The Heart Collector

by Melinda Salisbury

  Another new song wends its way out of the instrument, and Dimia’s eyes relax, her gaze fixed on the distance. When the song has run its course, the Bringer returns the pipe to his pocket and steps towards her. He kisses her forehead, and then her lips, one last time, before lifting her gently over his shoulder and beginning to climb.

  The Sleeping Prince is sitting up when the still-dazed Dimia is led into the room. He smiles at the Bringer. “My son.”

  The Bringer’s cheeks flush and he urges Dimia forward. She moves without hesitation. The Sleeping Prince looks her over, his head tilted, raising a hand to stroke her face.

  A pang of envy shoots through the Bringer and he turns away for a moment, looking up at the sky. Though it is barely twilight, the solaris blaze brightly against the indigo haze.

  The Bringer looks back at his father just in time to see him thrust his hand into Dimia’s chest, snapping her breast bone, his wrist twisting as his fist grips her heart and pulls it from her.

  She plummets to the ground, her head lolling back, her dead eyes fixed on the Bringer. On the bier, the Sleeping Prince eats her heart, licking the blood from his fingers. The Bringer waits for the glee to fade from his eyes, for the recriminations to begin, for the eerie puppet movement as his father falls back on to the cold stone to sleep for another one hundred years.

  It doesn’t happen.

  The Sleeping Prince continues to lick his fingers, one by one, his pink tongue lapping at the blood, his golden eyes fixed on his son’s blue ones.

  “I don’t understand,” the Bringer says.

  The Sleeping Prince sits on the bier with his legs crossed like a boy’s, his cheek resting on his hand. He looks at the bones that litter the base of the plinth, at Dimia’s body, the sky, the stars, the moon, the solaris. The Bringer. Silently and calmly he takes it all in, saying and doing nothing. “What don’t you understand?”

  “How you are awake.”

  “You found the right girl.”

  “But I thought…”

  “What? What did you think?”

  The Bringer reddens, embarrassed, but unsure why. “I thought she would be your queen, your bride.”

  “Did you?”

  The Bringer nods.

  “Then why did you kiss her?”

  Dread like iron coats the Bringer’s bones and roots him to the spot.

  “Deny it not, my son. I could taste you in her heart.”

  “I… She asked…”

  The Sleeping Prince shakes his head and the Bringer falls to his knees. “Forgive me, father. I beg you.”

  “What is your name?” the Sleeping Prince asks finally.

  “I … I don’t remember.”

  “My name is Aurek. Crown Prince of Tallith, and heir to the Golden Throne. And you are my son. So I name you Aurin.”

  “Aurin,” the Bringer repeats.

  “Come to me, Aurin.”

  Another trickle of fear, but the Bringer – now Aurin – stands and walks to his father. He skirts around Dimia’s body, refusing to look at her.

  “Sit, my son.” The Sleeping Prince shuffles along in a most un-princely manner, so the Bringer can sit beside him on the bier. “In Old Tallithi, the word ‘aur’ means ‘gold’, and ‘rek’ means ‘king’. My name means ‘ruler of gold’. My sister was called Aurelia: ‘aur’ for gold, ‘rel’ for queen, and the ‘ia’ added for the female aspect. All girl’s names end in ‘ia’ or ‘a’ in Old Tallithi. Isn’t that fascinating?”

  The Bringer thinks of Dimia, and wonders what “dim” might have meant.

  “So you are Aurin. ‘Aur’ for gold, as you are of my blood.”

  “And ‘rin’?” the Bringer askes. “What does ‘rin’ mean?”

  When the Sleeping Prince smiles, his teeth are full of meat. “‘Rin’ means ‘sacrifice’,” he grins. Then his hand presses against his son’s chest and the Bringer knows what will happen next.

  The Sleeping Prince kicks himself off the bier and steps over the bones of the girls, grinding the mingled last of Samia, Elyssa, and the other girl into dust. The bodies of Dimia and his son lay curled together as though asleep, if one ignores the gaping holes in their chests and the blood that is turning thick and black beneath them. The Sleeping Prince stretches, his back cracking; the sound like a whip in the silence of the night. Then his eyes turn east. In the girl’s heart he has tasted a kingdom, corrupt and hateful. Waiting.

