by Sara Wolf
Easy to read? He has no idea what he’s talking about. I force my laugh to sound light. “Not everything in life is about love, Malachite.”
He fixes me with the most serious of crimson stares, a strange thing coming from him. “No. Only the things that matter.”
His words ring wise, wiser than I’ve ever heard him sound. “Will you keep an eye on Fione? If Gavik shows, she’s as good as gone. And I’m not ready to let someone die on my watch again.”
“Again?” Malachite asks sharply, his black irises shrinking to pinpoints as they focus on my face. He’s so quick on the uptake, or maybe I’m just dulled, slowed. I feel like I’ve been moving through quicksand, heavy molten iron, ever since Lucien kissed me.
This is the end—isn’t it? Malachite’s been nothing but a pleasant friend. Friend? Acquaintance. Much less intimate. A more harmless secret of mine won’t hurt anything.
“When I was younger, there were these five bandits,” I start, the words like copper coins in my mouth—bringing up the scent and taste of blood. “And I killed them.”
Malachite is quiet, looking up at me from the horse’s side. He looks shorter from this height. Less capable of cleaving me in two with his broadsword.
“One old, one young, one with no left eye, one with a crooked smile, and one who wouldn’t stop smiling, no matter what I did to him.”
MURDERER GIRL. TERRIBLE GIRL.
“Ever since then,” I talk over the hunger, “I’ve been averse to playing any role in someone’s death.”
“T’ragan dhim af-artora, af-reyun horra,” Malachite says, his crimson eyes a little serious, for once.
“Translation?”
“As we all should be, but as we all cannot be.”
I smile, the feel of it thin on my lips. It’s a beautiful sentiment—a sad one, perhaps fitting for a people who’ve remained fighting the overwhelming valkerax for centuries. The horse trained for the purification ritual begins to move, led by Lucien. My mare is eager to go. I look down one last time at Malachite.
“I’ve always thought the moments you speak Beneather are when your voice sounds the loveliest,” I admit.
And with that, I urge the horse into a trot, leaving him and his pretty words behind.
The ride isn’t long, but it’s fraught with dangers: low-hanging branches and steep dips in the old hunting trails. Dangers the nobility, who’ve barely set a foot outside Vetris in their lives, consider thrilling. Shrill gasps and shrieks of excitement punctuate the ride, Fione one of the few who remains looking straight ahead, focused. When Lucien finally stops at the edge of a black rock formation, we all descend our horses. Ulla and the servants who came with us see to the horses, tying them to nearby trees.
The rock formation seems to be the center of everyone’s attention, and I approach the rocks and the little crowd of nobles gathered around it. There, nestled in the middle of the formation, is a perfect jewel of sapphire water. The Blue Giant is new in the sky, dark, but the Red Twins are full and engorged, shedding bloody light that plays purple across the water. A servant carries a basket of fragrant spices and flowers, throwing them into the pool, the petals rippling across the still surface. Lucien sees me and flashes a smile.
HOW MUCH LONGER WILL HIS HAPPINESS LAST? the hunger screeches.
I’m so wrapped up in tamping the hunger down I don’t notice the flesh becoming more prominent around me until Lucien himself peels off his shirt, the dimpled muscles of his back shadowed in the moonlight and his shoulder blades sharp. I catch a glimpse of black ink eagle, feathers arcing around his shoulder and talons curling around his biceps. Fione stands there still fully clothed, unlike most of the nobles around us who are easing themselves into the water of the spring, giggling and admiring one another’s bodies in less-than-subtle ways.
Ulla walks by us, demanding we strip and join the others in the spring. I expect Fione to be shy, but she immediately pulls her dress over her head, leaving her in only her underthings. She makes her way to the spring, leaning her cane against a nearby rock.
Ulla asks me to undress, harder this time. I unbutton my dress and step out of it, the warm air pillowing against my skin. I keep my locket on, hoping she won’t make me take it off. My stomach, my thighs—everyone in the spring can see it all. I can feel Charm snickering at me, Lord Grat staring. Malachite, despite our tension earlier, gives me an approving wink. He isn’t in the water, instead standing guard outside the spring. Prince Lucien looks me over once and then glances away, so quickly it’s as if he’s been burned. My underthings barely hide anything, and I hurriedly step into the spring, letting the warm water distort my body from their view. Fione sits alone in one corner, picking at the moss on a rock face. Lucien is intently studying the sky, the heat of the spring flushing his neck and jaw.
