Send Me Their Souls (Bring Me Their Hearts)

by Sara Wolf

  “I wanted to be a good king,” Lucien’s voice comes out hoarse. “I wanted to—I saw what my father was doing to the country, and I didn’t want to be anything like him. I promised myself I wouldn’t close my ears to my people. I promised I’d use my power and wealth for good, not for fear.”

  I want to reach for his hand on the railing, but this seems important. I don’t want to distract him. And, deep down, I don’t want to feel his unmoving hand. Not right now. Not when I’m afraid more than ever of losing him.

  He clenches his working hand. “And then I realized, somewhere along the way. Somewhere between stealing my hundredth gold bracelet from some noble’s wrist to give to the urchins to pawn for food, I realized it. A kingdom is only as good as its king. Which means the cornerstone of the people’s well-being relies on what kind of person the king is. And left in a vacuum of power and pleasure, the majority of people become selfish. Princes raised to be kings most of all.”

  “A king’s worth is one potato,” I say softly.

  He looks over at me and smiles, his broad lips sad.

  “Yes. It’s a system doomed to untold cruelty at worst, and negligence at best.”

  “So…what will you do?”

  His hawk-eyes pierce back out at the ocean. “Change. I don’t know how, precisely, or when. But if I’m to do what’s best for the people, for my people, then I must change things. Even if it means upheaval. Even if it means temporary strife. The fact that I must change it alone is a burden. But it’s my burden to bear. And, hopefully, the last.”

  “You could just be king,” I insist. “You would be a good one.”

  “That…” He chuckles, the sound bitter. “That’s the conceit, Zera. Don’t you see? Thinking that one person alone could decide justly and without bias the correct thing for millions of people…that is what being king means. It’s an impossibility. But it’s a convenient one, isn’t it? If the king is bad, if the people are suffering, it’s the king’s fault, not his ministers’. Not the systems in place that make the nobles richer and the people poorer. The king’s. An arbiter of impossible decisions and a scapegoat to place blame on all in one.”

  I’m speechless. His words strike deep, and are terrifying.

  “To think I could rule a country alone, decide what’s best for a whole country’s people completely alone… I’d be no better than Varia. I’d be holding on to power fearfully, instead of hopefully, and using it as a weapon as she uses the Bone Tree and the valkerax.”

  “Lucien—”

  “You made your decision.” He turns to me, our chests close now. “You said you would choose, no matter what. That to choose was your right. And you’re correct. To choose is your right. But to choose is everyone’s right, not just yours. Not just mine. Not just the king’s, and not just Varia’s. It’s all of ours. That’s why I have to stop her. That’s why, even if she’s my sister, even if I love her—”

  His voice splinters, throat bobbing, and he reaches out for me. I take his hands in mine, holding them close to my face so he knows I’m here. So he can feel my heat, my realness.

  “This.” I laugh a watery laugh. “This is why I fell in love with you.”

  “Self-aggrandizing speeches?” His smirk is reluctant.

  “No. Your sense of justice. The way you stay true to what you believe is right. I don’t think anyone can be right all the time, but you.” I tilt my face and kiss his palm. “You come the closest to anyone I’ve ever met. You think about other people before yourself. Always. You’ve always put others first, me first, and I—”

  I glance up at him.

  “If this is what you want for yourself, then you should have it. I don’t know what a Cavanos without a king looks like, but…I’ll help you. I’ll help you figure it out. Until the very end.”

  His kiss is slow, hot and lingering against the cold sea air. There’s an edge to it, like a razor buried deep and begging to press into skin, and the soft sound that escapes my lips doesn’t sound like me. It sounds like someone sweeter. His hands find my waist, pulling me flush into him, and that’s when I know—all of him. I want all of him, no matter what that means, no matter the trembling in my body, no matter how or when or why. I want to touch him, every inch of him, and my fingers snake in his belt, under his shirt, feeling all the hard contours I’ve only seen up until now, only been tempted with—

  “Well would you lookit that.”

  The voice is a bucket of close, freezing water, and Lucien and I practically leap away from each other. The watchman stands at the railing beside us, puffing on his pipe and pointing beyond our shoulders, down. He flashes a toothless grin up at us with a single word.

