The Hollow Heart Page 17

  “Morah wishes to see you,” Mere says.

  I sigh impatiently. These relics of Other Nirrim’s life are bothersome. Still, I have decided—and announced—that even those with no god-blood have an honored place in Ethin. I must, since the ordinary humans outnumber the god-blooded. Morah could be useful, if she decides to show her loyalty to me. I tell Mere to send her in.

  When Morah enters, Mere leaves the two of us alone, aside from the Elysium, who trills at her appearance. “Sister,” I say, and kiss her cheek. “Have you come to live at the palace with me?”

  She pulls away. “No.”

  “Don’t be shy. You are always welcome, you and Annin. The Ward knows that we love one another. Everyone will be happy to see us together again. Our little family.”

  “Except Raven,” Morah says, “whom you murdered.”

  “I did not do that. An angry mob did.” The Elysium flies to my shoulder, digging in its little green claws. “Don’t forget what she did to you.”

  “Nirrim, you are not yourself.”

  “I am better than myself.”

  “Tell me what has made you like this. You are … some horrible copy of Nirrim. The Nirrim I know never would have hurt Raven, no matter what Raven had done.”

  “Is that why you are here? To try to turn me back into a weak girl everyone treated badly?”

  “I didn’t.”

  The Elysium cocks its head, peering at her.

  “I know,” I say, “which is why I am ready to give you a place of honor by my side. You and Annin. All you must do is swear your loyalty.”

  “I am being loyal, by telling you that there is something wrong with you. I want to help you.”

  I smirk at the idea that I need help. Then the Elysium launches from my shoulder with such suddenness that I feel its claws slice my skin. The bird flies to Morah’s shoulder, singing.

  Suddenly, I realize that the Elysium has never been in Morah’s close presence before.

  I have never tested her with the bird.

  The Elysium, who tasted the blood of Discovery, the god who could sense the divine gift lurking in the bodies of the half-gods, sees something immortal in Morah. Her gray eyes widen. “Morah,” I say, delighted, heedless of the blood dampening my shoulder and the pain from the bird’s talons, “you are one of us!”

  She backs away.

  “What is your gift?” I ask. “Usually, once the awareness that we are gifted fills us, we know exactly what we can do. Tell me.”

  She shakes her head, her expression filled with wonder and alarm. She knows. I know she knows. She has felt the knowledge well up inside her.

  “Don’t be afraid,” I say, annoyed now. “You are late to the knowledge, but that is fine. The important thing is that you can truly join our cause now. Just tell me what you can do.”

  “No.”

  “This is foolish. Why not?”

  “I don’t want to be used by you.”

  Some people cannot seize an opportunity when it is right in front of their faces. I touch her hand. When she doesn’t pull away, I slip a little of my power into her. False memories always take more energy, but I strengthen my gift and push it through her mind. “Morah, you wanted to tell me. In fact, you have already told me.”

  “I did not.”

  I frown. No one has resisted me before. I must be more tired, my energy lower than I thought. “Morah, you were so excited by the awareness of your god-blooded gift that after you told me, you decided to tell me again, for the sheer joy of it. Go ahead, and tell me again now.”

  She wrenches away. “No,” she says, and runs from the room.

  I run after her. We were never wild girls, growing up together. A few years older than me, she always held herself sternly, which made me feel that I had to do the same. We never played games, for fear that Raven would punish us. We never ran, so I do not know who is the swiftest. But as I careen down the palace halls, never quite catching up with the flag of her black hair, my jeweled slippers slapping against the marble floor, I push myself to my limit and it is not enough, even though the distance between us narrows.

  What is her gift? What could make her impervious to me? How could she resist me?

  I must know.

  I call to the Middling guards to stop her, but in a fresh burst of speed, she plunges outside. I am ready to follow, satisfied now, because surely she will be stopped on the street.

  A heavy hand falls upon my bleeding shoulder. I am spun around as though I were a toy, a little rag doll.

