Bring Me Their Hearts by Sara Wolf
“Do you know what she told me,” I continue, “when I asked her why she brought me the bandits? She said, ‘Because I thought that’s what all humans want. Revenge.’”
I put my hands between my knees, then pull them out. That’s not how a lady sits. I press my knees together instead, holding my head high and my shoulders wide in a pale mockery of Y’shennria’s perfect posture. Her hazel gaze is fixed on me, and I stare back, the old, bitter glaze of regret settling. I try a smile, because I know I must look terrible. It’s hollow on my lips.
“And she was right.”
3
Water for
a Witch
We stop to rest the horses two hours out from Vetris. A sudden fog rolls in on the grasslands, turning everything gray and dreary, but I don’t mind. The scenery is still brand new. My eyes absorb every gray blade of grass, every ripple of wind among the reeds, every ghostly outline of the rabbits and hawks whirling together in the dance of death. Y’shennria and I get out to stretch our legs, and she has Fisher pull down a trunk from the top of the carriage. She rummages through it before handing me a sleek green silk dress, braided with silver threads. It’s gorgeous—the sort of thing I’d only dreamt about in the woods.
“Old God’s tit!” I plunge my hands into the smooth silk, rubbing it against my cheek. “Did you really get this for me, Auntie?”
“A lady doesn’t swear.” Y’shennria sniffs. “And she certainly doesn’t call me ‘auntie.’”
“But that’s what you are, right? My auntie. Auntie, auntie, auntie.” I hold the dress up to my bust, watching the skirt billow. “It’s kinda fun to say.”
She flinches minutely at each repetition. “Enough. Change into that before we enter the city. Those rags of yours will convince no one.”
“Hey!” I look down at my tattered, faded blue dress, the lace bodice stained with old blood and dirt and the back ripped to shreds by the celeon assassin’s dagger just today. “This rag served me well. And before I stole it from a carriage’s trunk, it served some noble lady well. It deserves a proper dress funeral.”
Y’shennria quirks a dark brow. “You’ve stolen from nobles?”
“‘Stolen’ is such an ugly word.” I wrinkle my nose. “I prefer ‘long-term donation.’”
“The witches never informed me of this.”
“The witches are a little desperate,” I say. “In case you haven’t noticed. And desperate people get sloppy about details.”
She looks nervous, her stone mask cracking for the first time. “Did any of the nobles see your face?”
I sigh. “I know it’s sometimes hard to tell through my impeccable acting—”
“Did they or did they not?” she barks imperiously. Fisher looks up from petting the horses. I breathe out.
“No. Of course I covered my face. I’m sort of very good at making myself hard to see. Comes with the territory of being hunted by every human in the country.”
Y’shennria’s cracks slowly fill in, her mask cementing itself again. “All I can do is take your word for that. And I despise relying on words alone. You will tell me any and all secrets of yours that might hinder our goal—”
“I’ve told you everything.”
There’s a tense silence between us, her eyes prying into my own cracks, as if she’s deciding whether she can trust me. She doesn’t have a choice—she has to trust me as much as I have to trust her. Finally, she turns and retreats into the carriage.
When she’s gone, I feel the weight that’s settled on my chest since I left the forest lift a little. I press the dress to my body, whirling around with the skirts. It’s a thousand times nicer than anything I’ve worn in my life. I didn’t used to like dresses—I remember that much about my human life—but becoming a Heartless shifts your priorities around drastically. I went from wearing breeches every day to stealing beautiful dresses—the prettier the things I wore, the less I felt like a freakish monster removed from her humanity. A good skirt became better than any armor for me.
I dress quickly behind a far line of heavy bushes, cradling my old bloodstained dress in my arms. When I return to the carriage, Y’shennria snatches the dress from me.
“We’re discarding this.”
“But that was my favorite—”
“Your life as a Heartless is over,” she asserts. “From now on, you are my niece. You are an Y’shennria. And an Y’shennria would never be caught hanging on to such an ugly garment.”