  That, he could work with.

  Mully No-Hands

  Once upon a time, in a land of gold and glory, a baby boy was born to a beautiful woman, and a wealthy man. His parents called him Mulgreen Grey.

  Little Mulgreen Grey inherited his mother’s breathtaking good looks; as a baby, the people of the village he lived in would often stop to coo at how lovely he was. With golden skin, a shock of hair the colour of a raven’s wing, and eyes that could only be described as azure, he was everything his mother had wanted in a child, the perfect match for her own fair countenance, her double in almost every way.

  As if that wasn’t enough to be getting on with, Mulgreen would one day inherit his father’s fortune, which, in a land already known for its prosperity, was notable. If he chose, he would never have to work a day in his life; he’d earn more in a month by simply leaving the money alone than most of his peers would earn in a year.

  Sometimes life is unfair like that.

  Mulgreen grew up in a grand house, in a village some ten miles from the capital of the realm, with velvet on the walls and real beeswax candles in the holders. There was meat on the shining oak dining table five nights a week, and fresh fish on a Friday. Breakfast was soft steaming rolls, fresh cheeses and meats, tureens of mackerel in a rich tomato sauce, slivers of chocolate, and eggs cooked in cream. He had his own horse, and his own dog, his own run of white rabbits, and even briefly his own parakeet. He had his own suite of rooms, his own pianoforte, his own little garden, complete with his own tiny brook, where he caught his very own newts and frogs. His every wish was granted, his desires never thwarted.

  It spoilt him. In the true sense of the word, his upbringing soured him, ruined him, left him as hollow inside as a thousand-year-old yew tree.

  A combination of beauty, wealth, and indulgence had Mulgreen Grey believing that if he wanted it, he would have it, and – more than that – that it was his right to have it. When he slapped the other children, or pinched them, and snatched their cakes, or toys, his parents laughed and called him boisterous, proud of his determination.

  “Now there’s a lad who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to take it,” they said, ignoring the dark looks the parents of the children he’d harmed threw their way.

  “Isn’t he ambitious?” they’d cry. “He’ll reach for what he wants and hold tightly to it.”

  Soon Mulgreen was the only child not invited to the birthday parties of his classmates, the only child who didn’t receive a wintermas card, or a harvest basket. If he joined a game of kick-a-ball the game would end abruptly; if the children had to split into pairs, they’d grasp each other’s hands with a haste that left Mulgreen in no doubt as to their feelings towards him.

  Mulgreen complained to his parents, of course. Despite his many character flaws, the lad was as smart as jackdaw, and he knew what was going on. What he didn’t understand, was why.

  “It’s jealousy, my son,” his mother told him, smoothing back his black locks. “You’re so handsome, and so lovely. They covet your beauty, my darling boy. They know they’re plain, frightful little things and they’re not likely to improve with age. It’s their envy that makes them cruel. I know it’s no fun now, but as each year passes they will become more and more hideous, and eventually they’ll be ugly outside as within, and you’ll still my bright, beautiful boy.”

  Having damned the village children with the worst pronouncement she could think of, Wynnfrith gently pushed her son aside, and retired to her room, lest her concern on his behalf manifest itself on her face.

  It
sounded highly likely, but, to be sure, he sought out his father. “It’s sour grapes, Mully.” Mullein looked up from his papers, as Mulgreen hovered in the doorway. “You’re as sharp as a knife, with killer instincts. You know when to gamble, my child, when to go all in, and that makes Lady Luck view you fondly. You’re not afraid to reach out for what you want, and you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty on the way. That’s the kind of attitude that got me where I am today, and it’ll serve you too. Forget those milksop children. You’re better than them, and they know it. And every time you prove it to them, by not being afraid to do what it takes to win, you show them how cowardly they are.”

