Send Me Their Souls (Bring Me Their Hearts #3) - Sara Wolf Page 0,41
and Malachite both lose their minds when we come across a human-tall mushroom that’s clear and faceted and deep blue, like it’s made of sapphire, and I can listen to their incoherent babbling for only a moment before I’m completely lost in the jargon. Something about subterranean life cycles and spore rarity and volcanic conditions.
“You have to present one of ’em to your partner,” Malachite explains. “If you wanna get joined. Married, whatever. You gotta hunt one down but it’s spiritsdamn hard. And they’re never that big.” He looks at my bewildered face and waves me off. “S’a whole beneather thing.”
“You never see them aboveground!” Fione insists, and for this one moment the usual curious twinkle is back in her eye. “They require incredibly high levels of bessell acid to grow! And then there’s the pressure, the small-worm growth, the light levels—whoever made this had to get every single aspect perfect. Has to! Continuously! Or this would wither in a second!”
“I’ll pass your compliments on to the artist,” Nightsinger smiles.
“Is it art?” Lucien asks quietly. “Or is it a show of magical strength?”
“Both,” she says. “Feats of magic are our art, brethren. To make art is to be strong. To have precise control over your magic, to have the diligence to maintain it and see it through, to have the endurance to practice and not give up—all indicators of strength. Of worthiness in magic.”
“Aha,” I start. “So it’s a competition.”
“Somewhat,” she agrees. “A competition, and a display, and a communication.”
“Yeah, well, this one says, ‘Don’t fuck with me and my giant glintshroom.’” Malachite waves his hands at the sapphire fungus’s everything, and Lucien and I laugh.
The Bear quarter of Windonhigh is, unfortunately, no laughing matter.
It’s the seat of war and politics—the High Witches have a stately sandstone tower in the very center, this one not curly or whimsical in the slightest. This building stands perfectly straight, perfectly conical, great banners of red and gold strung from a gleaming lapis orb on the very top, and descending long down the sides of the building, pulled taut at the ends to form a beautiful spiral that undulates in the wind and frames the massive staircase leading up to the dark, open archway of an entrance.
“The walls.” Malachite points when we get closer. Sure enough, dozens of runes are carved into the imposing building. Familiar ones—ones I’ve seen on the stone gates of Vetris.
“Old Vetrisian.” Fione marvels. “I’ve never seen so much of it before. And so intact.”
“The witch-cities were constructed in the Old Vetrisian era,” Nightsinger says. “And I’m afraid Windonhigh is one of only a handful left in the world. We are hardly capable of making such a large piece of land float anymore.”
“How did you guys stay hidden for so long,” Malachite muses, “if the Helkyrisians have airships? They’d see you up here, right?”
Fione shoots him an “obviously” stare. “If the Helkyrisians flew a ship into Cavanos territory, it would be an act of war.”
“Ah.” Malachite puts his fist in his palm. “Right you are.”
“Do you know what keeps it floating?” Lucien asks.
Nightsinger flashes him a small smile. “Not entirely. Magic, perhaps. Technology, maybe. But an Old Vetrisian blending of the two is most likely. They were a decidedly advanced bunch, but we work to understand them—and what they’ve left behind—every day.”
“Do you have polymath equivalents researching it?” Fione blurts.
“Something like that,” Nightsinger agrees.
There are more of the spiky witch-lawguards here than anywhere else—whole platoons doing drills on the grass, throwing fireballs at distant stone targets.
“Eclipseguards,” Nightsinger offers. “They are lawguards and soldiers all in one, and watch over Windonhigh with their life.”
“Are they—” I pause.
“Some of them are witches,” she says quickly, anticipating me. “But the majority are Heartless.”
I watch them drill with intent eyes. All adults—or so it seems. But age is deceptive for a Heartless. Most of the eclipseguards look to be in their prime—middle twentyish—but Kavar knows how old they really are. Maybe the witches un-Heartless them, just so they can age to their primes. Who knows? It comforts me only a little to know very few of them have probably lived longer than the natural human lifespan—the Sunless War wiped out most of the Heartless and witches thirty years ago. These Heartless are fifty years old, at most. Maybe sixty. And here I was, thinking my nineteen years were ancient.
with any other witch, you’d be one of them.
At my side, Lucien starts glancing his thumb idly over mine. Reassuringly. Slowly. A satin metronome that ticks