I look at my hands under the water, fracturing through the red moonlight. I’m so tired of maintaining this facade, of being a monster, of this hunger within me. Lucien’s and Fione’s wants are so straightforward. Fione wanted Gavik punished. Lucien wants to change his kingdom. He wants me. What do I want? I want him. I want him, the happiness he brings me, the crooked grins and soft embraces. He makes me feel human again. He’s the only one who’s ignited a spark of humanity inside me in three years.
But I want the whole of my humanity, and the cost is his.
“Does everyone understand what they’re to do during tomorrow’s hunt?” Lucien asks. I was so lost in my thoughts I didn’t hear a word he said, but I pretend I did, nodding. The circle of nobles also agrees, some of them pale-faced. Of course they’d be—they think they’re off to hunt witches. They have no idea Lucien doesn’t hunt them at all. They have no idea they won’t have a prince, come tomorrow.
HE’LL BE OURS, the hunger hisses with joy. FOREVER.
I await midnight like a doomed man awaits the gallows.
The little sandclock built into my desk ticks away happily, ignorant of my all-consuming terror. I try to make jokes for myself, try to convince myself things will be all right, normal, by changing dresses a dozen times. But the mirror reflects only a pale, haunted girl, with eyes too big and hair too faded, with an emptiness inside her too large to contain.
Even though I know they aren’t, every dress I try looks bloodstained. Wrong.
One last dress—black. Black for mourning.
Part of me prays, to the Old God and the New, that Lucien will arrive at our meeting place with Malachite in tow. Surely Malachite’s told him of Gavik’s approach. Surely he’ll bring along Malachite as an extra sword against the mysterious vanishing bandits the guards spotted earlier.
If he brings Malachite, I can do nothing to him. Even with a broken leg, Malachite’s still a Beneather. I can’t challenge him at all.
But if Lucien doesn’t bring him—
The sandclock strikes midnight. I pick up the silk bag the glass jar rests in and strap Father’s sword to my waist.
Every breath, every smile, every lie has led to this moment. Y’shennria has led me to this moment.
I take the first step outside.
18
The Starving Wolf
and the Black Rose
Beneath the Yew
Getting out of camp is more difficult than it should be—only the nobles are asleep. Ulla directs the cooks in rising sweetrounds in preparation for breakfast tomorrow. The guards patrol relentlessly, perhaps still spooked by the bandit sighting earlier today. Thankfully, most of the patrols are centered around the prince’s tent, giving me a window in which to escape toward the stables. Hiding among horses is far easier than hiding among people, their sheer bulk camouflaging me as I make it to the edge of camp where the forest begins. Only when I’m completely covered by shadow do I look back—the oil lamps and bonfires of the camp burn bright against the darkness.
The forest is more familiar than any home I’ve ever lived in—the smell of trees, the smell of lichen and rot and dry leaves. The scent is identical to Nightsinger’s forest.
<
br /> Nightsinger. I haven’t seen her for two weeks, but it feels like two months. I know she’ll keep her word about giving me my heart back, but only if I bring her the prince’s. If I don’t—
I squeeze my eyes shut and steel my shoulders. The east path is short but twisted, and I scale a hill to see the yew tree nestled in a rocky little gorge. The twisted branches stand out among the pines—the tree itself old and long stripped of bark, bleached by the sun. A dead tree.
A fitting place to end it all.
Lucien is nowhere to be seen, but he is and always will be Whisper, too. He’s somewhere among these shadows, these rocks. Not the north ones—too exposed. Hiding behind the fallen log would be too obvious. That leaves only one place. I approach the trunk of the bleached yew tree slowly, leaning against it.
“If you aren’t here, then I’m losing my touch,” I say. Lucien emerges from behind the other side of the trunk, his short, raven’s-wing hair ruffled by the wind and his smirk lopsided.
THERE YOU ARE, MY PRIZE. MY PREY. The hunger bursts into flame, licking at my insides.
