Bring Me Their Hearts(2)

The day I was made into a monster.

The girls beside me all but salivate, and I do my best to look bored. On my way here I saw much better-looking boys. Dozens. Hundreds. All right, fine—there was only the one, and he was a painter’s model in the streets of the artists’ district, but none of that matters, because the way Prince Lucien sneers his next question wipes every ounce of attraction from my mind.

“A lady isn’t merely a decoration,” he says, words rumbling like thunder. “She is the mother of our future, the teacher of our progeny. A lady must have a brain between her ears, as must we all. For what is beauty without purpose? Nothing more than a vase of flowers, to wither and be thrown away.”

Books written by the smartest polymaths have told me the planet is round, that it rotates about the sun, and that there are magnetic poles to our east and west at the coldest parts, and I believe them, yet in no way can I believe there’s someone who exists who’s this arrogant.

The nobles titter among themselves, but it quickly dies down when King Sref holds up a hand. “These are the Spring Brides, my prince,” the king says patiently. “They’re of noble lineage. They’ve studied and practiced much to be here. They deserve more respect than this.”

Someone’s getting scolded, I think with a singsong tone. Prince Lucien throws his sharp gaze to the king.

“Of course, Your Majesty.” His disdain at calling his father “Your Majesty” is obvious. Consider yourself lucky, Prince, I think. That you have a father at all in this cruel world.

“But”—the prince turns to the noble audience—“all too often do we equate nobleness of blood for soundness of mind and goodness of judgment.”

His eyes sweep the room, and this time, the nobles are dead silent. The shuffling of feet and cough-clearing of throats is deafeningly uncomfortable. I haven’t been here long, but I recognize his stance. It’s the same one young forest wolves take with their elders; he’s challenging the nobles, and by the looks of the king’s white knuckles and the queen’s terrified face, I’d guess it’s a dangerous game he’s playing.

“Let us welcome the Spring Brides as the kings of the Old God did.” The prince sweeps his hands out. “With a question of character.”

The nobles murmur, perturbed. The silver half circles with three spokes through them dripping from every building in the city weren’t exactly subtle; the New God, Kavar, rules here in Vetris. The Sunless War was fought for Kavar thirty years ago, and the Old God’s followers were slaughtered and driven out of Vetris. His statues were torn down, his temples demolished. Now, carrying on an Old God tradition is a death sentence. The king knows this—and covers for his son quickly.

“The kings of the Old God were misguided, but they built the foundation upon which this country thrives. The roads, the walls, the dams—all of them were built by the Old Kings. To erase them from existence would be a crime to history, to truth. Let us have one last Old tradition here, today, and shed such outdated formalities with grace.”

It’s a good save. You don’t have to be a noble to see that. Prince Lucien looks miffed at his father’s attempts to assuage the nobles, but he hides it and turns back to the three of us.

“Answer this question to the best of your abilities as you raise your veils. What is the king’s worth?”

There’s a long moment of quiet. I can practically hear the brain-cogs of the girls churning madly beside me. The nobles murmur to one another, laughing and giggling and raising eyebrows in our direction. The king is immeasurable in his worth. To say anything less would be madness. A swamp-thick layer of scorn and amusement makes the air reek and my skin crawl.

Finally, Charm lifts her veil and clears her throat to speak.

“The king is worth…a million—no! A trillion gold coins. No—seven trillion!” The nobles’ laughter gets louder. Charm blushes beet-red. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty. My father never taught me numbers. Just sewing and things.”

King Sref smiles good-naturedly. “It’s quite all right. That was a lovely answer.”

The prince says nothing, face unimpressed, and points to Grace. She curtsies and lifts her veil.

“The king’s worth cannot be measured,” she says clearly. “It is as high as the highest peak of the Tollmount-Kilstead Mountains, as wide as the Endless Bog in the south. His worth is deeper than the darkest depths of the Twisted Ocean.”

This time, the nobles don’t laugh. Someone starts a quiet applause, and it spreads.

“A very eloquent answer,” the king says. The girl looks pleased with herself, curtsying again and glancing hopefully at Prince Lucien. His grimace only deepens.

“You, the ungainly one.” The prince finally points to me. “What say you?”

His insult stings, but for only a moment. Of course I’m ungainly compared to him. Anyone would be. I’m sure the only one he doesn’t think ungainly is the mirror in his room.

I hold his gaze, though it burns like sunfire on my skin. His distaste for me, for the girls beside me, for every noble in this room, is palpable. He expects nothing from me, from anyone—I can see that in the way his eyes prematurely cloud with disdain the moment I open my mouth.

He expects nothing new. I must be everything new.

I lift my veil slowly as I say, “The king’s worth is exactly one potato.”