  It is Aden. One of his hands still grips me. In the other, he holds a knife. “Only fools don’t heed warnings,” he says, and brings the knife down.

  SID

  I TAKE THE POISONED DRESS back to my suite and lay it on the table of my writing room, where I get the best light. The windowpane exhales a chill. Outside, almost all the leaves have fallen. I see groundskeepers raking leaves into colorful piles and setting them on fire. Even without the window open, I smell the sweet, musty smoke.

  Slicing open the dress, I examine how cleverly the tiny hooks are sewn into the fabric. Someone skilled with a needle and thread did this. While I cannot assume it was a woman who crafted this dress, my mind leans that way. A man could possess this skill—even my father can sew simply—or he could have commissioned the dress from someone else, someone who might not even have known which life it threatened. Someone who might not even have known the dress could be used as a murder weapon. A seamstress could have sewn in the tiny barbs while another brushed poison over them, later.

  The finger I pricked remains numb, and the numbness has spread from my fingertip to the heel of my hand. If my mother had pulled the dress on, and been pricked multiple times, her death might very well have been certain, and swift.

  I don’t need to visit my grandfather to know what he would say: the assassin has lost patience, and whereas once they would have been content with a slow death that looked natural, now little caution is being taken. The assassin no longer cares whether the queen’s death is known as murder.

  “Sid, what are you doing?”

  Startled, I flip the fabric over so that the barbs are hidden, and all that can be seen is the dress’s red, embroidered exterior.

  Emmah, who has entered my suite without knocking, slips the key she holds into her dress pocket. I don’t usually mind that she comes and goes at will to my rooms. It has always been that way, ever since I was a baby. But I flush, torn between disliking the intrusion and welcoming it. My mother wanted me to tell no one, and I have already broken that trust by bringing my worries to my grandfather. I am tempted to break it again. Emmah could provide useful information—as a servant, she knows the world of the people who live and work here in a way I never can. She might have noticed something suspicious that could help me identify who wanted my mother’s death, or was hired to accomplish it.

  “I know you hate dresses,” Emmah says, “but you don’t need to dismember them.”

  I decide to risk a subtle question. “What do you think of this embroidery?”

  “It is very fine.”

  “Is whoever did this as good as you at embroidering?”

  Emmah runs a light hand over the fabric. “Better, I think,” she finally says.

  “Do you know who could have made it?” Maybe the workmanship has a signature pattern that could be traced to an individual.

  “You don’t know yourself? You didn’t commission the dress?”

  “No. Have I ever commissioned a dress?”

  Emmah smiles and shakes her head. “I’m afraid I can’t help. Sometimes a dressmaker will sew her initials into the inside of a dress’s hem.”

  But I have already examined the hem, and saw nothing like that. I think of the god of sewing, the youngest god, who was born human. She was made immortal by Death, who loved her. We Herrani mark time by the gods, each year belonging to one of them until a hundred years have passed, and the cycle begins again. My father was born in the final year of a century
, Death’s year, but his mother chose to celebrate his nameday the following year, the first one in the new century: the Seamstress’s year. It is not odd to me that Death could love a mortal, or that he would be drawn to an artist whose skill is to create when he brings an end to every creation. But it surprises me that the Seamstress stitches thread that binds, and Death cuts the stitches of life, and yet they can still love each other.

  Using my dagger, I slice away a portion of the outer fabric, careful not to take any barbs with it, and tuck the swatch inside my pocket. Then I bundle the dress carefully, place it back inside its box, and reach for my jacket.

  “Going somewhere?” Emmah says.

  “Into town.” I will visit the dressmakers.

  “You’ll need a thicker jacket,” she warns. “It’s colder outside than you think.”

  But I am already halfway out the door.

  * * *

  I don’t get very far. I’m striding down a hallway, letting my long legs go as swiftly as they can without running, when I see Ceciliah turn the corner. Her eyes—a gray so pale they look like silver snow—go wide.

  Oh no.

