The Hollow Heart by Marie Rutkoski

NIRRIM

A FULL MOON POURS ITSsilver over the city, whitening the pavement as I leave the Ward. I pass through the ruins of the wall, stepping carefully through the rocky debris. Cheers erupt behind me, the sound large yet softened by distance. A few minutes later, as I enter the Middling quarter, with its modest yet pretty houses, lit by bluepaned lanterns, the cheers echo again from the agora. Aden selected the prisoners to be executed, beginning with several councilmembers. They had once ruled over all of Ethin, acting in the name of the Lord Protector, whom we believed was elected by the Council whenever the former Lord Protector died. Instead, he had been the god of thieves, punished by the pantheon of gods to watch over this island. Every generation, the god of thieves pretended to be a new Lord Protector, risen from the ranks of the Council, and stole everyone’s knowledge of the truth.

The Council is complicit, Aden said, and I agreed. Only High Kith could become councilmembers, and they saw to it that their laws were ruthlessly enacted. If a Half Kith wore sandals that were too nice, the leather too smooth, by the Council’s orders she could be arrested, her toes lopped off one by one. If a Half Kith dared to leave the Ward, and was caught, as Aden’s mother had been long ago, the sentence was death. Their blood will spill in the agora, Aden said, as red as the Council robes they once wore.

Kill all the councilmen, I told him.

And all the High Kith.

I felt a prickle of annoyance. No. I said ten percent.

That is too little.

Don’t do this, said that voice inside, that other, old version of myself.

Silence, I tell her. I do not listen to you. My resistance to Aden was not out of guilt, or some ghost of my former self. It was because I had given Aden a clear command, and he had decided to act as if he knew better. “Ten percent only,” I told him. “Do as I say, or I will add you to the tithe.” He smirked as though I had been joking, his smile edged with resentment, but he agreed.

Another burst of cheering comes from the agora, even fainter now.

In the Middling quarter, the streets are empty, the houses’ shutters closed, though one shutter creaks open, revealing a child in the window, his head just above the sill. His eyes widen when I meet his gaze. A hand from behind snatches his shoulder and drags him back into the room’s darkness—to protect him, I suppose, from me. My people, free now, are roaming the street, dragging High Kith from their homes.

And what of the Middlings? Aden said.

I have not yet decided.

They carried out High-Kith orders. The Middlings are just as guilty. They must be punished, too.

I lightly touched his cheek and let my power shudder into his skin, giving him a memory as fresh as though it were present, not past. I made him remember when I rejected him, and said I would never marry him. He flinched away. Do not make me repeat myself, I said.

Fatigue drifts up my body. I do not know when last I slept. I remember how Sid, when I first met her, and I huddled in the prison cell opposite hers, had fought sleep. She held it off as though it were no burden to do so, as though it were an entertaining game, and she enjoyed wakefulness. She claimed her people had trained to get by on little sleep. That could very well have been true, yet Sid was skilled at using the truth to hide the truth. Now I know that she stayed awake to protect me. She kept a watchful eye while I slept.

My breath is shallow, my ribs tight. I am not inexhaustible, it seems. The power I have used comes at a price, though I was able to affect greater numbers in the attacking army with my power than Aden could with his. Rinah tore down the wall with her magic, but she collapsed soon afterward, and is still sleeping. Aden looked terrible after the battle, his skin dull, eyes stamped with dark circles, and it is possible he didn’t resist my orders because he lacked the energy to do so. I am not exhausted, yet my feet feel as though they are made of stone, and I lug them up the hill toward the High quarter, toward the house I shared with Sid.

The keys rest in the pocket of my frayed and dirty dress, which I have worn since the night Sid left me. The silk is the color of the sky just before it deepens to true night. The keys tap against my thigh, light as Sid’s fingers.

The High quarter screams. Terrified cries ring out into the streets as my soldiers haul High-Kith lords and ladies from their homes. It is as if the buildings themselves are shrieking. I survey the scene with pride, catching the eyes of my loyal people, their expressions aglow. The god of vengeance must smile down upon us, to see what I see.

Flames blaze against the horizon. Half Kith have set a palatial home on fire, and while I make a note to forbid this sort of thing—it is a waste of resources, of luxuries we now claim as ours—I decide to allow my people’s entertainment for now. They had nothing for so long. What could be wrong with a little fun for them, this one night? Their loyalty to me will only grow with it, for it was I who gave them this pleasure.

And yet—a feeling like panic pinches my lungs—Sid’s house must not be touched. I hasten to it, worried about both the house and my need to preserve it, but I decide the need is because the house belongs to me, not to Sid, at least not any longer. I beckon one of the Half-Kith men I recognize from the Ward and order him to spread the word that the narrow house on the steep hill with the view of the sea, which Sid chose because she cared more for the extravagance of the view than the extravagance of the accommodations, is to be spared. “There is no one there,” I tell him. “Not anymore.”

And yet there is. When I enter the home, I smell her perfume. It lingers, smoky and sweet, in her favorite chair. Sid’s ghost walks beside me, her hand staying my course, light on my hip, sliding up my ribs. She presses me down into the chair, the brocade unusually dark, as black as her eyes, the wood slippery and scented with orange oil. She presses her mouth against my neck, and my head tips back.

Do you miss me? she asks.

You know I do.

Show me how you miss me.

I sit up straight in the chair, shaking away my vision of her. The chaos in the streets echoes through the windows. I light a lantern, and the oily flame gives a wavering dimension to the room. On the table beside the chair rests a glass with a remainder of green liquor at its bottom—what she was drinking when the monstrous-looking man, the one with no nose and no ears, came, and she chose her old life over the one she was making with me.

I no longer pretend she is there, but I cannot will away the perfect memory of her, and although I feel a blankness when I think of love, a feeling as thin and empty as a glass bubble in my chest, I resent her for leaving.

And I still want her. I want the feel of her mouth on me.

What is this? How can she affect me still?

It is your memory, Other Nirrim whispers. Your memory of her haunts you. Your memory of me haunts you.

I bat away her voice as though it is a fly. I am tired. That is all. I ignore the twinge of worry that maybe my mind is shivering into pieces.

Nirrim, Other Nirrim says.

Go away.

I cannot go away. I am you.

You are who I used to be.

Tell me, Other Nirrim says, what will you do with the Middlings? Outside, the sound of shattering glass cracks the night. What will you do with the High-Kith children?