Send Me Their Souls (Bring Me Their Hearts)

by Sara Wolf

  As he walked the streets, he fended off as many roving bands of merrymakers as he could—women offering him fruit from their stalls, shopkeeps holding out legs of cured lamb to him, a girl with a flower basket floating a ring of lilies over his head with a giggle. It was harder to blend in to a crowd now, what with his eyepatch, but part of him was at peace with it. He no longer felt the need to skulk around in Whisper’s gear, stealing trinkets and redistributing the wealth to the poorer. He was helping in far more overt ways, on his own accord, and that required no disguise.

  But that didn’t mean he didn’t hear the call of the shadows anymore.

  He managed to slip away down an alley, cleaner than the ones he remembered but no less cramped and surreptitious. A new city meant a new layout, one he hadn’t memorized as well as he’d liked, but he’d taken to using such breaks to wander, to map in his head the streets and curbs he loved so much. His boots clicked down the cobblestones, around puddles of piss and piles of discarded junk. The smell of horse dung and old vomit was almost a welcome perfume—it’d been quite disturbing to walk the alleyways at their clean, odorless inception.

  And then he heard the footsteps behind him.

  He whirled around, convinced it was another overeager citizen, but the alley behind him was empty. Nothing but cobble. He shook his head and chalked it up to a stray watertell hiss and continued his way down the narrow path. It branched out into a little plaza with a snake fountain, a newer one replete with silver binding and fewer gems. With water so plentiful in homes, people rarely used the fountains anymore, but this left them to be admired, and this he did for some time before crossing the plaza into another alley.

  The former prince was so busy mentally tallying the left turns of this alley that he almost missed the soft rustle of fabric behind him. He whirled again, and this time his suspicions did not fade.

  “Who’s there?”

  Crime was crime—ever-present as long as mortals were present—but he’d done his best to catch the swindlers and conmen who tried to prey upon the rebuilding people. He didn’t want to use magic against such criminals if he could help it—preferring mortal methods. He gripped the white mercury sword at his side, knowing to draw it would be pointless in such a small alley.

  And so he ran.

  And the person behind him ran, too, footsteps echoing.

  He raced through the alley, throwing trash bins and paper piles to the side to distract his stalker. They were fast, and good—he could hear them leaping over the debris easily, redoubling their pace.

  But he was better.

  He called his crow form and flung himself over the wall to his left, white feathers whirling in his wake as his feet touched ground and his cloak streamed behind him. His human legs pumped again, ducking around a butcher’s blood run and through a stretch of low, drying herbs on twine. He was losing them—he was sure of it. Their footsteps were fading.

  And then he swung himself around a corner and, without his perfect mental map of the old Vetris, into an unfortunate dead end. He pulled his sword out and whirled to face his stalker, but the dead end was still too small for the blade to be swung properly.

  “Tsk, tsk. Should’ve brought a dagger, Your Highness.”

  His mind stuttered, his ears pricking at the voice.

  Surely not.

  There was no way—now, of all times? Here? Following him like she had that first time they met? She wouldn’t—this was surely a hallucination as it had been all other times, as it had been in the times in his bed, alone, in the quiet moments of a bath, a meal, where he had wished she was here, her voice playing in his head—

  They appeared from the shadows, a cloaked figure.

  “Enough games!” he snarled. “Who are you?”

  The figure paused and then pulled her hood down.

  Golden hair, spilling over shoulders. Blue-gray eyes, like autumn sky. A smirk, that beautiful smirk, pulling at her rosebud lips.

  He wanted to doubt. But he couldn’t. Not with that smirk.

  It was her.

  …

  If one were to cross the bridge high between Hordon’s Grocer and Willowtree Housing at this moment, one would see two figures in the dead end below, one black of hair, the other gold, embracing as if the world were ending, and their murmurs to each other faint.

  “How—how did you survive?” the dark-haired one asked.

  “I remembered,” the golden-haired one replied.

  “Remembered what?”

  A smile, and then, “That you love me.”

  In the grand scheme of things, trying to eat while crying is never a good idea. But that doesn’t stop Fione and me from doing it the moment I walk in on dinner and we see each other. It doesn’t stop her from holding up her son, Zeran—a dark-haired little bundle of joy that does me the honor of spraying spittle all over my face. It doesn’t stop Varia from nodding at me with a faint smile. It doesn’t stop Fione from pulling me through the palace and into Malachite’s disbelieving arms, into Y’shennria’s, into Crav’s and Peligli’s, who are now human and living at her orphanage. Reginall, their tutor, takes my hands gently and weeps when I show him the flower-like scar over my heart. A heart that’s in my chest now. Nightsinger is the Windonhigh ambassador, Fione and I bursting into her office and her mane of tawny hair spiraling as she turns, streaking behind her like a banner as she runs to embrace me. Yorl stands no chance, either, his peppermint cordial flying everywhere as he races into my arms, asking streams and streams of curious polymath questions.

  It only stops when Fione insists we share in her frankly terrible stew without a care in the world.

  Chaos is, thankfully, only ever sometimes chaos. There are promises to meet again, plans and tea dates and sparring sessions and tutor visits to the orphanage, and then, finally, silence.

