Bring Me Their Hearts(100)
I slip outside—Lord Grat’s crimson tent is right next to mine, both of us situated directly in front of Lucien’s golden one. Lord Grat, in a stiff brocaded vest and breeches, smiles and jogs up to me.
“Lady Zera! Look at us—our tents so close, as if fate itself is conspiring to bring us together.”
He sounds ridiculous, and I laugh. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“It’s strange, though,” Lord Grat muses.
“What is? Not my dress, surely—my tailor told me it will look better covered in mud.”
He laughs. “No, not that. It’s just very odd that Prince Lucien chose this area for his Hunt, considering what this place is.”
“This place?” I look around at the tall, velvety trees in the distance. “What’s so special about it?”
The wind whistles between us, and then he says, “This is very close to where Princess Varia was killed.”
I think back to his words in the dark pipe. Maybe he still wants to be as close as he can get to her, to the last place she was alive.
A bell rings throughout the hunting camp, signaling the prince’s arrival. We make our way to the entrance as everyone does—servants and nobles alike. My mind takes inventory of how many guards are present—royal lawguards, huge celeon, the kind stationed at the throne of the king at all times. But there are only a handful of them—thirteen to be exact, their insect-like mirtas tied up in the stables. The rest of the guarding force precedes the prince, a block of two battalions shining in polished silver armor, light green banners with the d’Malvane serpent whipping in the wind. The thunder of their horses’ hooves shakes the ground, tremors reverberating in my chest.
Prince Lucien rides in on a sleek black mare, his posture perfectly regal, his hawking coat a deep forest green stitched with winding silver leaves. His dark eyes fixate ahead, not once looking at the crowd as he trots the mare through, his long black braid woven with silver threads, and his golden skin flushed with the wind. He’s so incredibly handsome in this moment—the sun glinting off him, only to be reabsorbed by his darkness. Malachite rides beside him, his red eyes hooded, and wearing heavy ceremonial armor, his leg still situated in my clumsy cast. The entire crowd bends the knee, and though I know I should, too, my body is stiff as I look at the prince’s resplendent face. I must turn him into a Heartless if I want to be free. I must turn him Heartless to stall the impending war between witch and human. But the misery of being a Heartless, of reducing him to the witches’ political hostage without any freedom of his own—inflicting that on Lucien, no longer just a spoiled noble boy, but Lucien, Lucien of the piercing gaze and gentle touch, Lucien as the thief Whisper, Lucien of the parade dance, his body pressed against my own, his arms wrapped around me—
“Bow before your Crown Prince!” the head of the prince’s guard bellows, pointing his sword at me. But he sounds so far away, the glint of his sword completely eclipsed as I try to memorize Lucien’s visage as it is now—ignorant, still fond of me.
“I said bow!” the head of the guard barks, his sword nearing as his horse does.
If I take Lucien’s heart, he’ll despise me. He’ll learn what I really am, and he’ll hate me for it, for shackling him to the same hunger-ridden fate.
He’ll hate me.
Lucien’s eyes find mine when the guard yells, his gaze going from carefully guarded to a splintered look of confusion. It isn’t until the head guard dismounts and forces me roughly to my knees in a mockery of a bow do I realize the wetness dripping onto my dress are two silent streams of tears.
There’s a moment that feels like eternity stretching between Lucien and me, in which he looks like he’s going to descend his horse and come to me, but then someone ringing the camp bell breaks it. The peals are frantic. A lawguard sprints to the prince’s head guard, and they share fevered words. The head guard turns to the battalions, raising his sword.
“Bandits seen to the east! Squad Falcon, secure the camp’s perimeter! Squad Robin, ensure the safety of the nobility!”
The battalion splits instantly, weaving into the stunned crowd and ushering nobles and servants back into the camp. I wipe my tears hurriedly and follow the flow of the crowd. As the guards shuttle us to our tents, I spot the mousy, curled hair of Fione, and suddenly I’m shoulder to shoulder with her as the flow of the crowd bumps us together. Her rosy cheeks pale strangely when her eyes find mine.
“You’d think a few bandits would have a brain between them and know not to lurk around the Crown Prince’s hunt,” I joke. Fione smiles.
“I’m sure they’ll learn quickly—one way or another.”
I open and close my mouth in the silence between us so many times I feel like a fish. Fione smooths her curls.
“I’m rather excited to hunt—I’ve never done it before.”
“I have a hard time believing a spymaster such as yourself has never lifted a sword.”
She giggles. “I’ve made it a point to think faster than anyone who might stand against me with force. It’s strange, but I’ve always seen resorting to force as a sort of…failure. A breakdown in my own intelligence, that I couldn’t think of something to avoid such bloodshed.”
“This is where Varia was killed, right?” I ask.