I swallow, any witty words lost in the realization that she’s right. Who I was doesn’t matter. Who I have to become is the only thing I can focus on now. Y’shennria tosses the ragged dress into the bottom of the trunk.
“Now, let us see you.” She turns, walking around me in slow circles. She muses, “You wear it well, even if your posture is hideous. You may be coarse-tongued, but you have a voluptuous body, and this will serve you in catching the prince’s eye.”
“I’m to seduce him, then?” I chirp. “And here I thought it was an aunt’s job to be against allowing her niece to have any fun.”
Y’shennria’s face is solemn. “We will do anything to have the prince’s heart—you must do anything. Do you understand that?”
I swallow her words like lead. Anything beyond mild flirting is a huge blank in my repertoire of experience. It’s been three years since I’ve seen a boy my age. There was that one mercenary who came to the woods to kill Nightsinger, only a year older than I, but cutting his left pinky off hardly qualified as “flirting.” The woods never made me stop to consider my body as anything more than something to be fed and cleaned, yet Vetris demands I think of men, of women, of anyone who’d desire me. And desire is a strange, foreign game to a murderous monster.
Five men, their tortured screams like honey to your ears as you ripped their tongues out—
I breathe in deeply. “I’ll do anything. You have my word.”
“A Heartless’s word means nothing,” Y’shennria says. “I can do nothing but hope you stay true.”
That disappointment gnaws at me again, but I can’t refute what I am. Y’shennria looks me up and down, rummages in the trunk, and hands me an ivory hairbrush and a leather thong.
“Do something about the mess on your head. We’ll have to cut it when we get home.”
“You don’t like it? I was hoping forest-grown split ends were in style in Vetris.”
“It’s not the split ends, it’s the length. Long hair is a symbol of rank in the Vetrisian courts, and it always has been,” she insists. “Men, women, it doesn’t matter—the longer it is, the more powerful your family. Only the royal family has hair as long as yours. Firstblood families keep their hair shorter than that as a show of respect.”
“So only they get to look amazing? Bit selfish, don’t you think?” I grunt, and begrudgingly pull my gold hair back into a ponytail. Y’shennria looks mildly satisfied, for once.
“What about that rusted old thing?” She points to the sword on my hip. “There’ll be lawguards everywhere—you’ll hardly need to defend yourself. Physically, at least. Socially, however, is another story.”
I grip the hilt. “I keep the sword.”
“A sword is fine on a lady,” she agrees. “But one as ugly as that? No. Impossible. Discard it, and I’ll buy you a new one in Vetris.”
“I said no.”
“You will get rid of that unsightly thing, or I will—”
“I’ll do anything. Wear any dress, seduce any prince. But the sword stays.”
“At least tell me why you’re so intent on it.”
I clutch the blade closer. “It was my father’s.”
She’s quiet, and then finally she sighs. “Fine. Keep your rust. If it drives the prince away, it’s you who will be apologizing to the witches in the afterlife.”
“If a simple sword drives the prince away,” I fire back, “I can’t imagine what my personality might do.”
Fisher leads the horses by to hook them back up to the carriage. They’
“Hurry and eat,” she demands. “We leave soon, and I won’t have you making a mess in the carriage.” I unwrap it to see a boar’s heart inside.
It looks like his heart, doesn’t it? the hunger hisses. That old man you tore limb from limb.
Burning, and desperate to stop burning, I look up at Y’shennria and ask, “How will I eat in Vetris?”
“I’ll be the one providing you with food,” she says. “Discreetly, of course. The witches informed me hearts and livers satiate you easier. But they didn’t tell me how—” She swallows, the second outward sign of nervousness from her, but she tames it quickly. “How often must you eat?”
“Every hour on the hour,” I drawl. “A thousand infants’ hearts.”
A shadow passes over her face, and I quickly remember she lost her family to us. Too close. Too real.
“Sorry. I do this thing where I joke before I think, and it’s terrible sometimes.” I clear my throat quickly. “We eat twice. Morning and night. Livestock or wild game.”