  “Moon jellies.”

  Both our faces on fire, we peer over the railing. But all my fiery embarrassment sheds the moment I see the ocean—or rather, the sight beneath the ocean. Lights. Thousands upon thousands of flickering lights, flashing between red-blue to pink-green to yellow-orange and back again like perfectly circular rainbows. Some of them float closer to the surface, bobbing with gelatinous ease along the gentle waves, their tentacles drifting behind them like banners of the finest Avellish lace. The whole sea a dark emerald, but aglow with rainbow light.

  “I’ve—I’ve read about them,” I whisper, grinning over at Lucien. “But I’ve never seen them!”

  His laugh rings as he snakes his hand into mine. “Me neither.”

  “Huh.” The watchman puffs his pipe. “It’s good luck, you know. ’Specially for lovers.”

  “Oh?” Lucien’s eyebrow quirks.

  “Ach, the usual. Together forever in bliss, etcetera etcetera.”

  “Look at that one!” I gasp, pointing at the water. A light a hundred times the size of the others rises up from the depths, its massive circular head an awe-inspiring umbrella of vivid color and soft light. It’s nearly the size of the dinghy attached to the ship, and Lucien makes a choked noise when it floats closer and the massive tentacles prod at the ship’s hull, the gelatinous lace reaching curiously up toward us. I squeeze Lucien’s hand, wide-eyed and grinning huge at him.

  “Oy!” The watchman barks down at it. “Leave ’em alone! They’re havin’ a romantic moment up here, you know!” Blithely unaware of the irony of his words, he picks up a nearby broom and bats at the tentacles with it. “Back! Back, you!”

  Lucien and I glance at each other and devolve into laughter. Despite its titanic size, the moon jelly is so slow, it’s all comedy and no threat, and at some point the broom gets stuck to the jelly’s tentacle and the watchman fumbles it and the cleaning tool goes crashing into the water.

  “Ach, fine! Keep it, then, you scoundrel!” He shakes his fist at the giant moon jelly as it floats away, dragging the broom behind it in its nest of lace. He turns to look at us. “Back to bed with you two, afore the gods send another one for ya.”

  I make a facetious little salute before bouncing off, pulling Lucien along with me. The lingering heat in my veins from his kiss radiates, burning my cheeks even as we settle in our respective hammocks again. Hammocks are impossible for two people. I know that. Still. Still, I want him now more than ever. And I know he feels the same, because he decides to sleep facing me, a knowing smirk on his face.

  “They’ll have real beds in the Black Archives,” he murmurs. A promise.

  “Maybe.” I feign impartiality. “Or maybe there will only be beach.”

  “Then”—his smirk grows—“there will only be beach.”

  “You—!” My face blisters red as I roll over and hiss. “Go to sleep.”

  His laugh is so gentle and deep, it sends a prickle up and down my spine.

  “Reluctantly, I assure you.”

  18

  A REST

  Considering the emotionally exhausting mess we’ve been through since the Bone Tree on the mountain, the four days on the Lady Terrible feel like unre
al bliss. Like a break of grass between the hard, thorny thicket that’s been our lives of late. Nowhere to go, nothing to do but sit and wait and work and eat. And while my mind certainly still churns around itself like a farm child’s first attempt at making butter, there are distractions. In the form of a handsome prince, mostly. And his friend-slash-bodyguard who won’t leave us alone.

  “I know how this works,” Malachite insists, trailing behind Lucien and me as we walk the halls hand in hand. “I’ve seen way too many hormonal nobles’ kids sneak off for a quick one and come back pregnant.” His ruby eyes glower at my navel. “Does that thing work?”

  I shrug. “Not entirely sure. I haven’t had my cycle since I was turned, so…”

  “Good,” the beneather breathes out. “Because two Zeras running around is a nightmare I’ve had before, and I’d rather eat horseshit than have it again. Or in real life.”

  “What about two of me?” Lucien offers mildly. “That wouldn’t be so bad.”

  “Are you kidding?” Malachite throws his hands out. “Do I look like I can babysit two deluded princes at once? I have four stomachs, not ten arms!”