  I halt abruptly and gird myself for the insults and accusations about to come my way. I wish spurned lovers wouldn’t feel so … spurned. I never made any promises.

  But then my heart clenches, to remember once more Nirrim’s rejection of me, and I feel ashamed, and ready for what I deserve.

  Ceciliah smiles, her prettily perfect mouth curling with secrecy. “I was looking for you,” she says.

  “You … were?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Can it be not right now?”

  “Do you have somewhere better to be?”

  I don’t want to tell the truth, and I don’t want to be rude. “No, but—”

  “Good.” She steps close, edging me toward the corridor’s wall.

  “Cecy,” I say, determined to be as gentle—and moral!—as possible, “I am sorry that I hurt you.”

  “I forgive you.”

  “You do?” I say, surprised that apologizing is so easy. Then my back touches the wall and her hand is on me and I am surprised again in a totally different way. “Ceciliah, I don’t think—”

  “You don’t have to explain. I have missed you so much. No one makes me feel the way you do.”

  I catch her hands between mine to put some distance between us, then see from her expression that even this gesture has misled her. Quite possibly, I look like I treasure her hands, and am holding them the way I have seen my father hold my mother’s, cradling her small fingers within his larger ones. I drop them as though scalded. Trying again to be gentle—but not too gentle this time, I say, “It is over between us.”

  Her face contorts. “But … don’t you want me? Aren’t you sorry you treated me the way you did?”

  “Yes.” Then, horrified at her tender look, I scramble to add, “No! I mean, yes, I’m sorry. You deserved better. But no, I can’t be with you anymore.”

  “Why?” she demands.

  I am about to answer very, very carefully when my mouth clamps shut. I am assaulted afresh by the memory of my last conversation with Nirrim. Do you not love me like I love you? I asked. Won’t you come with me?

  No, she said.

  But I asked two questions, just as Ceciliah had done with me. What if it was the same between Nirrim and me? What if she only meant to say that no, she could not come with me, and I had taken the answer to one question to stand for both?

  “You should at least have the decency to tell me why,” Ceciliah says, her eyes welling.

  I take her hand again. How hot it feels, and slender, and rigid. She might very well punch me with it. When I speak, I try to be as true as I can. “I want you to be happy, and you can’t be happy with me, because I have given my heart to another.”

  She wrenches away from me. “I always knew you were a liar,” she says, and crashes past me to race in the direction from which I came.

  I can’t blame Ceciliah for disbelieving me. Once someone has a reputation for being a liar, it is difficult to trust when she tells the truth. I feel horribly guilty … but in the midst of my regret, I can’t help but think of Nirrim, and hope.

  “Well, that’s a first,” says a dry voice.

  I turn my gaze from one end of the corridor, where Ceciliah has vanished, to the other end, where I had intended to go. Sarsine stands, arms folded across her chest, her expression interested, as though I am some hitherto unknown scientific fact, suddenly revealed.

  “This is a very popular hallway,” I say.

  “I have never known you to turn a lady down.”

  “Too popular. This can’t all be coincidence. Which god have I offended?”

  “Sid, are you in love?”

  I cover my eyes. Of course she heard everything. “I have an errand to run.”

  “What is so pressing, may I ask?”

  “I need to see a dressmaker.”

  “You obviously do not. You hate dressmakers. Unless … the dressmaker is the young woman you mentioned?”

  “I don’t have to answer your questions.”

  Her face is amused. “Now, Sidarine—”

  “Sid. My name is Sid. For the love of the gods, you know that.”

  “Sid,” she says, her voice serious now. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me anything.”

  “Wonderful.” I begin to maneuver around her when she says, “But I would like to meet her, this girl who has captured your heart.”

  I stare. “You would?”

  “She must be very special.”

  My serious little moonbeam, I called Nirrim when I saw her in a silver dress, but it wasn’t just the dress that made me say it. It was her way of being: her gentleness, her touch as soft as moonlight. But also her intelligence, her unexpected strength. She lit up the night. “You won’t meet her.”

  “Why not?” Sarsine says.

