The Heart Collector Read online

  He knew she was wrong. Even before he saw her he’d known it. He was beginning to understand now that this was a game he couldn’t win. Though her eyes were the colour of cornflowers, her figure plump and tempting, her hair clean and shining, it made no difference. He could have plucked the Queen of Tregellan from her throne and taken her to the Sleeping Prince, and it wouldn’t matter. She would still be supper.

  His father would devour her heart and then look at the Bringer with deep, bewildered disappointment, then he would return to his rest and the Bringer would do the same. And on and on it would go. He had no idea why it happened, only that it would, over and over, for ever.

  So he took the delirious, tune-drunk girl to his father and shoved her into his arms, before lying down on the stone floor. He listened to the sounds of death and feasting and the rasp of his father’s rage, waiting until all was silent.

  “Yes, yes,” he said softly to the dead girl, and the bones, and the Sleeping Prince, and the stars. “I’ve betrayed you. All of you.” With a sigh, he closed his eyes and waited for the respite of nothingness.

  So, he isn’t optimistic as he travels across Tregellan, following the lure of the mysterious girl. He moves through a land much altered during the century that’s passed, the former castle razed to the ground, a large circular stone building in its place. When he hovers at the markets, pretending to dither over prices, he learns Tregellan is governed by a council now, the king, the queen and their children dead and gone. The fashions have altered, but there is something else, something in the air that’s foreign to him, some flavour of meatier change, and he wonders on it as he crosses the land. At night the solaris blaze above him, as though leading him to the girl. In a huge sprawling wood on the far side of the kingdom he pauses to watch a young, green-eyed woman collect nightshade berries, testing to see if she is the one. But he feels no pull and leaves her, travelling deeper into the woods.

  He passes through a clearing where bones are strung from the canopy, chiming and clinking in the breeze, streamers of cloth whirling around them. He passes yew trees twisting like claws out of the earth, musty fox holes, chattering magpies protecting their territory. The woodland is dense and seems never ending, and even he, secure in the knowledge that as something not wholly living he can’t really die, feels apprehensive. His head whips back and forth to scan the darkness for eyes or teeth.

  When he finally emerges from the endless wood he’s surprised to find another kingdom beyond it. He’s never travelled this far before. Without knowing it, he can tell he is somewhere new, somewhere unknown to him and his blood. Here the scent of fear and iron travels on the wind, the people smile but their eyes are tight and watchful. The colours of their clothes seem muted, their voices hushed. When he asks a young boy where he is, he’s told that he’s in Lormere and that if he’s Tregellian he’s not welcome.

  “I’m not Tregellian,” he says.

  “You look it,” the boy sneers and runs away.

  He supposes he must, from the glaring looks others give him, pitchforks and scythes held menacingly as he passes. No one speaks to him. He fingers the pipe in his pocket, keeping his pace brisk and his head down as he walks. He passes temples and stone circles, villages and hamlets, the land always at an incline, and he climbs, his breath shortening slightly with the altitude. As dawn breaks over the mountains, the pull continues, dragging him deeper into this land full of suspicion, with its evergreen trees and strange mists, until he reaches a walled city. The two guards on the gate bar his path, telling him no vagrants are allowed in Lortune.

  Lortune. In Lormere.

  He is about to pull out his pipe when a hunting horn sounds and one of the guards pushes him roughly aside, knocking him to the ground. From his sprawled position, the Bringer watches a party ride out of the gate, men and women, dozens of them, dressed in rich jewel colours, so bright they hurt his eyes. Men and women ride past, fierce looking and focused, and he can tell who the leader is the moment she passes; there is an aura around her that both attracts and repels, like a pretty-coloured snake.

  Around her, her court buzzes like bees and the Bringer sees his chance. He stands and, keeping his eyes down, his posture hunched, he slips along the wall, darting through the gate while the guards’ attention is on the riders. Then he is in Lortune.

  It’s like Tallith.

