Page 23 of These Vile Hearts
“Cyperus Sempervirens was a decent man, but he was an unwise ruler. Too trusting of mortals. Too kind. Too generous. His kindness was dangerous to our forests. And then Cyperus allied with the IronKing to increase the strength of their wards in exchange for soulless forestland. Which happened to include parts ofmyterritory. So I had him taken care of.”
She shrugs as though she’s speaking of hiring a pest exterminator rather than ordering my father to commit murder. I shift uncomfortably.
“As for the current king…heis dangerous in an entirely different way. Arrogant and self-serving. He pays no attention to the rest of the forests in Sylveris, pretending at Sylveris Council meetings and making false promises. And the other rulersbelievehim. Imbeciles.”
The queen takes another deep drink of her wine, running her tongue across her teeth. “The redwoods are now protected by human laws. Mortals revere them, traipsing through the trails like wide-eyed toddlers. And the Sovereign Tree possesses a magic unlike any other, warding mortals out of the Redwood Court, allowing them to step from one edge to the other in the span of a blink.”
“Then how did my dad kill—”
“Your father had the Sight, like you do. He was able to see between the creases of our worlds.” She takes the invitation from me and folds it in half, tapping on one side and then the other. Then opens it again. “Like this.”
She hands the invitation back to me. I fold the paper as she did, running the pad of my thumb along the edge. “Is this the last king in line?”
“He has a brother.” The Myrtle Queen waves a dismissive hand. “But the prince is useless. The Sovereign Tree stopped producing heirs, so King Cyperus thought he would enlist druid magic to splice a sapling’s heartwood with the royal family tree. Now the prince is tragically cursed, the poor thing.” She doesn’t sound sorry for him in the least.
“Cursed how?”
“Anyone who has loved him has perished,” she says with an indifferent tone. “In the Myrtlewood, he’s known as the one-night-stand prince. Dryads make bets on how many times they can get him into bed with them.” She chuckles. “Though it seems he has taken a fancy to mortals of late. Much like his brother.”
“That’s…” I’m not sure what to say to that, honestly. So I just skip awkwardly over it. “Why has the Sovereign Tree stopped producing heirs?”
The whole concept of trees producing anything humanlike is still beyond my measly understanding. Fae magic is just odd enough to be incomprehensible.
The queen’s shoulders lift casually, uncaringly. “Sylveris is connected by a network of roots none but the druids can comprehend.”
“And do the druids know what is happening to the Sovereign Tree?” I feel like I’m speaking another language right now. I don’t even care about the Sovereign Tree or its murderous cursed heirs.
“Likely. But druids do not speak unless willed to by the forest.”
I don’t understand. I don’t understand how fae magic works or how trees communicate with their roots or what a druid or even a dryad trulyis. Google says dryads are tree spirits—because yes, I looked it up at some point—but these creatures before me are quite solidlyhere. They’re born from trees but look human, save for their bark-like antlers and horns. My dad’s journal has several diagrams of the different types of fae with labels and names, but trying to make sense of it is like trying to calculate a particularly difficult physics problem without having learned the proper formulas. Maybe this is how it feels when I’m trying to explain the difference between type 1 and 2 diabetes to a nondiabetic.
My head begins to hurt, so I return to the task at hand. “Um, so, I’m guessing my mission is to attend this party and…”
Don’t saykill the Redwood King.
“And kill the Redwood King.”Fuck.The queen smiles with herwhole face this time. “Kill him, sever his horns, and bring them to me. Then our pact will be complete.”
“Severhis horns?”
“Correct.”
“Why his horns?”
“Don’t you worry about that, Miss Sinclair.”
Clenching my teeth, I nod slowly, not letting my trepidation make an appearance on my face. “And this masque is happening when?”
“Tonight.”
“Tonight,” I repeat numbly.
“Kill the Redwood King before the night of the Sylveris Solstice,” she says, fixing me with an unwavering stare. “Bring me his severed horns, and I will cure you of your disease forever. I will provide you with all you could ever need. You have my word.” She holds out a hand. Hesitating only a moment, I take it. She speaks again, in a sort of chant: “From the roots of my tree to the tops of my branches, this I swear to thee. From my heartwood to my bark, ring by aged ring, this binding pact I make with thee.” A searing burn stings my palm and sizzles around my wrists, and I understand. The pact has been sealed.
I kill the Redwood King, and I’m cured. I’m struck with a heady mixture of horror and hope. For the first time in months, I feel like I’m actuallydoingsomething to change my life for the better. Like I have a purpose again. A morally reprehensible, bordering-on-straight-up-evil purpose.
But we’re talking about dryads here. Potentially the same dryads who killed my parents in cold blood. Is murder still evil if the person deserves it? Is it still a selfish deed if it will save more lives than it takes? I think of the plethora of people in power in American health care who’ve signed away the lives of thousands with the stroke of a pen in the name of profit. The Redwood King is not one of them,but if the Myrtle Queen is to be believed, he’s just as self-serving as they are.
I’m sure he deserves it, I decide.
