Send Me Their Souls (Bring Me Their Hearts #3) - Sara Wolf Page 0,106
what’s our time estimate for some answers? Because I’m pretty done with this place.” Malachite sits at the only other open chair at the study table, managing to prop his boots on the paper-strewn surface for just a half second before Fione instantly raps her cane against his shoes and he lowers his feet back down.
“You can’t rush this process,” the archduchess says wearily, and it’s then I notice both her and Yorl’s voices are more even than I’d like. Even in a way that shows no enthusiasm. At first I chalked it up to them being exhausted, but the lack of a single inflection in their tone starts to worry me. Yorl looks like he’s far along in the book, almost done with it. The fact they got so far in such a huge book in only two days is mind-blowing. Then again, they are the two smartest mortals I know.
But that means it’s almost over.
The ultimatum is almost here.
The hairs on my arm stand up straight, hot with nerves. Whatever they’ve found thus far probably hasn’t been good news—or they’d be way more chipper. Fione especially. I send her a meaningful asking glance, but she won’t meet my eyes. Another bad sign.
“You’re in here, you know.” Yorl looks at me and waves his paw at the green-bound book.
“Little old me?” I blink.
“At the end of the world, there will be empty-stomached wolves,” he recites. “Didn’t Evlorasin say your name was Starving Wolf?”
“The High Witches said something like that, too,” Malachite grunts. “When they questioned her.”
“‘Questioned.’” I make air quotes. “It was more like one of your torture interrogations.”
“You don’t even know what those are like,” Malachite drawls, and then adds, “yet. There’s still time.”
“This all certainly feels like the end of the world,” Lucien murmurs. “Helkyris has fallen. Cavanos is…” His voice catches, but he straightens. “Avel will be next. And then the rest of the world after that.”
“Someone will stop it,” Malachite assures him.
“And that someone is us,” Fione asserts, exhausted voice unfurling a little stronger.
“Surely the beneathers are mobilizing.” Yorl looks at Malachite, and he nods, long white ears bobbing.
“Definitely.”
“But they’re mobilizing to kill the valkerax,” I interrupt. “Not the source. Not the Bone Tree. They’re gonna throw themselves at everything but the root of the problem.”
“Literally.” Lucien makes a pallid grin.
“Literally,” Fione brushes past the joke and agrees. “Because as far as we’ve found from the book, our best bet is something called the First Root.”
“What is it?” I ask.
She motions to Yorl. “He’s finding out, right now.”
“Then we wait.” Lucien moves to me, taking my hand in his and stroking his thumb over mine. There are moments when two people share a look, and then there are the times when everyone in the room shares a look, and it ripples through us now. Red eyes, periwinkle eyes, green eyes, black eyes, and my pale gray-blue ones. An unspoken hope, passing among all of us.
Malachite settles against a far wall, chin down in his armored collar, the same pose I always saw him with in Vetris: his intimidating waiting pose. Fione sits across from Yorl sipping more tea, her bowl ever so slightly shaking as her fingers do. Nervous. How could she not be? The fate of her beloved depends on this last bit. The fate of the world, maybe, depends on it.
Lucien and I sink against the wall, sitting with each other and against each other, our hands intertwined tightly. It’s so quiet, so dim, a moment suspended in time. I wonder if the history books will talk about this someday. If we succeed, if we destroy the Bone Tree or the Glass Tree or both and change the world, will the books talk about this still, gray moment—the moment before everything changed? No. They’ll talk about everything else—the battles, the struggles, the deaths, the rise and fall of kingdoms. But not this. This will be lost to history.
This belongs only to the five of us.
Somewhere along the way as we wait and worry and wait, my head falls on Lucien’s broad shoulder, and, exhausted by thought, the embrace of sleep pulls me under.
23
BETRAYAL
LIKE DEATH
I know what this cold, salted darkness is now. The ocean.
In my dream it’s all around me, pressing down hard on every inch of my skin. In dreams I don’t breathe, but even so, I know it’ll be fine if I try. The water breathes for me, passing through slits in my neck I’ve made with magic.