Send Me Their Souls (Bring Me Their Hearts #3) - Sara Wolf Page 0,43
thanking her and then turning to us, his face set with all its princely cool.
“Let’s go. Together.”
“Together it is.” Malachite strides in headfirst, disappearing into the darkness of the open door. Fione follows, and I lace my fingers in Lucien’s hand again, smiling up at him.
“Together it is.”
The darkness envelops us instantly, and I startle at how familiar the air suddenly feels—heavy, important, different. This is the same feeling I always had walking up the stairs of Nightsinger’s cabin and to her sanctuary of a room.
This air is ripe with magic.
“What did she say to you?” I ask softly, the hall echoing my every noise.
“She warned me,” he murmurs.
“Of…?” I lead, but he doesn’t say anything more, and it puts me on edge. There are no lights in this hallway, none until the very end, where a cold gray light filters through.
We break into it, like surfacing above water.
Eclipseguards—I see them first. Lined up in the dozens against the room’s circular wall. Malachite and Fione are frozen in front of us. The room itself is gigantic, cavernous in a way I’ve seen only once before—the arena beneath Vetris where I trained Evlorasin. It’s almost as big as that, the floor entirely slate, and the walls entirely, entirely raw glass. A plateau high up forms from the glass, sleek and strangely polished compared to the rest of it, and from that plateau, the High Witches stare down at us.
They don’t move. Just stare.
Because they can’t move.
Because they’re encased in glass.
Seven chunks of glass jut out from the wall situated atop the plateau, these chunks nearly human-sized and polished clear. The size of small boats, or maybe coffins. Coffins, I decide, because the seven pair of eyes staring down at us must be dead.
After all, people sawed in half are most certainly dead.
Seven witches are encased in glass, each of them missing body parts. One of them is nearly untouched, with only a leg missing. But another is just a head. An unblinking head, staring down at us. Most of them are missing their torsos, their arms, but nothing is torn. It’s all clean, precise chunks taken, with no blood. No hanging organs or ligaments. Only smooth skin where the severances begin and end.
Lucien’s hand grips mine harder for a moment, and then he lets go.
And then they move.
Seven pairs of eyes move with Lucien as he steps up and makes a bow.
“High Ones,” he says, rich voice echoing in the cavernous room. “The Black Rose honors you.”
Malachite’s head turns woodenly to look back at me, and Fione’s face tinges both curious and utterly terrified. I don’t know what to say, what to do. Something tells me if I so much as twitch, I’ll be watched, judged, and summarily taken care of. If not by the dozens of eclipseguards on the walls, then by the looming witch monoliths themselves.
They might look still, but something in me screams they are very alive. Can they even use magic? They have to—Y’shennria said the black rose that led her to me was made by a High Witch. One of these seven. Why are they missing their body parts? Magic? Is it like Lucien’s eye or his hand—eaten up by the most powerful magic and then discarded because it’s no longer of use?
How are they alive in there? Is it like my Heartlessness?
All I can do is listen. Watch. Wait for my witch’s orders, just like the eclipseguard wait for theirs.
Suddenly, one of the glass monoliths blazes to life, red light illuminating the glass from the inside—showing exactly the witch inside, missing legs and an arm and half their skull, only one eye riveted to Lucien.
“What honor do you bring us, Prince of Cavanos?”
The voice is deep, booming in the high ceilings. The red light flickers with the cadence of the witch’s voice, like lips moving, like sound becoming visible.
Lucien straightens from his bow, onyx eyes sharper now. “My sister Laughing Daughter has taken the Bone Tree.”
“You bring us information we already know.” Another monolith on the opposite end lights up, a witch with long hair and no arms and a voice like a blade. “Hardly honor at all.”
“‘Taken’ is a generous term,” a monolith of a witch with just their chest and head says, lighting up. “And implies conscious autonomy. The Bone Tree has chosen her. It chose her from birth. Laughing Daughter had no say in the matter.”
I see Fione bristle, her fists clenching under her wool covering.