Bring Me Their Hearts(37)
“Did you see how hard the king laughed?” A nobleman shakes his head. “I haven’t seen him so amused in years! Not since before the princess died.”
“Princess?” I start. The nobleman lowers his voice.
“Were you not told? Princess Varia died five years ago now.”
“That’s awful. How did she pass?”
The nobles look to one another before the nobleman leans in to whisper, “Heartless, milady. She was touring the provinces when a band of them ripped her entourage to shreds. It was a great tragedy. We mourned for months. The king never stopped, I think. He used to be so full of life, and yet that all faded when Princess Varia died. She’d always been his favorite. And don’t even get me started on poor Prince Lucien. He’s been devastated ever since.”
Prince Lucien lost his sister to Heartless? Something like pity tries to sprout in me, but I refuse to let it. He can’t be a person to me—only a goal.
“Indeed,” a noblewoman speaks from behind her gloved hand. “That’s why the prince goes on hunts so often.”
“Hunts?” I furrow my brows, but the nobles don’t say anything more, making some convenient excuse to drift off. The new information swirls in my brain. I only vaguely see Y’shennria come up beside me, face tense.
“You very nearly sabotaged yourself,” she murmurs.
“I took a chance,” I agree. Y’shennria’s icy mask doesn’t crack.
“Perhaps next time you’ll think twice before ‘taking a chance’ and stick to the stock phrases we rehearsed instead of spouting something terribly risky.”
“Where’s the fun in seducing a nation’s hope for the future if you can’t be a little risky about it?”
Y’shennria gives something like a little groan. There’s a beat, and we watch the nobles flitter around one another, spewing compliments and pleasantries with no real staying power. Of course she isn’t complimenting me. I’m not expecting to be lauded by her of all people, but a “good job on not immediately being burned alive” would be awfully nice.
“An overly perfumed little bird sang me a fascinating song,” I press. “About Princess Varia being killed by Heartless.”
Y’shennria’s lips tighten. “I suppose it was only a matter of time before you learned.”
“Another little bird, this one with even worse perfume, told me the prince goes on ‘hunts.’ What did she mean?”
Y’shennria is suddenly solid steel, unreadable. She straightens her back as a noble calls her name, quickly drawing her into a conversation about my performance. Avoiding me? Maybe. Avoiding the question? Most definitely. No one wants to talk about the hunts, and because the gods shaped me out of the curious part of the clay puddle, that only makes me want to talk about them more.
Over the heads of the milling crowd I spot Prince Lucien leaning languidly against a far pillar. If I were a painter or a poet, I’d probably make art about him. Not some sappy love sonnet or romantic watercolor portrait, but a stanza or seven about the way he stands—arrogant, like he’s in his own little bubble where nothing can touch him. And the most infuriating part is nothing can; decorum dictates the prince approaches if he wishes to speak, not the other way around. I’d paint his silver vest glinting in the light of the cavern, his sable eyes shadowed by his dark, mussed bangs as he scans the crowd, and I’d point out that his silver vest could feed a thousand, and that too much of his country’s future is riding on him to have that much hair in his eyes. I’d flambé him alive in an acid bath of criticisms, and I’m sure he wouldn’t care one bit. He’s the Crown Prince, after all. He looks like he’s above it all, immune to the court’s relentless attentions, and certainly immune to the likes of a single loudmouthed Spring Bride.
Beside him stands a pale boy, his skin a bloodless paper-white color, no pink to be seen. He’s perhaps a little older than the prince, with short gray hair from which his pointed, bladelike ears peek out. The size of them startles me—longer than two handspans. That’s surely the prince’s Beneather bodyguard Y’shennria warned me of. Beneathers are a rare sight aboveground—I’ve never seen one in the flesh until now. They typically stay underground, beating the fire-breathing valkerax back into the depths. The claymore strapped to his spine is nearly as big as he is—certainly too big to be wielded by anyone his size, and yet he carries it and his heavy ceremonial armor with practiced ease. I’ve fought enough mercenaries to know the posture of a skilled fighter, and this Beneather is certainly one such fighter. If I’m to get anywhere near taking the prince’s heart, his bodyguard has to be removed from the equation. And experience tells me I won’t be able to do it by force. Trickery, then. Perhaps seduction will work twice—once for him, and once for his prince.
The Beneather’s eyes catch mine. His pupils are so strange—so much larger than any human’s. They almost eclipse his bloodred irises, leaving only faint rings around the black. He puts a long-fingered hand on the prince’s shoulder and nods toward me without a word. The piece of my heart in my locket gives an anticipatory shudder as the prince looks to me, his face absent of any smile. I’m almost jealous. He doesn’t have to force a smile, while that’s all I’ve been doing today.
Prince Lucien hefts off the pillar and begins to move. The crowd parts for him, his bodyguard following in his steps. He approaches Charm and speaks to her, her face reddening. Y’shennria elbows me sharply.