“Not so different from us, then,” she murmurs. “Very well. I’ll arrange this. I’ll have someone I can trust deliver meals to your room, where you can eat”—she tamps down a flinch—“privately.”
With that being settled, she returns to the carriage. Eating near Y’shennria seems almost cruel, especially after I ran my mouth like an idiot, so I walk off the road a little ways and sit down, the long grass hiding me from view. When I’m done, I wash my hands in a puddle and head back to the carriage. Y’shennria refuses to look at me, preferring to read a book as Fisher urges the horses into a trot. I, on the other hand, casually and constructively pass the time by dwelling in my head on every moment I’ve ever been horrible to someone. Eventually we crest a hill, and Fisher calls out, “The city is in sight, mum!”
The city! A city! Y’shennria doesn’t move, but I eagerly stick my head out the window. There, in all its glory, is Vetris—a halo of whitestone spires ringed by emerald farmland. A sea of windblown grass all around us looks like crushed velvet from this height, swaying in time with the jade-green banners strung atop the intimidating wall that cradles the city proper. It’s so much more massive than I thought it’d be. Stone buildings and brass machines crowd inside, blowing out great buffets of smoke and steam. A giant building that must be the royal palace Y’shennria talked about lords over it all, tower upon tower glittering white in the high noon sun, the grounds around it latticed with an intricate pattern of sapphire waterways.
“Put your head back in this instant,” Y’shennria barks. “Before someone sees you.”
I retreat. “Please tell me using my eyes isn’t considered unladylike.”
“We aren’t here for your sightseeing. We’re here to do a job. A job which we will speak of no more, unless we are alone and in private. The court has ears and eyes everywhere. Caution is paramount to our success. If you’re unsure whether you should say something—”
“‘Don’t say it at all. Silence is better than chance,’” I finish for her. “Yeah, I remember that one.”
I fold my arms over my chest until Y’shennria quirks a brow at me. Right. Unladylike. I put my hands at my sides and crane my head, desperate for a good angle that’ll let me see the city again. Finally it comes into view. There’s another building, almost as big as the palace itself, coated with iron spikes along its edges. The tallest spire has a very familiar metal symbol on it—the Eye of Kavar. Three lines, angled through one oval, forming a sort of pupil where they meet. It’s strange seeing it so big—I’m used to very small versions as pendants around the necks of mercenaries and hunters. No doubt that’s the Temple of Kavar, the New God. Right next to the temple is the Crimson Lady the witches were talking about—an obelisk of redstone, but not as bright a red as I imagined. It’s a rusty color, almost dull, and it stretches tall, barely shy of the temple’s tallest spire. The top is flat, and nothing about it seems unusual save for its color. Whatever magic-detecting force it’s emitting is utterly invisible.
I say a moment’s prayer for the Lady to pass me over.
The road becomes busy around us, then busier, and then we’re in the very middle of an undulating crowd of humans and celeons alike: merchant carts, dust-weary travelers, farmers hauling their meats and vegetables into town, and lawguards. Lawguards. The chainmail armor they wear and the sword-shaped badges on their chests feel familiar, even if I can’t remember them from my human life.
“Sit up straight,” Y’shennria says. “We’re here.”
The shadow of the imposing main gate plunges over us. Fisher brings the carriage to a stop, his conversation with someone else barely audible above the crowd’s din. My ears ache—I haven’t heard so many people, so much noise compounded on itself, in so long. A celeon lawguard’s plumed helmet is suddenly in our carriage window, and I start back. His feline face is a rouge-ish purple-red, furred in some spots and smooth with iridescent scales in others. His tendril-like whiskers are far shorter than the assassin’s were.
“Good morning, officer.” Lady Y’shennria smiles. She never once smiled on our way here, but now she turns it on full-force.
“Milady.” The lawguard bows. “And who might this be?”
