Send Me Their Souls (Bring Me Their Hearts #3) - Sara Wolf Page 0,75

Would it start all over? Would it be war, forever? The exact opposite of what any of us wants—the exact opposite of what Varia wants, too. Wanted, at least, before the Bone Tree overwhelmed her. I straighten, the bout of sickness passing at last.

“Destroying the Glass Tree won’t make the New God’s religion go away,” Fione insists. “It will just take away the Heartless. And without Heartless, the witches of Cavanos would be exposed to Kavar’s believers.”

“I know that.”

“You’re willing to put them at risk? And to put the whole world at risk of the valkerax? All at the same time?”

“I—” I clench my fist. “I dunno. All I know, in my deepest heart in that bag, is that something has to change. It can’t keep going on like this—magic can’t be used to keep living things hostage anymore.”

Fione’s silent, and Malachite take that as his cue to butt in, long ear tips bobbing.

“You two look minister-serious. What’s the occasion?”

“The fate of the world,” I chirp.

“Ah.” He nods. “Real important stuff. Well, whatever it is, you either do it or you don’t, right? Right. Now come fight me.”

Next to me, Fione bristles. “It’s not that simple—”

Malachite instantly lopes away, drawing his sword off his back. I wipe my mouth on the hem of my tunic and straighten with a smile at Fione.

“He’s right, though,” I say. “We can talk about it all we want. We can debate it. We can weigh the tentative pros and unknown cons. But at the end of all things, we either do it or we don’t.”

Her fingers find the waterproof pouch at her hip, her nails gripping a corner of the hard book cover within. The book that holds an answer. Or at least I hope it does. For all our sakes.

“If destroying the Trees will save Varia, then I’m with you,” she finally says.

“And if it doesn’t?”

Her periwinkle eyes search mine. “Then I’m against you.”

It’s a serious moment. I shouldn’t laugh. But I do. I do, because I know if the roles were reversed, if it were Lucien and me, I’d say the same thing. Over and over again. Always. Because I know now, like she does. I know what love means.

I know what loss means.

I know what a heart means.

She and I have to follow our hearts, no matter where that takes us. So many untranslatable concepts. So many important things that would take years—whole libraries of books—to say. To even explain. That’s why, when I stand up and grab a sailor’s sword lying on the deck and walk toward a waiting Malachite, all I say back to her is:

“Good.”

16

THE BENE’THAR

AND THE

STARVING WOLF

The clamor of swords echoes on the empty ocean. Empty of everything but the horizon, our ship, our breathing, our crowd of sailors who’ve suddenly gathered to watch the friendly duel. I blink sweat out of my eyes, the hazy cloud covering the sun doing nothing to mitigate the summer heat. It swelters all around us. The pleasant sea wind died somewhere between our first blade-swing and now. There are no shadows on the ocean to hide under, no shade, no trees. And frankly, I’m thanking the gods. Sick of the things.

Malachite has me backed into a corner, the low roar of the sailors watching a welcome sound, considering Mal’s not once said anything to me. He just launched into all-out fighting the second we bowed to each other. His ruby eyes flicker dark lashes, surreptitiously watching my feet for hints on my next move.

“I know they’re pretty, but you don’t have to stare that hard,” I tease. “They aren’t going anywhere. Except perhaps up your arse.”

“You talk too much,” he finally says, hand tightening on his hilt.

“Aw, baby’s first words,” I coo, and lunge in. He isn’t expecting a roundabout, but they never do. He catches it on the back of his blade, miraculously, and we hover there, straining against each other. Kavar’s tit, he’s strong. His biceps aren’t particularly big—rather willowy, actually—but he pushes back with the force of a celeon.

“Alas.” I grit out a smile. “It seems you’re made of diamond.”

“And you’re made of bad jokes.”

“True, and fair,” I agree. He ducks, the shift in his weight throwing me off, his blade edge screeching on mine as it goes somewhere, so I frantically push away, make space. We established no duel rules before this—we just bowed. No Avellish rules, no Cavanosian rules, no rules at all. He’s not avoiding cutting me, either, throwing his whole force into