  “She’s a foreigner. On that island I visited. I asked her to come here, to live with me, and she refused.”

  “Well, did you try asking her again?”

  “I … What good would that do?”

  “People change their minds.” When I stammer—how could Sarsine pretend things are so simple?—she says, “I am a practical person. You, on the other hand, are just like Kestrel and Arin. So much drama. Perhaps whatever has gone wrong between you and this girl could be solved with more honesty, and less wounded torment.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Why? Kestrel’s health has greatly improved. What is to stop you from returning to that island?”

  Any number of reasons, including the presence of an assassin I’m not supposed to tell Sarsine about. But also: “I am engaged.”

  “May I suggest”—there is that droll tone again—“that you end your engagement, since you are in love with someone else?”

  “It’s not so easy. Herran needs this alliance.”

  “Does it?”

  “I must marry him.”

  “And be unhappy forever? Sid, maybe your marriage is not something you have to do, but something you only feel you have to do.”

  “You would have me invite international chaos, ill will from Dacra, and the disappointment of my parents?”

  “If it means your happiness, yes.” She must see the surprise on my face, because she adds, “Little one, I was there when you were born. I knew then, as I know now, that we are all held in the hands of the gods. Our lives are so short and fragile. We must waste none of it.”

  Then she kisses me tenderly on the cheek, and leaves.

  * * *

  It is almost dinnertime when I return from the city. I hasten my horse, whose breath floats in the air like a white flag. Soon, it will be cold enough to snow. My stomach is empty and my mind is full, filled to bursting with the uselessness of my errand (none of the dressmakers recognized the embroidered fabric, though they could have been lying), the lack of any one good suspect in my mother’s attempted murder, the p
ossibilities presented to me in that corridor (could Nirrim love me? Could I have misunderstood? What was the very worst that could happen, if I ended a political engagement?), and—most pressing of all—the fact that I am late to serve my mother.

  The silver sun is low in the sky, the clouds as thin as tishin paper. I guide my horse across the brown, brittle lawn to the stables, passing the fighting salle, when I yank the reins in surprise. My horse whuffs and stops, stamping.

  There, in the ground near the salle, is a hole. It is exactly where Roshar buried his poison ring.

  I get down from my horse and come close to the hole. I reach inside, down to its very bottom.

  The ring is gone.

  * * *

  I am hasty in the preparation of dinner, stuffing dried apricots into a quail, a fowl small enough to roast quickly, as I mull over the missing ring and its numbing eastern poison, which has the same properties as what tainted the barbed dress sent to my mother.

  Emmah enters the kitchen, in her hand a chalky round of aged goat cheese, which she must have taken from the stores. “The other servants said you had returned from your errand into town. You are cooking for the queen?”

  Distractedly, I tuck boiled lemons and twigs of rosemary that were grown in the atrium around the quail in its iron roasting pot, shove it into an oven, and add more wood to make the fire burn hotly.

  “She is lucky to have such a child, but why do you cook all her meals?”

  “No reason. I like cooking.”

  “Yes, but this level of domesticity is unlike you. Usually, you are too busy training in the salle, or attending parties.”

  Even if I were not preoccupied with the continuing threat on my mother’s life, I cannot believe that the usual social events would pique my interest now. Something changed when I saw Nirrim in splendid green, the color of high summer, the glossy fabric sliding down her skin. I didn’t care about the party we attended. I didn’t care about the dress. In fact, I wanted that dress gone. I wanted to be alone with Nirrim, to hear only her low voice. I cared only for her company.

  “Eat with me,” Emmah says, “while your quail cooks.” She sets the goat cheese, which she knows is my favorite kind, on a cutting board. The fragrance of hot rosemary rises in the air. “You look starved,” she adds, and she is right, so I cut into the cheese with my dagger—never mind how outraged my Valorian ancestors would be—and offer her a piece. We both eat. The tangy cheese crumbles in my mouth. “Did you find what you were looking for in town?” Emmah asks.