  A silence in which only Lucien and I reside.

  He leads me to the balcony of his apartment in the palace, the marble of it still dusted with sand from the construction.

  In Lucien d’Malvane’s outstretched hand is a bag that reads Heart.

  “I never told you, did I?” He smiles down at me with velvet affection. “Why I stitched that word.”

  “I assumed it was because you were running low on creative juice.” I smirk.

  “Not quite.” He takes my hand and presses the bag into it. “My heart. You’re my heart, more than the one in my chest.”

  The swell of tears in my eyes starts again, but this is too happy a moment for them to fall. They hang there, bright and sparkling in the twilight, as my smirk melts to a smile.

  “Has anyone ever told you you’re rather corny, Your Highness?”

  His kiss comes suddenly, like a shooting star, burning sweet on my lips and buzzing in my stomach—he remembers. He remembers our silly little promise, his joking threat to kiss me whenever I called him that. Even now. Even three years later. Maybe he thought about it every day. Three whole years. He’s been waiting for three years, and all of it pours out of him and into me: the longing, the joy, the dreams, all the nights and days we missed, and all the nights and days we’ll have together from now on.

  “No.” His dark gaze glitters back at me when he pulls away. “Most probably because I’ve never been in love with anyone but you.”

  A laugh bursts out of me, and it feels like all three years of being apart vanish with that one joyous sound.

  “Stop, please. Any more and I’ll be forced to throw you in jail.”

  “Dungeon-jail,” he corrects.

  “I did call it that, didn’t I?”

  “What feels like ages ago,” he agrees, lacing his wooden hand in my free one.

  There’s a sunset quiet, the balcony of the former palace overlooking the busy construction below, the children—Crav and Peligli and Perriot included—running after one another in the grass, Varia and Fione si
tting together under a tree napping on each other’s shoulders with Zeran in their lap, Malachite arguing pettily with Yorl as they oversee the metallic matronics moving some wood and stone to and fro, Nightsinger gracefully leading a stream of new ambassadors from the Star Continent on a tour around the grounds.

  “What will you do now, Zera Y’shennria?” Lucien asks, voice dour and serious so that for a moment, I see the old him. The young him, the first time I walked into the throne room on that fateful Spring Welcoming day.

  I look down at the empty bag where my heart used to be and put my hand to my chest. Every memory is back where it belongs. Every part of me is me again. My parents, my hunger, my journey—all of it is here, with me. I listen to the beating of my heart. Every time is new, every time feels like the first, and I grin mischievously.

  “Live.”

  THE BEGINNING

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  Acknowledgments

  At the end of all things comes the beginning of the rest of forever.

  Things are hard, aren’t they? Writing is hard, and living is hard, too. I wrote this series because a monster of a girl inside me wanted out and wanted to be loved. And now you’ve seen her, and heard her, and from the bottom of my heart, I thank you.

  Sometimes, it is enough just to be seen and heard.

  For my mother, Deb, and my father, Michael, thank you for the chance to be here, now, writing.

  For my friends—Sarah H, GW, Ana, thank you. I’m a loner by nature (XD), but you make things bearable.

  For the history books, I’m writing this deep, deep in the bowels of a pandemic. This book was put together in the middle of a pandemic, and that is something remarkable. A terribly huge thank-you to Entangled, to Stacy and Lydia and Curtis and Heather and Bree and everyone who’s had a hand in making this book come to life, thank you. A special thank-you to Yin Yuming, the wonderful cover artist for Book One and Two. You brought Zera to true life.

  To the reader—thank you. Every word was made for you. Every word, I hope, gives you the strength to carry on. You are free now. I love you.

  Zera will always be here when you need her. When you need to fight. When you need to laugh.

  We’re on to the next journey, aren’t we?

  About the Author

  Sara Wolf lives in Portland, Oregon, where the sun can’t get her anymore. When she isn’t pouring her allotted life force into writing, she’s reading, accidentally burning houses down whilst baking, or making faces at her highly appreciative cat. She is also the author of the NYT bestselling Lovely Vicious series.

  www.sarawolfbooks.com

  Turn the page for a sneak peek of the epic, new fantasy series

  1

  Marcus

  Morning light blasts through the woods, making me squint. “There! To the south.”

  I urge Echo, my black palfrey, on to greater speed, the hunting dogs falling behind. We gallop hard, neck and neck with True, my brother’s mount, careening around giant oaks and jumping over fallen logs. Autumn leaves scatter in our wake.

  “They’re headed for the meadow,” Petén calls over the pounding hooves. His dark hair streams behind him, revealing his high forehead, an Adicio family trait. I’ve got it, too, but not quite as pronounced as his.

  We’re alike in other ways—same tall, broad build, brown eyes, and olive skin, though my hair is the color of brass, not black. Also, Petén’s nineteen, two years older than me, and non-savant—he can’t raise a phantom. It’s a blow to him, because I am savant and therefore Heir to the Throne of Baiseen, a fact that turns everything between us sour.

  “Head them off.” I signal toward the upcoming sidetrack.

  “So you can beat me there and win all the praise?”

