Bring Me Their Hearts(15)

Her eyes are distant, her voice unnervingly even.

“You must know the Y’shennria family history if you are to pass in court. Our family worshipped the Old God for centuries, but none of that mattered to the witches. We were human. We were the enemy.”

I swallow hard, words failing me. They don’t fail her, though, her voice strong, unwavering, as if anything less would be a crime to her family’s memory.

“I learned, that night, that you can outrun a witch. It’s their Heartless you can’t hope to escape. They never stop. They never rest. They hunger and they hunger, until there’s nothing left for them to devour.”

I suppress my flinch. “Why are you still an Old God believer, if the witches killed your family?”

“Why do you drink water, if a fouled stream poisons you once?” she snaps. “Because you must, to survive.”

“But—”

“Enough.” Her words strike like falling icicles in the dead of winter. “Let us begin your tutoring immediately.” She points at my wide legs. “A lady always sits with her knees together. Otherwise you distort your skirts, and the bulkiness is unsightly.” She watches me expectantly. I press my knees together. “That’s a start. Now, there are three types of nobility in Vetris—the Firstblood, Secondblood, and Goldblood. Care to guess which is the highest rank among them?”

“Goldblood.” I know how much humans love their precious metals. Mercenaries came into the woods willing to risk their lives to kill Nightsinger and collect a witch’s bounty. The bandits killed my parents for their gold.

“Goldbloods are the last on the social ladder,” she corrects. “They’re nobles who paid the courts for a position and title—merchants, mostly. Secondbloods have lineage, though they have no great claim to extraordinary wealth or power. Firstbloods are the highest ranking, with considerable history, land, and wealth. They are often assigned important political roles, such as the nine ministers of the king’s cabinet, and very commonly Firstbloods rise to power as kings and queens. It is the Firstblood family, the d’Malvanes, who’ve been ruling for five hundred years now.”

“Which are the Y’shennrias?” I inquire.

“Firstbloods.” Her back straightens. “But in name only. The war ruined Ravenshaunt, our only ancestral land, and because of our ties to the Old God, most families have shunned us. In thirty years, I haven’t been able to drum up a single offer to help us rebuild.”

“And so now you’re helping the witches,” I say. “To, what? Get back at the nobles?”

She looks me up and down, lip curling. “You are so young.”

I bristle instantly. “And yet here I am, apparently old enough to turn a prince Heartless for you.”

Y’shennria falls quiet, and then she speaks, voice cold iron. “I agreed to tutor you so I could aid in preventing another war.” Her hand flits up to her scarred jaw, where it rests on mangled skin. “This world has seen enough suffering. I have seen enough suffering. And I do not wish it on anyone else.”

The three heart jars over Nightsinger’s fireplace flash in my mind. Not another jar. Not another heart.

“I understand that much,” I say. “Not wishing your suffering on anyone else.”

Y’shennria finally turns her gaze to me. It’s guarded and thorny, a rosebush without a single bloom. I’m suddenly keenly aware of my Heartlessness—of the fact that someone like me destroyed her family and likely gave her that scar. She’s brave for even agreeing to this, for being in the same small carriage as the same thing that killed her loved ones.

Y’shennria inhales. “The most important thing you must know is this: I need your obedience. If you don’t do exactly as I say, all of this will be for naught.”

“I’m not very…good at obedience.”

I might imagine it, but Y’shennria’s mouth quirks up in the smallest of sardonic smiles as she says, “That makes two of us.” She pulls out a glass jar from beneath her seat and hands it to me. It’s a gorgeous work of art—pale purple glass, etched with a coiled snake and scattered stars. “The jar. For the prince’s heart. You will keep it until the time comes.”

I never wanted to see it, and yet here it rests, in my hands.

“How long do I have?” I ask hoarsely.

“His heart must be put inside within the hour, or so the witches told me.”

“No, I mean—” I swallow. “How long do I have to get his heart?”

“The Spring Welcoming requires the prince to choose a wife by Verdance Day—the summer equinox. Which means you have roughly—”

“Two weeks,” I mutter. Y’shennria nods.

“After that, whether he is engaged or not, all potential suitors will be sent home. This is the prince’s last Welcoming—he’s stymied the other three, and the king’s patience wears thin. There is talk that if he doesn’t choose a bride this time, the king will arrange a marriage for him.” Her eyes grow weary, her age suddenly showing in the hairline cracks around her eyes. “You could very well be the last chance we have.”

“And certainly not the best,” I chime, my voice quavering with my nerves. Fourteen days. That’s all I have to earn back my heart.