“I have a hard time believing you’ll ever lose that uncanny ability to find me,” Lucien says. He wears the dark leather armor of Whisper that I first met him in. Varia’s sword still hangs at his waist—if I can’t get a surprise attack on him, he’ll fight back, and a repeat of the duel would be disastrous: long, drawn out, messy. It needs to be clean, quick. I need to end this as fast as I can for my own sake—the longer it goes, the more time I have to hesitate.
The longer it goes, the more he’ll despise me. THE MORE I’LL DESPISE MYSELF.
“What did you think of my speech?” He bridges the silence. “The whole time I was giving it I could practically hear you laughing at me for being too serious. I know it’s a little idealistic, but it’s something I’ve always wanted to say. I just never had the courage to. But then I met you, and I learned—”
Lucien’s midnight eyes skitter away from my face. “I apologize. I’m getting ahead of myself.”
There’s another long silence, fraught with tension so thick I feel like I’m breathing molten steel.
“Is Malachite here?” I ask. Lucien shakes his head.
“No. I told him I wanted to be left alone. He doesn’t listen, usually, but when I told him you and I were meeting, he agreed. Not that I’ll last long. I’m sure he’s making his way toward us as we speak, broken leg and all.”
Then I have to hurry.
“For what it’s worth,” I start. “I think you would’ve made a wonderful king.”
His gaze narrows, but only barely, smile still golden on his lips. “Would’ve? What are you talking about?”
SO WILLING TO TRUST ME, the hunger practically salivates. I draw near him, unable to conjure up even a halfhearted sultry look. My skin begs to feel his again, to feel the humanity thrumming through his veins and mine in tandem. His fingers, so long and slender—
TAKE THEM OFF ONE BY ONE. MAKE HIM SUFFER AS HE HAS MADE YOU SUFFER—
Lucien is perfectly still. “Lady Zera—”
“Just Zera,” I insist softly, walking ever closer to him.
“Zera.” He half swallows my name, and it sounds wonderful. “If you hate me for what I did—for that kiss—if you don’t like me at all, please. Just tell me. The wait has been agonizing—”
I laugh darkly. “It has, hasn’t it? Three years for me. Perhaps a few days for you.”
His brows knit now, more the suspicious and bitter Lucien I’m used to. “Three years?”
I can practically hear my freedom beating in his chest. I can taste it—so sweet and light, so free of this terrible guilt I’ve been carrying around for so long. This terrible monster. His heart will absolve me. His heart the only thing I want—
PULL IT FROM HIS CHEST! The hunger screams dementedly, its voice drowning out everything else—Lucien’s words, his face. All that swims sharply before my eyes is the exact patch of leather over his chest where his heart beats. The hunger maddens—I can feel my mind slipping from my fingers like muddy water. The dried livers did nothing to satiate me. I’ve hungered and hungered for so long—
“Zera? Are you all right?”
My eyes flicker up for just a moment to lock with his. His smile still rests on his face. He has no idea what dark, ugly thoughts race through me, and yet he’s smiling at me. Still. A bitter fury runs through me.
“It doesn’t matter if I’m all right,” I grit.
“Don’t speak nonsense—”
“I’m a tool,” I interrupt him with a snarl. “A tool doesn’t have to be all right. Everyone keeps asking it, as if they really care, as if the well-being of someone like me actually matters to them! They have no idea! They’re ignorant little idiots, so willing to trust a girl in pretty dresses with pretty words. DON’T YOU GET IT? You were so clever and distrustful when we first met but now, now you just have that stupid smile on your face. What—did I break down your fragile, self-inflicted barriers? Did your sick infatuation with a monster of a girl blind you?”
I throw back my head and laugh at the look on Lucien’s face—utter confusion. Hurt. I’m hurting him, but with every word I say I’m tearing myself to ribbons. Every word I say is meant for myself, for the past me who’s being so cruel just by pretending to enjoy his presence. Pretending to love him. Because that’s all it was, all it can be—pretend.
I expect him to shout back, to insult me in return. I don’t expect his arms, rough and warm, to encircle me in a single sweeping motion too fast to avoid. He holds me close, the smell of rainwater filling my senses, and the heat of him pressing against every cold part of me.
“You’re not,” he murmurs into my hair. “You’re not a monster of a girl. You’re smart, and so very kind—”
How dare he. HOW DARE HE! The hunger amplifies my fury tenfold, stoking the fire inside me instantly into a blazing inferno.
