Bring Me Their Hearts(99)
It’s strange to think that everything I can see would’ve someday been Lucien’s. The Vetrisian nobles and their court are so far removed from the soil, the orchards and grasslands and trees. They couldn’t care less if harvests are hit with bugs, if the potholes of the roads out here get steep and dangerous. The lives of Cavanos’s people are so totally different from the nobles’ perfumed banquets. A single potato means life or death for these people. I said that, and I stick by it. I just wonder if anyone in a position of power in Cavanos will ever really know what that means. Archduke Gavik certainly doesn’t know; King Sref definitely has no clue. Lucien tries. Gods know he tries. But even the suffering in metropolitan Vetris is a far cry from the hard lives of his rural citizens.
Lucien. I try not to think about him, but it’s no use—every time I blink I can see his smiling face at the Verdance parade as I watched him dance.
He’s OuRs, OURS, no oNe else’s, oUrS for the eaTiNg, ours fOr the toUchiNg—
The demented hunger drags me so far down I barely notice when we slow pace. We begin to pass other silk-decked carriages rather than the humble wooden carts and wagons of farmers and tradesmen. The hunting grounds must be close. I spot Charm’s vessel but not Grace’s, and Lord Grat even waves to me as we pass. I find myself searching for Fione’s silver carriage on the road, then chide myself; the time to play pretend is over. It’s better if I stay away from her.
“There’s the huntin’ grounds, miss!” Fisher calls. I poke my head from the window—ahead of us on a flat grassy plain bordering a dark pine forest rests a circle of brightly colored tents. The biggest tent is of expensive gold-streaked flax and no doubt for Prince Lucien. The others are more modest, but made of luxurious material nonetheless. Of course the nobles would bring their finest cloth, even out in the wilderness. Servants decked in the colors and emblems of their respective families busy about the campground doing all the real work: mucking horse stalls, sharpening swords, preparing meals at a makeshift kitchen with a roaring fire—loaves of fresh bread rising over the heat and legs of lamb dripping with grease and herbs. This wasn’t just erected—this camp has been put together painstakingly over the course of some time.
Fisher parks the carriage in a line with the others, and when I get out, none other than Ulla, Headkeeper of the palace, makes a curtsy to me.
“Lady Zera, welcome.”
“Thank you.” I nod to her. “Forgive me—why are you here? Is your domain not the palace?”
She smiles sweetly—and I’ve seen her do it to enough people to know it’s a patronizing smile. “I took this opportunity to leave the palace in the hands of my apprentice. And besides—I’d trust no one but myself to ensure the prince’s first public Hunt runs smoothly. Your tent is the dark purple one, Lady Zera, in the north of camp. Dinner is at sundown, and the purification will commence about a half after.”
“Purification?”
She startles, then settles. “I apologize—I forget you know little of Vetrisian tradition. It was thought in Old Vetris, before the days of polymaths and their knowledge, that a Heartless could smell fear. Thus the Old Vetrisians invented a bathing ritual to mask it with a special blend of herbs and spices. We know better now, of course, but the tradition remains. All participating hunters will bathe in the spring nearby.”
“All participating hunters,” I echo. “Together?”
“Together,” she asserts.
I exhale. “Fantastic.”
Ulla instructs Fisher to take my luggage to my tent.
“Where is he sleeping?” I ask Ulla, but Fisher flashes me a smile.
“Don’t worry about me, miss. I’ve got the carriage.”
Unspoken words fly between our eyes—he’ll be nearby for my getaway—but he breaks contact first and hefts my trunk easily despite his scarecrow frame, disappearing into the crowd. Ulla leads me to my tent, and I spot Fione settling into her gray tent not far from the entrance. She doesn’t notice me, and I make a note to see her one last time before the end, to say good-bye.
Good-bye.
The word, the concept itself, frostbites the soft bits of my brain—the bits in which Fione was my almost-friend. Almosts, I’m starting to learn, are fuller of regret than absolutes—much sadder than certain yeses and nos. Yes and no mark ends and beginnings. But almosts cling, hovering on the boundary, never quite realized yet still there.
Ulla’s words defrost me. “The prince hasn’t arrived yet, but when he does a greeting will be expected.”
“Right. When is the Hunt?”
“It begins tomorrow morning—but fear not. I’m sure Prince Lucien will call his hunters together to discuss tactics before then.”
Morning. It’s not an optimal time to take Lucien’s heart—I’d much prefer the shadows of night. Ulla bids me farewell at the entrance of my tent. The tent is cooler, the deep violet cloth doing wonders to keep the sun out. The trunk Fisher brought in sits at the end of a fur-piled sleeping cot, though Fisher himself is nowhere to be seen. A leather chair and a foldable desk sit in one corner of the tent, a wash basin in the other. It’s simple, and it reminds me of Nightsinger’s cabin. Yet I find myself longing for the dreary, stately dark wood of Y’shennria’s manor, for the kind portrait of Lord Y’shennria, for the calming presence of Reginall and Maeve, for the darkwood diamonds on my ceiling, ready and waiting to be silently counted, soothing my inner turmoil.