  With that, Mullein waved the boy away, leaving him to his own thoughts. Mulgreen could think of no two people better than his parents, and so he resolved to forget his resentment of the other children. Instead he retreated into a world of fairy tales, where the beautiful always won and the ugly were always vanquished. He read of princesses, and dragons, and witches, and kings, and he began to see himself inside the stories, see the parallels to his own life, and how he was treated by his peers – looked down on and shunned, despite his obvious superiority and destiny – perhaps, he realized, because of it. Mulgreen took refuge in the fact that the stories promised him a happy ending, because he was beautiful, and he was daring. One day the world would be his and by the Gods would he claim it.

  And so Mulgreen, gorged on a diet of tales that he saw as predictions of his own greatness, grew up, and took his place in a world that surely was his: a palace of pleasure designed to keep him occupied and amused. The people around him functioned as the supporting cast in the great epic that was his life. When he cornered the maids in dark corners and slipped his hands beneath their bodices, they were told to dry their tears and be grateful for the attention from a boy as rich and handsome as he was. He fell in with a group of young men who were like him: boys who drank, fought, and smashed up inns and eating houses; boys who laughed and shrugged, shoving money into the aprons of landlords to compensate them, knowing that would be an end to it.

  There was no queue Mulgreen would not walk to the front of, nothing Mulgreen would relinquish if he thought it his due. Every girl he saw was ripe for the kissing, regardless of whether she wanted it, or was already spoken for. He was the great hero in his own life, and this was his reward for the misfortunes of his childhood.

  His beauty made his behaviour all the more repugnant, for all little boys and girls are taught that to be pretty is to be good, and to be ugly, bad. People whispered about the Lord of the Lowlands, the King of Sinners, who was also known for once being beautiful, and they wondered if Mullein Grey was really the boy’s father, or whether his sire had come from somewhere much more southerly. Not that it mattered, because Mullein Grey’s money and influence was as vast as his son’s ego; so long as Mullein had accounts at every store, was owed a favour by every household, his wretched son was free to do as he pleased.

  And then, just as he believed himself on the cusp of his happy-ever-after, several truly terrible things happened to Mulgreen at once. His mother, his beautiful, regal mother who seemed never to age, died. She went to bed one night wearing her customary mix of lead, nightingale droppings and vinegar on her face and never awoke.

  Sadder still was the fact that the household didn’t notice for three days, as Wynnfrith Grey never broke her fast, and only attended dinners when her husband informed her there would be guests. She liked very much to remain in her rooms with the shades drawn so the sun would not damage her famed skin, avoiding anything that might give her wrinkles, which sadly included her husband, and on occasion, her son. She would have no servant enter her suite, save on her command, for she feared being caught without her powder and rouge and knew well how servants gossiped. So by and by, no one noticed she was gone, each servant assuming another had seen to their mistress, until finally a new gown Wynnfrith had ordered arrived, and her body was found upon attempted delivery to her rooms.

  Wynnfrith Grey was buried in her new gown; it was what she would have wanted.

  At the same time, it seemed that Lady Luck had finally tired of Mullein Grey, whose business was built on speculation, leaving him reeling from loss after loss as he gambled away his fortune. The only thing he hadn’t lost was the house itself, having had the foresight to sign it over to his son at his wife’s suggestion. Debt collectors arrived at the door of the grand house and removed the velvet walls, the shining table, the silver candlesticks and countless other furnishings and trinkets – anything that wasn’t a structural part of the house was taken away. The servants and the cook left, and Mulgreen’s fine horse was sold. The Honourable Mullein Grey turned to drink, and his son turned him out of the home that was apparently legally his.

  He surveyed his kingdom, barren and draughty now, and sank to his knees. This was not the life he’d thought himself promised. This was not how things were supposed to be. This was not a happy ending at all. Far, far from it.

  Mulgreen might be as empty inside as an ancient yew, but he lacked the resilience of one. For all the talk of his ambition, he was not courageous, nor was he a go-getter, and the idea of getting his hands dirty via an honest day’s work made him retch and shiver. He’d wept bitterly the day the bailiffs had stripped his room of all his lovely things, had torn a favourite velvet coat in kingfisher blue in half as he’d tried to rip it from their hands. If he wasn’t Mulgreen Grey, son of Mullein and Wynnfrith, and heir to his own private kingdom, then what was he?