  I laugh at that. Father’s not going to hand out praise for anything I do, even catching Aturnian spies, if that’s what the trespassers really are. Besides, palace guards are coming from the south and will likely reach them first, so I don’t know what Petén’s talking about. He’s right, though—I wouldn’t mind being the one to stop them, just in case Father is watching. “Race you. Loser takes the sidetrack!”

  He nods, and our mounts tear up the path for a short, breakneck sprint. Echo wins by half a length, and I stand up in my stirrups, victorious, waving Petén off to the right. On I gallop, a downhill run toward the meadow. When I reach the open grass, there’s a clear shot at the three men who race on foot.

  “Halt in the name of the Magistrate!” I fit an arrow to my bow and fire it over their heads, a warning shot. I wouldn’t actually shoot anyone in the back, but they don’t know that.

  “Halt in the name of Baiseen!” Petén yells, bursting into the meadow from the north.

  The hunted men veer to the left and keep running. Petén lets loose his arrow, and it lands just short of them, another warning.

  I’m close enough to pick off all three. “Halt!” I shout, hoping they do this time.

  They don’t.

  My brother and I barrel down on them, and in moments, we’ve corralled the men, trotting our horses in a tight circle, arrows aimed at the captives in the center. The dogs catch up and bark savagely, ready to attack.

  “Stay,” I command the two wolfhounds, and they obey, crouching in the grass, tongues hanging out to the side as they lick their chops and growl.

  “Drop your weapons,” Petén says just as Rowten and his contingent of palace guards, three men and two women, gallop into the field from the other end. Chills rush through me as Father appears behind them, riding his dark-red hunter. The captives unbuckle their sword belts and raise their hands as the guards join us, further hemming them in.

  “Why are you here?” Father asks as he rocks back in the saddle. He turns to Petén. “Search their gear, if you are sober enough for the job.” To me, he says, “If any move, kill them.”

  Sweat breaks out on my brow, and a tremor runs down my arms. My brother’s not all that sober. In fact, he usually isn’t. If he provokes them…

  But Petén swings out of the saddle without falling on his face, and I keep my arrow aimed at each man in turn while he goes through their packs. They have a distance viewer and a map of Baiseen marking where our troops are quartered, the watchtowers, and the Sanctuary with numbers in the margin.

  “Scouting our defenses?” Father asks. “Who sent you?”

  Officially, we’re not at war with the neighboring realms of Aturnia and Sierrak to the north or Gollnar to the northwest. But that doesn’t mean one of their red-robe masters isn’t behind this. Tann or even Atikis. Relations are strained to near breaking if the long council meeting I sat through yesterday was any indication, and Father suspects breaches on the border. Like this one.

  The captives remain silent, which doesn’t help their case.

  “Answer.” I try to sound authoritative. “Or do you not know who questions you? Bow to Jacas Adicio”—I nod to my father—“orange-robe savant to the wolf phantom, Magistrate of all Palrio, and lord of the Throne of Baiseen.”

  The middle one lifts his head. He’s not dressed in the robes of a savant or an Aturnian scout. He wears traveler’s garb: leggings, tunic, riding coat, and high boots without a hint of mud. Their horses can’t be far away. “We’re lost, Your Magistrate, sir. Meaning no harm or trespass. If you just set us straight, we’ll be on our way.”

  It’s a fair attempt at diplomacy, but unfortunately for this poor clod, his accent betrays him.

  “All the way from Aturnia? You are indeed lost.” My father turns to me. “Did you track them down, Marcus?”

  My chest swells as I start to answer. “It was—”

  “I led the chase,” Petén
cuts in as if I wasn’t going to give him half the credit. Which I was…probably.

  “Fine,” Father says, though he doesn’t seem particularly pleased. I can’t remember the last time he was anything but frustrated with either of us. But then, it’s no secret he’s not been the same since my eldest brother was deemed marred. Losing his first son changed Father irrevocably.

  While I blink sweat out of my eyes, the nearest captive makes to drop to one knee.

  “Savant!” I shout.

  “Shoot!” my father roars in command.

  He means me.

  I have the shot, ready and aimed, and I should have taken it by now. But the man is ten feet away. If I hit him at this range, with an arrow made to drop an elk, it’ll stream his guts all over the meadow.

  As I hesitate, my father is out of his saddle in an instant and touching down to one knee. The second he does, the ground explodes, a rain of dirt and rock showering us. The horses’ heads fly up, ears pinning back, but they hold position as Father’s phantom lunges out of the earth. The size of a dire wolf, it opens its mouth, lips pulling back in a snarl. Still not clear of the ground, it begins to “call,” a haunting, guttural sound that can draw weapons from a warrior, water from a sponge, flesh from bone. Before the phantom lands, the men’s chests crack open in a spray of blood. Three hearts, still beating, tear out of their torsos and shoot straight into the phantom’s mouth. It clamps its jaws and, not bothering to chew, swallows them whole.

  Entranced by the brutality, my fingers spasm, and the arrow flies from the bow. Its distinct red fletches whistle as it arcs high and wide over one of the guard’s heads, a woman who gives me an unpleasant look. The arrow lands, skipping through the grass to land harmlessly a distance away.