  No, not like Tallith, not quite. Where Tallith was golds and yellows, this city is browns and fawns, muted and sombre. The buildings are built close to the ground, only one storey, and as the wind gusts through the streets and alleys, he understands why. Even lower down, the windows rattle when an especially earnest gust rushes through. He follows the streets, labyrinthine and narrow, allowing the tug to guide him. He already suspects where it will take him. He walks past a butcher’s with ducks, rabbits and grouse hanging from hooks outside, a whole side of deer on display within; a cobbler’s, stinking of glue and leather; a chandler’s of tallow; a bakery – then, a little way along, another – both full of golden bread. There is a tailor’s, a fabric shop, stores that sell glass, ceramics, things he knows, things he doesn’t.

  The starkest difference is in the demeanour of the people. They hold themselves small and tense, like woodland creatures. There isn’t a guard on every corner, no gibbet with a warning corpse, no heads on spikes – nothing he can see to cow them – but these are people afraid. Some glance at him slyly, with mild curiosity, but none moves to challenge him. He looks down at himself, realizing that the clothes he is wearing – a century old by Tregellian fashions – are very close to what the Lormerians wear. His tunic is dusty and the cuffs fraying, but the cut, low on his thighs, is almost identical to the style he sees about him. In Tregellan they wear tunics shorter now, belted loosely over the hips, but here it’s longer, belted at the waist. And everyone carries a dagger, or at least every man does, held sheathed on those high-strung leather belts.

  But his concerns with the Lormerians are fleeting, because he knows, quite suddenly, where he is being led, and he can’t help the flicker of hope and excitement that ignites, seemingly from nowhere, inside his chest.

  Above him, built into the rock so it is impossible to see where one part ends and another begins, is a castle. Lormere castle. As he approaches, the shops become fewer, the goods pricier, until there is nothing between him and the castle except a wall.

  An unguarded wall.

  Curious and suspicious, he pulls his pipe from his pocket and begins to play, softly, a calling, summoning song, to tempt any hidden guards from their posts. But none come.

  He walks along the wall until he finds a gate, again unguarded, and the skin on the back of his neck begins to prickle. This is not right; he knows it isn’t. This is a castle, a seat of power, the jewel of the realm. Even if the castle is empty of royalty, even if every member of court is out riding, surely someone – many someones – should be here, armed and brutish, ready to defend it. He keeps the pipe at his lips as he pushes through the gate and into the grounds.

  The tug is so violent he looks down at his stomach, half expecting to see a fist recoiling or blood pooling. She’s in the castle, he realizes. Is there a princess, forbidden from hunting? Some lady, or duchess, recovered from a chill, or not inclined to ride? He walks slowly, carefully, towards the looming stone, eyes darting left and right for signs of attack. But it doesn’t matter now; he’s locked on to the girl. He can’t leave without her. The pull to her is dizzying.

  It hasn’t been like this before and the hope builds.

  A flash of brightness in a window, high in one of the towers. A pale face, leaning out, long auburn hair spilling over the sill like molten copper. He raises the pipe to his lips but then she is gone. He waits, but the lady does not return, so he walks around the castle walls, finding himself in a small, walled garden. To go into the castle, or to hope she comes to him?

  He lifts the pipe again and begins to play, a new tune, one he’s not played before. His lips curve with pleasure as he ad
ds this novelty to the growing list of portents: the castle, the pain of the connection, a new song.

  He’s waited so long. Five hundred years, by his count. Five hundred years, five different faces he’s worn.

  Another pain in his gut, sharp enough to make him reel, to see black spots before his eyes. Then she’s there before him. Olive skinned, dark haired and dark eyed. She’s small, pretty, her waist slim, her hips and breasts generous.

  She’s dressed as a maid, in a rough-spun grey cotton dress, faded through washing, a white tabard over it. Not a lady.

  But undeniably her.

  “It’s lovely,” she says in a husky, sweet voice.

  He inclines his head in thanks.

  “If you’re here to play for the queen, I’m afraid she’s not in the castle. None of the royals are, they—”

  He doesn’t let her finish. “I’m not. I’m here for you.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I am going to take you from here, across Tregellan to Tallith. Then I’m going to give you to my father.” He shrugs when he’s made his announcement.

