1

A TORN-OUT HEART

I stepped into a room bathed in twilight and blood. My eyes were drawn immediately to the body draped across the bed— King Emrik’s chest had been cracked open, his ribs splayed, white bone protruding out of the cavernous depths. I leaned forward and peered into the interior of the man I’d been sworn to protect.

His heart was missing.

There were others in the room with me, the king’s inner circle, but I hardly noticed them. Emrik’s face was gray, his eyes still open, his lips slightly parted. There was nothing kingly about the slack, vacant expression permanently etched into his flesh. 

I breathed in iron, sweat, and the a sweet, overpowering floral scent. I bent down and peered closely at the king’s right arm, hanging loosely off one side of the bed. Black mucus coated the upper half of his forearm, and where it touched his skin, his flesh was terribly burned, sloughing off of the bone. 

At the center of that mucus, embedded in Emrik’s arm, was an eye.

A human eye. I knew that for certain. It was blue, just like Emrik’s were, and just as lifeless. I recoiled, tasting bile. I’d seen a lot of death throughout the forty misspent years of my life, but nothing like this. 

“How?” I finally said. My voice emerged as little more than a croak.

Magoran, Emrik’s equerry, shuffled forward. “How? It is not a matter of how, Sigmund, but why.”

“I don’t understand.” Without thinking, I reached out with a finger, intending on touching the mucus, but Keterlyn was all of a sudden by my side, and she caught my hand and held it tight.

“Best not,” she said. “We don’t know what it is.”

“Poison, certainly,” said Avokis, his dark eyes glittering. “Assassins have been known to use exotic toxins.”

I gestured at the body, at the empty chest cavity. “The assassin didn’t exactly need it.”

“They might have used the poison first,” said Avokis. “It might’ve disabled the king. Allowed her to then do…everything else.”

“Doubtful that it’s poison,” Magoran rubbed his chin. “Witchcraft, perhaps.” He shot Keterlyn a meaningful look. “Have you seen anything like it before?”

“No.” Keterlyn didn’t bother to look up. She was examining the eye. “But this certainly isn’t the work of poison. It’s unnatural.”

“She must be a witch, then,” Avokis hissed. “I always knew there was something off about her. Treasonous hag!”

I had the feeling that they all knew something that I didn’t. Worse, I suspected I didn’t want to know what it was. I frowned at Avokis, who was hawk-faced and lean, and said, “Her? What do you mean her? Who exactly are we talking about?”

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“The assassin,” said he, and I did not like the way he smiled at me then, a knowing and cruel smile. “The queen, of course.”

I froze. My heart quickened. I stared at Avokis, searching for some sign that he was lying, or joking, and when he gave nothing away I looked at Magoran, who simply frowned back, then at Keterlyn, who apparently wasn’t paying attention, instead gazing down at our deceased king as though he were nothing more than a curiosity.  

I must’ve misheard. I was getting old, and I’d taken more blows to the head than had to be healthy. Dumbly, I said, “Excuse me?”

“A servant came in with the king's lunch,” Magoran explained. “Islana was standing there with the king's heart in her hands. She'd taken a bite out of it. She was covered in her own husband’s blood. And she laughed and ran out of the room…” The old man shook his head. “She managed to get out of the palace before anyone stopped her. Not that it matters. They've certainly caught her by now.” 

“Certainly,” Avokis agreed. “We’ll have the full truth out of her in no time, I can assure you of that.”

“And she will hang forever from The Screaming Tree,” said Magoran.

My blood pounded in my ears. Were they playing some kind of sick joke on me? But of course, they weren’t. They couldn’t know about the queen and me, could they? Even if they did, they’d surely just arrest me rather than torment me like this. 

My hands curled into fists, and my face felt suddenly tight. “But why?” My mouth was so dry that it was hard to speak. “Why would she do this?” 

Magoran looked at me as though I was a fool. Maybe I was. “Why do you think? Lukan is old enough to ascend to the throne. Emrik was a drunken lout, even I'll admit it. That doesn't justify his death but even still, a child could see the rationale.” Magoran turned his cold eyes back to the dead king. “You were his principal bodyguard, were you not?” 

“I am,” I croaked. I was. “But—” 

“Where were you?” Avokis sneered.

Drunk, was the answer, dead to the world, numb. My head throbbed, my vision swam, a reminder. I said, “I had things to attend to,” and the excuse was so weak even to my own ears. 

This was real. The king was dead. His wife, my lover, had done it. 

“I hope it was more important than the king’s safety,” Magoran said gravely. He was looking at me like a disappointed father. 

“It doesn’t make sense,” I said, speaking quickly. I pointed. “The strength it takes to cut through the sternum like that, to bend ribs out of place, to pull out a heart…”

“Any adult could do it,” Avokis said, “given enough time. And she was in here with him for hours.”

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine it. Her with a knife, stabbing him in the chest, sawing, twisting the blade around until ribs separated. Using uncharacteristic brute force to break open her own husband until his heart was unveiled, plump and glistening. 

She wouldn't. Couldn't. 

Magoran’s words bounced around my skull. True, Lukan, her son, was now old enough to become king, and Islana had always hated Emrik. She'd confessed that to me countless times. She despised everything about him, and that she had to sleep in the same bed as him, had to be touched by him, was a constant source of misery for her. 

I clenched my jaw. Islana was not a gentle woman. Beautiful, graceful, and noble, but never gentle. She’d shown me how cold she could be more than once. She could kill Emrik, I decided. She could come up with a plan to murder him, could execute it without much hesitation. 

Still, it was hard to believe that she'd be so clumsy. So foolish. To brazenly kill him in his own bed, to flee while still covered in his blood… 

But then, Islana had always been capable of impulsiveness. Wasn't I a testament to that? 

I spun around and slammed my fist into the wall. I shook my hand and winced and regretted it immediately. Shit. Shit. She'd done it. She'd fucking done it and now she'd be dragged down to a cell and most likely tortured and then killed. 

She could've asked for my help. If she'd really been that desperate, if she'd felt as though she had no other choice… 

I would've done it for her.