’s stone face melts, and he grins at them. He raises his goblet in a toast, and the nobles clink their glasses together and drink. I bring my eyes to his, only to find him already staring at me with a streak of fierce joy—so hot it burns my skin.

  17

  T’raGan

  DHim Af-artora,

  Af-reyun Horra

  The effect of the prince’s speech can be felt as ripples throughout the camp—from the highest noble to the youngest stableboy, wine flows and smiles abound. Everyone is talking. A Cavanos of peace? A Cavanos without hate, without fear? Without the threat of war? Guards chatter—eager to see a time of peace wherein the chances they’ll die on the battlefield are slim. The cooks of the camp—women, mostly—titter excitedly about what they’d do if they could leave the safety of Vetris’s walls, where they’d go, what new and exciting places they’d see.

  Hope.

  That’s what drips from everyone’s mouth. I can almost see it as a golden honey on their lips as Fione and I walk through camp toward my tent after dinner. With the cold steel curtain of fear lifted, humanity doesn’t seem nearly so terrifying and strange. They have hopes and dreams, just like I do. Given the chance, they want peace just like I do.

  “Never in a million years did I think our dour little prince would inspire so many,” Fione muses with a little laugh. “He’s barely been able to look at a noble without a sneer for ten years, and all of a sudden he’s instilling courage in them! What’s gotten into him?”

  I touch my lips absently, the memory of his kiss lingering. I look up to see Fione’s face very near mine, her blue eyes voraciously curious.

  “Now that I think about it, you’ve been awfully quiet the whole night. You’ve snarked maybe two times total, and that’s being generous. Do you have a fever? Is your brain addled?”

  “If it is, you’re going to have to teach me how to use a salad fork again.”

  A courier approaching us cuts off her laugh. He looks very young and thin compared to the royal couriers stabled at the Hunt—the same hungry thinness as that girl Lucien gave the gold watch to, the girl with one eye. He hands Fione a letter, and she unfolds it, reading quickly. Her whole posture changes in a moment—spine straight, skin draining to white so quickly it’s as if she’s made of paper.

  “Fione—what’s the matter?” I ask. She swallows, eyes riveted to the page. Finally she shoves the paper at me. The writing is sloppy, but dire:

  Checked Gavik’s cell. Guards tell me it’s been empty since this morn—he bribed one of them. The king’s been keeping it quiet. Last known location headed east from Vetris. Stay safe.

  My stomach tumbles over itself. I look up from the letter, but Fione is already walking away from me, cane insistently thumping into the grass with great speed.

  “Fione! Wait!” I finally catch up. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.” Her knuckles gripping the cane are white, too. “There’s only one reason he’s headed this way—for me. I’m one of the scarce few he taught to solve puzzle-locks. He’d make his way down the list, I knew that. And now—” She swallows. “Now he’s coming for me.”

  “I can help,” I insist. “I can challenge him to a duel, stop him at the gates, and you can escape—”

  Her laugh is fragile. “You think he’ll stop to duel you? I took everything from him, Zera. And he’s going to take everything from me. But the joke is on him. He already did, all those years ago. All that’s left to take is my life.”

  “We can get the guards to watch for him—”

  “The guards won’t stop him. King Sref’s kept it quiet—they don’t know he’s a traitor. He’ll order them to bring me to him, and that will be the end of me.”

  “Then—the royal guards! They listen only to Lucien—”

  “As skilled as they are, the lawguards outnumber them fifty to one. You don’t think I haven’t thought of every possible avenue of escape already?” she snaps. “Nothing you suggest is any better than what I can think of.”

  I flinch. Her venom is born of fear. But I deserve it anyway. She just doesn’t know that yet.

  “Let me help.” I put a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll do whatever you need.”

  “You’ll remain quiet about this. You’ll act like nothing’s wrong. And if he shows his face, I’ll tell him what I did—how I feel about him—once and for all. No masks. No facades. Only a niece who hates her uncle. Only a family argument that’s been brewing for thirteen years.”

  Fione turns on her heel and enters her tent, never inviting me in. It’s a clear sign she wants to be left alone, and I have to honor that. It’s the least I can do. Or is it?

  Ulla lets the dark settle in and the wine wear off before she announces that it’s time for the purification. She’s going on as if nothing has happened at all—the smartest move, and the one least likely to get her own skin in trouble later. Whatever repercussions ensue from Lucien’s speech, she’s staying far away from them. Despite Lucien’s words about shirking Vetris’s traditions, he obviously thinks the purification one is worth keeping—perhaps
because it’s an Old Vetrisian tradition, and not a new one?

  The servants saddle the nobles’ horses, Fisher preparing one of his gray mares for me.

  “She’s gentle as can be, miss,” he insists. “You won’t have any problems with her.”

  I warily place my hand on the mare’s flank before I try to mount her. I haven’t ridden a horse in years—I think the last time I did was before I became Heartless. Y’shennria never taught me, thinking the carriage enough to transport me for the short time I was with her. I slide off the mare’s side quickly, the other nobles staring. It should be so easy for me—for a supposed farm girl. My whole face lights red; I won’t let something this small make them suspect me this late in the game.

  I feel a strong grip around my waist the next time I haul myself up, and that extra boost is just enough to get me in the saddle. Malachite smirks lazily up at me.

  “You looked like you could use a hand, milady.”

  “And you look like you enjoyed giving one,” I drawl.

  “What can I say? I delight in my service.”

  “Then perhaps you’ll do me another service,” I say. He quirks a silver-gray brow.

  “Name it, and I’ll…well, I’ll extensively consider it.”

  I lean in to make sure none of the guards are listening. “Fione’s gotten word the archduke’s broken out of his cell and is coming east. And the king hasn’t announced he’s a traitor publicly yet.”

  Malachite narrows his eyes at Fione, who ascends a roan gelding with an ease only possible with years of training.

  “To get the last stab in?” he asks.

  “Most likely. You know him—he isn’t the world’s most understanding man.”

  Malachite snorts. “That’s a mild way to put it. Did Lucien’s kiss startle all the spunk out of you or something?”

  I freeze. “Y-You know about that?”

  “I know he hasn’t stopped grinning like an idiot.” Malachite sighs. “And I haven’t spent most of my life with you, but you’re easy to read. Something’s bothering you real deep down. Is it your feelings for him?”