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because I am the Bringer.”

  She pales as though she knows what it means, and lifts her skirts as if to run. So he begins to play again, watching as her fingers slacken and the material falls from them. Her eyes fix on him; when he walks she does the same. They leave the castle unchallenged, by the same gate the Bringer entered through.

  The town presents more of a problem than the castle did. He cannot walk through it with her trailing behind him; she’s too conspicuous in her maid’s uniform. But perhaps he can use that; perhaps he can play the part of her lover, whisking her away for a forbidden day of fun whilst the royals ride elsewhere. He tucks her under his arm, clasping her waist, and looks tenderly at her. She bends to him willingly enough, her eyes glazed, and he takes advantage of it, moving quickly, humming the same tune in her ear as they walk, pretending to whisper love words to her. The guards on the main gate give him a curious look as he approaches. One steps forwards, hand reaching towards the hilt of his sword, but the Bringer winks, nodding at the girl in his arms, who is slowly becoming less supple, less agreeable. With a look of comprehension, mingled with envy, the guards step aside.

  Dumb luck gets them out of Lortune and along the Lortune Road before the spell he has cast on the girl lifts enough for her to wrench free from his hold and run. Instantly he begins to play again and her hands go to her ears. “Stop it!” she cries. “I’ll come. I won’t fight you. But let me choose it. Don’t bespell me.”

  He stops playing at once, the flame of hope now a torch burning brightly. Yes, yes, she’ll come willingly. Of course, the right girl would. Like a queen. “Do you swear it?”

  She pauses, then lifts a hand to her heart. “I swear it.”

  “All the way to Tallith?”

  “All the way to the Sleeping Prince,” she says softly, her face pale. “I’ve heard the story. I know.”

  “The story?” he asks, his head tilting in question.

  “Surely you know it?”

  “I live it; I’ve not heard it, or read it.”

  She gives him a considered glance. “I could tell it to you, as we walk?”

  After a moment, he agrees. She looks pointedly at the pipe and he tucks it in his pocket, sure he can get to it and call her back if she tries to flee. But she doesn’t, walking towards him instead.

  “Once upon a time, in the golden kingdom of Tallith…” she begins, and they step forward, together, travelling west.

  Her name is Dimia. She is sixteen; she has worked at the castle for a year. She has two brothers, Asher, now dead, and Taul, a guard at the castle. She won’t talk about Asher, her lips tightening, and she’ll barely discuss Taul, beyond saying how sad he’ll be to be alone. Her parents were killed by the blood plague when she was a child; the three siblings were brought up by their grandmother, who died two moons before Asher. Dimia tells the Bringer she’s glad that her grandmother didn’t live to see Asher die. Glad too that she won’t have to mourn her only granddaughter. She says this plainly, with no hint of self-pity, and the Bringer admires her for it.

  She will make a wonderful queen, she who walks willingly towards what she believes is her death. Like a real fairy tale: rags to riches, maidservant to prince’s bride.

  All of this he learns as they walk, once the story of the Sleeping Prince has been told. And while the Bringer is charmed by her story, it’s his own, the tale of his father, and his aunt, and his grandparents, and his mother, that captivates him, that his thoughts keep returning to. His poor, poor mother. He feels such sympathy for his father, in love with the wrong woman, and his mother, in love with a prince, both of them wrenched apart by their fathers’ greed and blindness. For the first time he understands his father’s disappointment in him, in the way he lies in a prison that only his flesh and blood can release him from. He begins to see his own role as honourable, noble even; yes, those other girls died, but it was not his fault, nor his father’s. Blame the rat catcher and his kin for his poison and his curse, blame the Bringer’s grandfather for his callous trickery. He and his father are as cursed as the girls before Dimia.