His golden eyes are on me. This is practice—if I can’t make eye contact with a lawguard as if I’m nobility, how will I ever look another noble in the eye? I force myself to gaze at him, burying the lies behind my irises with a sweet grin.
“This is my niece.” Y’shennria turns her smile to me, and I feel somehow itchy under it. “My stepbrother’s bastard, but of Y’shennria lineage nonetheless. The Minister of the Blood found her only recently—and I’m simply overjoyed.”
The lawguard smiles wanly, all his sharp teeth showing. “If you don’t mind my saying, milady, I’m glad of this. Kavar knows you deserve a bit of happiness in your life.”
“That’s very kind of you to say.”
The lawguard pats the carriage with his clawed hand, and Fisher takes that as a signal to trot the horses through. I glance up at the Crimson Lady, at the lawguards I can see now standing in the windows at the very top, but Y’shennria frowns.
“Fret not. If it had sensed anything, we’d be in the process of being arrested right now.”
“How? How would those guards up there tell the ones down here so quickly?”
Y’shennria motions to the side of the gate, where two or three strange copper tubes no higher than my waist stick up from the cobblestones. “The watertells.”
A popping noise bursts through the crowd’s cacophony, and I jump—one of the copper tubes expunges water wildly, then goes silent again. The lawguard nearby thumps his fist on top of the tube, and it opens like a lid. He reaches inside, pulling out yet another copper tube, smaller. This one holds a piece of parchment, perfectly dry. He reads its contents and searches over the heads of the crowd, pointing at a woman with a cart of eggplants. The other lawguards close in on the woman.
“Don’t stare,” Y’shennria mutters. I have no choice either way—Fisher presses the carriage onward, and I lose sight of the woman and her lawguard accosters in the crowd.
The ominousness of it all lingers, but soon the city takes my breath away. At first that’s a good thing, because the stench of horse excrement is everywhere, mixing with the smell of roasting meats and a very human smell—hot metal. The breeze is merciful, wicking away most of the smoke and steam from the machines and houses, but a strange acrid scent still hangs in the air. I look to the watertells—a copper tube on every block, it seems. But they can’t be making that smell, unless the water is rancid.
“White mercury,” Y’shennria answers my unspoken question when I wrinkle my nose. “That’s the scent it gives off as it’s converted to energy. The major
I only half absorb what she says as my eyes drink in everything. We pass by stalls selling rainbow silks and jewels, and I do a double take when I see a celeon leading what looks like a massive insect through the streets. It has a thick, chitinous yellow body that gleams in the sun and six powerful legs tipped with hairs. Its two long antennae twitch this way and that, and its four eyes are black and bulbous, imprinted with a pattern of interlocked hexagons.
“Mirtas,” Y’shennria answers me yet again before I can ask. “An animal native to the celeon homeland. The celeon tame them for riding, as horses tend to dislike the celeon. They didn’t used to be so big, but the Wave that gave the celeon sentience also increased the mirtas’s size.”
“They’re amazing.” I gape. “Like nothing I’ve ever seen.”
She points past the giant insects to a passing few people in plain brown hemp robes, the only thing gaudy about them their heavy belts hanging with all sorts of complicated tools I’ve never seen before.
“Polymaths. Of those you know, I assume.”
“Scientists, doctors of the mind and body—philosophers and scholars. The most intelligent people in Cavanos.”
“The most intelligent,” she agrees. “And the most dangerous.”
“Is writing books and papers considered dangerous now?”
“Who do you think invented the Crimson Lady?” she asks. “The watertells, the pumps that make them possible? Who do you think truly won the war for the humans against tens of thousands of witches with omnipotent magic and hordes of Heartless on their side?”
I watch the brown-robed figures as they pass, a new wariness growing in me. She has a very good, and very terrifying, point.
As we pass through to a quieter district lined with shops, I notice more and more iron over the doorways. Every house, every shop, every baked goods stall—all of them have the iron eye of Kavar hanging from somewhere. The people of Vetris are clearly very devout. Or very scared. Perhaps both, considering one feeds the other.