  “Mal, please.” I sigh. “If we reproduce, I promise you will be the first to know. Okay?”

  “Please don’t,” he groans.

  “We weren’t planning to,” Lucien drawls. “But now that you seem so invested, we might have to. Just to spite you.”

  “Good.” The beneather throws his hands up. “Great. I’ll be updeck whittling a crib if you need me.” He whirls on the stairs and points menacingly. “Don’t need me.”

  He storms up, his boots practically shaking the hull with every angry step.

  “Bye!” I wave sweetly. “Have a nice time!” When he’s gone, I turn to Lucien. “He’s cheery.”

  “Undoubtedly,” the prince agrees lightly. “He’s never been good at sharing. Or letting go.”

  “Or manners,” I add.

  “Or emotional subtlety. Remind me to send him home to Pala Amna for a vacation after all this.”

  “And by ‘vacation’ you mean ‘a quick roll in the hay.’” I translate.

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps he finds his own romantic interest and leaves ours alone for a while.”

  “I’d miss him, though,” I pout. “Who would we hire to spy on us while we kiss, then? It’s just not the same thrill without a constant onlooker.”

  His eyes glimmer as he looks over at me. “Your sarcasm is sometimes unsettlingly genuine.”

  “Thank you.” I beam.

  We pass the mess hall, and among the few sailors finishing up their shift meal at the long tables sits Fione, cane resting on the bench and her head bent over the green-backed book. She reads fiercely, flipping pages back and forth with a knot between her brows.

  “Don’t you think she’s working too hard?” I whisper to Lucien, and he sighs.

  “As if she knows the meaning of the word. Especially when it comes to Varia.”

  “She put on such a sweet front when we first met,” I reminisce. “But she was looking for Varia the entire time. Plotting. Full of surprises, that one.”

  “Look who’s talking.” Lucien curls a smirk in my direction.

  I fake-huff. “My surprises were calculated. Self-serving.”

  A swift shadow, and I feel his lips on my forehead. “And they brought you to me.”

  Giddiness wells up in me, the hunger trying to claw it back down, to drag it to the afterlife instead of embrace it. It’s still hard, to accept his love at the drop of a hat, without doublethinking or flinching away. Maybe it’ll always be hard. But at the very least, I’m trying. I’m trying to make it work, this time, instead of running away.

  This time, I lean up and kiss him back.

  The whistles that go around the mess reverberate, cheers and leering, and the prince and I part at the same time, sheepishly smiling at each other. This is the only thing to get Fione’s cute little snub nose out of her book, and she shuts it and walks over. Lucien puts on a modicum of a business face for her.

  “Anything to report?” he asks.

  “No,” she admits wearily. “I still need the codices. But it doesn’t hurt to memorize the letters in the meantime.”

  The dark circles under her eyes are faint but there. I know she hasn’t been getting much sleep.

  “She’s—” I pause, tabulating the weight of my words. “She’s thinking about you, you know. I’ve seen it.”

  Fione’s face falls, and then sets grim. She can’t even manage to smile. How would she? Saving Varia might mean destroying all magic on Arathess. She knows, like I know, that Varia wouldn’t want that. No one wants that, except maybe Archduke Gavik and Vetris. But Vetris is effectively gone. Gavik is dead. New God, Old God—it doesn’t matter anymore. All that’s left are the valkerax, and Varia, and stopping both of them.

  I promised Fione. My promise shines back at me in her hopeful blue eyes, hopeful despite everything—I promised I’d find a way to get Varia back alive, no matter what. But what if it’s a promise I can’t keep? What if all promises are things people can’t truly keep? We make promises to make people feel better, to give them hope, and when the time comes to fulfill, it’s often impossible. Promises themselves are just empty words.

  What is gratitude—Evlorasin’s voice rings in my head—but a promise made whole?

  “I promised, Fione,” I try into the stiff air. “And I don’t intend to break it.”

  She shutters the light behind her eyes, the hope there dimming to shadow.

  Lucien steps in then. “The Black Archives will have answers, Fi.”