  He doesn’t have to use the pipe once as they leave Lormere, as they cross Tregellan and reach the river. Though she cries when they walk through the West Woods, she does so silently, silvery tears streaming down her face and dripping on to her clothes. Her head is always held high, her eyes on the horizon. Once in Tregellan he begins to steal little luxuries for her: sweet pastries, pieces of honeycomb, a lace shawl, a handmade kite. He presses them into her hands and she smiles sadly. He wants to tell her it will be all right; all of the signs point to it – she’ll be kissed, not killed, and then given a castle to rival the one in which she toiled in Lormere.

  At night she lies beside him, holding his hand, her eyes closed, her breathing steady. He does not know if she sleeps, but her face looks peaceful and he often watches her, marvelling. It has never been like this before. She follows because she wants to; she talks because she wishes it.

  In Tregellan he steals a cloak for her, and a dress, turning chivalrously away when she changes into them. The green muslin suits her, making her skin glow, and the dark brown cloak is the same colour as her eyes. That night he sits behind her and combs out her hair, his stomach lurching strangely when she sighs.

  “Almost home,” he says softly.

  She stiffens, then relaxes. “Yes, it will all be over soon.”

  That night she doesn’t close her eyes, but keeps them open and fixed on the sky above. He lies beside her and watches her map the heavens with her gaze, watches her eyes follow the path of the moon as it travels through the night. When the sky turns purple, then pink, a sure sign of rain to come that day, she has her own little storm, curling in on herself, her body shaking with sobs. He holds her, arms wrapped around her and she cries into him, soaking her tunic with her tears. It takes a long time for her to stop trembling, for those soft, shaky breaths that happen without her consent to cease.

  Her face is solemn as she looks up at him, the set of her mouth determined. “I’m ready,” she says and he nods.

  He wants to tell her he thinks it will go differently with her, but the words stick in his throat. Don’t spoil this, he tells himself. He doesn’t know how the curse works. Until it is fully broken, perhaps it is best to play the game. “Let’s go then,” he says.

  When they rise, he kisses her forehead and she stiffens.

  “I’m sorry,” he begins but she places a finger over his lips.

  “I don’t want to die,” she says and he shakes his head violently.

  Her finger presses more firmly against his mouth. “I don’t want to die, but more than that, I don’t want to die without having been kissed.”

  Then her lips have replaced her finger, a chaste press of skin against skin. His lips part in a gasp as his m
outh explodes into a universe of sensation. She kisses him again. He likes the feeling. Then her mouth opens and there is rhythm, their mouths working together. It is messy and wet and clumsy, but it is kissing and for both of them it is the first time.

  Dimia pulls away, her cheeks flushed. “Thank you,” she says, giving an odd little curtsy.

  The Bringer is too stunned to reply. His legs feel weak; his stomach is flipping about inside him like a landed fish. Quite suddenly he wonders what would happen if he didn’t take her to his father, but ran away with her, kept her for himself.

  Then shame floods him; did his mother die for this? Does his father lie in a prison of dreams all so that he can steal his bride? He turns away from Dimia to stare at the river.

  “Come,” he says gruffly, and she does.

  The river is choppy, the crossing rough, and the Bringer feels it’s the punishment for his actions. Twice Dimia is ill during the crossing, soiling her lovely gown, and filling the Bringer with a sudden, violent rage. He can’t look at her as they dock, doesn’t help her from the boat, turning and hissing bestially when she stumbles into the brackish shallows, soaking her hem.

  To her credit, she doesn’t recoil, fixing him instead with an icy glare and then stalking past him, her eyes fixed high on the cliffs where the ruins of Tallith Castle dominate the skyline. They remain silent as they climb the winding cliff path to the top.

  Of the seven towers of the castle, only the Tower of Love, where the Sleeping Prince lived, and now slumbers, is in any way complete, and even this has no staircase. Dimia turns to the Bringer in question.

  “I’ll have to carry you,” he says and she flinches, before nodding.

  “Wait…” she looks at him, then away. “Will you play again, please?”

  “Why?”

  “Because … because I am afraid. And I don’t wish to die afraid.”

  The dregs of his anger evaporate and he couldn’t care less about the state of her gown. Again he wants to tell her that he truly believes this will end happily, but he can’t speak, won’t speak. He nods and pulls out the pipe.