  Mulgreen knew unless he did something drastic, he would founder. Virtually orphaned, beautiful and destitute, he turned back to the tales that had brought him such comfort as a youth and realized the answer to his problems was right there, in the faded and creased pages.

  He’d have to meet someone wealthy and marry out of his misery.

  He knew that in order to restore his life to what it had once been, he’d have to snare a woman of exemplary birth, make her fall in love with him, marry him, and pay for everything. It was the same in all of the stories: some poor, pretty nobody would find a way to get herself noticed by the nobility, and within a week she’d be raised up from peasant to princess. Every time, without fail. The consistency spoke of truth, and he felt a fool for not seeing it before. If he played by the rules, he’d be rescued. People like him always were. And so, using the fairy tales as a guide, Mully formed a plan.

  He’d stand by the woodland road that led to the capital, waiting for a duchess, or a countess to come thundering by in her coach, on the way to some grand occasion. As per the fairy tales, she’d take one look at him with his angel’s face and fall in love with him then and there. She’d beckon him into the coach, offer him red wine and furs, feed him candied cherries from fingers dripping in rubies, and he’d be saved.

  Mulgreen had not accounted for the fact there were very few duchesses out where he lived.

  He returned every day to same road, waiting and hoping – and at one point even praying – for a duchess to come along. Finally, Mulgreen understood there would be no duchess in a carriage, and he returned, his lips blue with cold, to the shell of the once-grand manor that was still his home and wrapped himself in all the blankets the debt collectors had deemed too shabby to take. He needed a new plan. And as he lay there, in a mouldering quilt that used to belong to some hound or other, he let his mind wander back to his book of tales, and he came up with a new plan.

  A ball – that was what he needed. There were always women at balls, looking for a partner. Princesses, lord’s daughters, debutantes. And, by happy coincidence, the Solaris were forecast to pass over the following week, and many balls were held in their honour. He’d have his pick of parties to attend.

  Mulgreen spent the week stealing what he’d need for the ball, travelling to villages away from his own. He reached through open windows, pillaged washing lines, plucked items from pockets, and displays in shops, until he’d got himself a smart coat, a richly embroidered tunic, velvet breeches, a silk cr
avat, and some silver buttons and buckles. The day of the ball dawned and he scrubbed his skin clean, cut his snarled locks and curled the ends, and finally put on the finest things he’d worn in some time.

  The mirrors in the grand house had all been taken, but he could see himself reflected in the glass of the windows. Poverty, it seemed, suited him; the lack of rich food had added a sharpness to his cheekbones, pared away a layer of comfortable fat to reveal the lithe sinew beneath. He looked chiselled, honed. Beautiful. He was as good as wed.

  But he was turned away from the most prestigious balls, the ones princesses and the like might frequent. The name Grey – which would have once guaranteed him entry to fine occasions – meant nothing now it was known his father was a gambler, and Mulgreen himself was on his uppers. In truth, the stewards were delighted to turn him away – they all had sisters, or cousins, or knew someone Mulgreen had wronged. Looking down their noses at him was even better than the beating down a dark alley they’d sworn to give him someday.

  Again and again he was told he wasn’t welcome, until in desperation he spotted a couple of fellows he recognized from home, and followed them to a small gathering in an assembly room on the outskirts of the capital. To his dismay, the assembly was full of people he knew from his own village – lawyers, physicians, bankers, and their daughters – but, doubting he’d gain entry anywhere else, he chose to stay, making the most of the free wine and the liquid courage it offered.

  More for the practice than for a result, he tried his best to play up to those girls whose families he knew had modest but steady incomes, and was baffled as they shunned him. He smiled, and charmed, and cajoled, and once or twice he even offered a flowery apology for his childhood behaviour, but to no avail. No matter how many times he offered his hand, he was rebuffed. It was like school all over again. He grew more and more angry, and melancholy, until finally the wife of a visiting judge grazed a hand over his bottom and asked him if he’d walk her to her carriage.