  The archduchess nods. “Yes. But I’m not sure they’ll be the answers we want.”

  We watch her go up the stairs to abovedeck, the book clutched under her arm.

  Lucien inches his fingers into mine slowly. “Do you think we make her sad?” he asks. “Being together like this?”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “Probably.”

  “Then that just means we’ll have to get Varia back.” He smiles wanly. “As fast as we can.”

  The last two days on the ship feel like they go by in a pleasant, perfect blur. Perfect blue sky, perfect sea, perfect moments soaking up the sun in Lucien’s arms. Malachite braiding my hair, grumbling the whole while. Fione, smiling small when I finally, finally make the right joke.

  Only when the crow’s nest calls “land ho” does cold reality start to seep in again.

  The entire ship crowds abovedeck, straining at the railing to see the island. The scuttlebutt among the crew is that the Lady Terrible doesn’t make frequent stops to the Black Archives—or at all—but the Cavanosian war and the subsequent valkerax attacks changed that. The usual ship routes were overturned as captains scattered to calculate profit versus risk. So this is a rarity for them. To see the fabled island of the scholar-monks now is their first.

  As it’s mine.

  The island itself is a little green jewel tucked far and away in the pocket of the ocean. The greenery is so tall and fresh as it cascades down the mountainside, because that’s all the island really is—a mountain. A considerable peak rises up from the beaches, jungle between, and while it’s nowhere near the height of the Tollmont-Kilstead mountains, it’s more vertical height than we’ve seen in days on the flat ocean.

  But the peak isn’t the most impressive part. That title belongs to the thousands of steps carved into the peak, all of them leading toward the black tower embedded firmly at the very top. As the ship bobs closer, I suck in a sharp breath—the tower isn’t built on top of the peak at all. The tower is the peak. From between the gentle roll of the earth as it ascends come windows, balconies, long terraces growing crops, and waterfalling streams, all of it made of shimmering black rock. Beside me, Fione’s voice takes pride in its knowledge.

  “They hollowed the mountain and used the volcanic ro
ck to create the Archives inside it.”

  Malachite whistles, muscling in next to me. “Not bad earthwork, for a bunch of bookworm humans. Almost reminds me of Pala Amna.”

  Fione turns to face him. “Where do you think the beneathers learned earthwork?”

  Malachite’s white brow skyrockets. “Here? Yeah, right. We’re way older than some library—”

  “It’s not ‘some’ library,” Fione corrects. “It’s the library. The library before Old Vetris. Before the beneathers took on the burden of living underground and guarding the valkerax. Your people learned earthwork from this library.”

  Malachite’s face sets hard, and he stares at the mountain-library with a well-disguised smidgen of newfound awe.

  “Raise sails!” The captain trounces around the deck, flinging orders. “You there, Heartless! Get on the winches. Beneather, help the men ready the anchor. Archduchess, what can you do?”

  Fione pauses thoughtfully. “Calculate the angle of approach? If you haven’t already.”

  “Do that, then. The port’s on the west side. But it’ll be dark.”

  Malachite and I look at each other, and I mouth dark? Fione seems to understand, though, pulling out her brass seeing tube and peering at the island as she says, “Aye aye, captain.”

  Between hauling stiff, salt-stained rope over and over, I see the captain walk up to Lucien. She says something, he nods. The raucous excitement of the crew is infectious—whispers and murmurs between grunting about what the Archives look like.

  “I’ve heard they make you strip down and get sprayed before you step foot on land,” a sailor says.

  “Oh yeah? I heard they’re blind as bats from all the reading. Every. Single. One.”

  “Ach, well, if they cannae see, that means more fancy books for me!”

  The laughter shatters the quiet of the ocean, bouncing off the black-stone cliffs as we approach. I look up at Fione, at the helm with the captain. Where are they leading us? A port’s supposed to be in calm water, but the ship is bobbing worse than ever. We could just anchor out by the beach and ride the dinghy in—that would be far easier than navigating such rough water so close to land. After all, who knows what kind of rocks are just under the surface? The sailors seem equally confused, glancing around nervously at one another and the looming cliffs above as the cool shade envelops us.