I push him away as hard as I can, screaming, “What do you know? You’ve spent your entire life in that wretched city, wallowing in your pity and the shadow of your dead sister! You know nothing about me! You of all people don’t get to judge my monstrosity!”
Lucien is stock-still, face frozen in the triple moonlight. And then he melts, a glare in his eyes and his smile gone.
“You— Why are you being like this? You’re like a whole different person.”
“I was never the person you thought you knew,” I sneer. “That girl doesn’t exist. She was there for one purpose, and now it’s over. The girl you fell in love with—that smart, kind thing—is dead, AND I KILLED HER. I’m killing her right now, in front of you, so you get just how badly you fell for a trick. An illusion. Something that isn’t real. Gods help you if you ever do ascend the throne—if a backwoods tool like me could fool you, who knows what someone really good at acting could do.”
“Zera—”
“Elizera, actually. No last name. Daughter of a merchant couple whose faces I can’t remember anymore.”
“—this isn’t you,” he says, hard. Almost imperious.
“This is me.” I smile with all my teeth. “You were just too stupid to see that. Blinded by a nice chest and a nice dress. PATHETIC.”
Lucien staggers back like I’ve physically hit him, and in that instant I nearly crumble. I want nothing more than to embrace him and tell him everything I’m saying is a lie—that I love him, and will marry him, and rule beside him as queen in his hopeful new land of Cavanos. A perfect ending. But that’s not how this ends. Our happiness isn’t what I came here for. It’s mine, and mine alone. The more I make my words hurt, the better he learns his lesson. The smarter he’ll be the next time a girl comes along. The harder I speak, the brighter the truth will shine. And he deserves the truth more than anyone.
Despair. I can feel it opening up beneath me, a yawning black chasm. He still hasn’t reached for his sword. I reach for mine.
IT’S OVER, the hunger cackles, those two words ringing in my ears like a deafening cacophony of scre
ams. IT’S OVER! ALL THE PAIN. ALL MY SUFFERING—FINALLY OVER. FREE! FREE TO LIVE A HUMAN LIFE— My feet move toward him, my teeth growing long as I smile at him. FINALLY THIS WRETCHED HUNGER WILL BE GONE. I WON’T BE A MONSTER, I WON’T BE A MONSTER, I WON’T BE A MONSTER ANYMORE—
The blind anger, the blind lust, it lifts for a scarce moment. My blade is straight out, pointed at Lucien’s chest. He’s staring right at me, betrayal burning dark in his eyes. I can see it—the seeds of hate starting to blossom in his irises. The old me—the dead me—cries out with regret, my blood curdling in cold, final horror.
The only person in this world who makes me truly happy despises me.
My hand holding the sword shakes so hard and so suddenly.
DO IT.
No. (I lifted my veil, and he looked at me like I meant something.)
HE WOULD DO IT TO YOU, HE WOULD DO IT TO YOU IN A HEARTBEAT—ALL HUMANS ARE SELFISH ANIMALS, ALL HUMANS HATE YOU—
No—not him. (He laces his hand in mine as we dance, his eyes like black embers.)
HE’S GOING TO KILL YOU—LOOK AT HIM. LOOK AT HIS FACE. HE HATES YOU. HE’S GOING TO TURN ON YOU. TURN ON HIM WHILE YOU HAVE THE UPPER HAND!
You’re wrong. (He kisses me. He kisses me and the world ends.)
DO IT, YOU COWARD, HE’S RIGHT HERE! INCHES MORE—AN INCH MORE AND WE ARE FREE FOREVER—
“No!” I clutch my head, the hunger fighting me like it never has before—wrenching my innards around, clawing at my throat to let it out, let it complete what it wants. “I won’t do it to him! I won’t make him suffer! Not him!”
My teeth grow even longer, sharper as my screams grow sharper. I fling my arm back and throw my sword as far as I can, before the hunger moves my body again.
“I won’t do it, you godsforsaken monster—”
The flash of searing pain and the cold steel through my chest cuts my words in half. Slowly, I arc my head down to look at the blade sticking from my unheart. Someone’s run me through from behind. Blood drips from the blade, soaking from the wound into my dress, staining the black a dark, wet crimson. Streaks of white liquid, too. I touch the liquid, my fingertips coming away sizzling. White mercury.
