Iron Hearted Violet (13 page)

Had she looked backward, even for a moment, Violet would have seen this: a very old man, a very young man, and an ancient woman. All were dressed in strange clothes made from woven grass and petals and horsehair. All had bows and tiny arrows slung across their backs. And not one was any taller than the knob of her knee. The very old man spoke first.

“Oh dear,” Moth said. “Oh dear, oh dear.”

“What?” the very young man said.

The ancient woman—the one called Auntie—pressed her hand onto her brow and shook her head. “Nothing, Nod, dear. Nothing at all. It’s just that we have our work cut out for us, don’t we?” She turned to the young man and laid her hand on his cheek, giving him a loving smack. “Would you be a dove and follow that child for a bit longer? And do try to keep your big mouth shut.”

The very young—and very
small
—man shoved his hands deep into his pockets before disappearing into the tall yellow grass and following Violet inside. The old man and the
woman watched the empty grass for a long time as the shadows deepened and the world grew dark. Auntie reached over and rested her hand on Moth’s shoulder.

“Come, Moth,” she said briskly. “We have work to do.” And they turned their faces into the sighing wind and vanished in the gloom.

The nation mourned for twenty-two settings of the Greater Sun, as was proper and expected for a Queen—both beloved and loved, both good and wise—cut down too soon. The castle walls had become littered with flowers—new flowers, wilting flowers, flowers collapsing to rot—as well as hand-drawn likenesses of the Queen.

Soon, though, the memorials spoiled in the sun and had to be gathered, swept, and hauled away. And we had to resume our lives, all cognizant of a loss, a gap, something that
should
be there but
wasn’t
.

It took a good deal of time for the hunting party to arrive with the transport vehicle and the dragon. They moved slowly, carefully, afraid of hurting the creature inside. The dragon shook and trembled in its prison; it wept, huge dragonish tears splashing onto the floor and leaking out of the corners.

Violet stood on the northern wall, watching the transport approach. The book was in her satchel—it was always in her satchel—but she hadn’t looked at it for eight settings of the Greater Sun.
Not yet
, she told herself,
not yet
. Whenever she walked near the entrances to the Hidden Folk’s corridors, she could feel her skin shudder and crawl. The painting was calling to her. Or
something
was calling to her.

NOW
, she could feel it whisper.
NOW, NOW, NOW.
A desperate recitation. Though now,
what
, exactly, she couldn’t be sure.

An invitation?

An accusation?

A warning?

Violet did not know. She had the book, and that’s what mattered. She had no reason to return to the library. Instead, she let her fingers graze on the book’s edges, over and over again, reminding herself that it was still there, comforting herself with its presence.

The wind blew hard from the north, and the castle wall where Violet stood was damp and cold. She shivered. Her eyes stayed pinned on the wooden transport approaching the stone enclosure where the dragon was to live, a short walk from the castle. She hated the dragon.

Hated
it.

Her hatred for the creature pierced her heart like a needle, over and over again. She winced, patted the hidden book with her fingers, and buttoned her satchel closed.

She wanted to see the dragon. She wanted it to
feel
her contempt. She wanted it to know just how much it was hated. She wanted to look into its heartless face and peer into its heartless eyes and spit. But not yet. There were too many soldiers, too many opportunities to be caught. Violet would bide her time.

Besides. She wanted Demetrius to come with her.

The King began dividing his days in half, spending the mornings attending to matters of state—or pretending he did. In truth, the King sat as still as a corpse at his desk while his council and advisers and magicians and scholars attempted to turn his thinking away from grief and toward
the more pertinent matters involving the state of the castle (strangely wobbly, people said, with a proliferation of cracks and gaps the likes of which no one had ever seen), or the state of the nation (oddly restless, people said, with more than the usual amount of grumbling).

Meanwhile, the Mountain King had flown into a rage. The wealth of the Andulan Realms—its rich farmland and fat animals and abundant trade—had been in his grasp! And now, thanks to the treachery of the Lowland rats and the ineptitude of his guards, his opportunity was lost. Lost! Rumor had it that a whole forest had been laid low to feed his weapons forges. There were whispers that all the villagers on the mountain slopes—from the littlest children to the oldest men and women—had been conscripted into military service and were, even now, practicing drills and swordplay and perfecting the art of killing.

Only rumors
, the councillors said in public, but behind closed doors they worried and fussed. Every morning they presented their reports to the King. Every morning they debated and fretted and argued. They begged the King to engage, but he barely acknowledged them.

“Your Highness,” they said. “A decision. You must make a decision on how to respond.”

But poor Randall cared only for the dragon.
His
dragon. He kept his notebooks on his lap, and his ancient manuscripts open across the desk and on the floor. If he had noticed that any ledgers were missing, he did not mention it. With each passing day, he worried less and less about the threat of war and more and more about the dragon.
If I cannot save it, then the death of the Queen will be in vain
, he told himself as he pretended to listen to his advisers.
There must be a way. There must be a way. I will—I must—save it. I promise.

The meetings ended at the midday meal with no decisions made, our nation one day closer to war. The King’s afternoons were dedicated entirely to the care and study of the dragon.

It was not as though the King intentionally ignored the Princess, nor she him. But both, in the days following the funeral, were loath to weep and reluctant to witness weeping by the other. And so they gave each other a wide berth, regarding both father and daughter at times as strangers—affectionate strangers and loving strangers, but strangers all the same.

Violet didn’t mind. It saved her the bother of lying. In any case, she was ready to pay the dragon a visit, and she was ready to see Demetrius.

Demetrius, his wounds now almost fully healed, woke early one morning to find Violet standing outside his window. Her exhausted face was as pale as milk, the spangle of freckles as bright and sharp as pinpricks. Her blue and gray eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, with darkened smudges underneath. She looked as though she had not slept—and would not sleep. Not for days. In truth, Demetrius looked the same way. Ever since his injury, he had been weak and wan—a shadow of himself. He attempted a thin smile.

“Are you awake finally?” she said. She did not mention
her absence. She did not explain herself. Though she did find that she was—quite unexpectedly—tearful. Biting back her frustration, she wiped at her tears with the heel of her hand.

“How long have you been out there?” Demetrius asked. He didn’t ask what he wanted to ask.
Where have you been?
Or,
Why have you not come to see me?
Or,
Are you all right?

“Forever,” she said. “I thought you’d never get up. Come on. Put on your coat.”

“Where are we going?” Demetrius said, hunting around for his shoes.

“Where do you think?” She turned on her heel and started walking away. “And don’t think I’ve forgiven you. I won’t. Not ever.”

“I know,” Demetrius said. “And I’m sorry, Violet. But it wasn’t the cause—” His voice broke. “I mean… it didn’t—”

“I know,” Violet said, and she kept walking. Demetrius followed close behind, and the weight of Violet’s grief and the memory of her mother pressed heavily on their grim, silent mouths.

The Lesser Sun was now fully risen, but the Greater Sun would not emerge for another hour or more. They walked
down the stony trail in silence, Violet wrapping her arms around her middle and clutching it tight, and Demetrius shoving his hands into his trouser pockets as far as they would go. His father had told him that now that both had lost their mothers, he and Violet would need each other more than ever. That Demetrius’s words would be exactly what Violet needed to hear.

But he had no words. And in the face of his friend’s grief, his tongue was as cold and heavy as the stones at their feet.

Violet quickened her pace, and Demetrius tripped and stumbled, trying to keep up.

The dragon’s enclosure stood about an hour’s walk for a sauntering adult, and half that for a couple of impatient, quick-footed children. Once it came into view, both Violet and Demetrius slipped into the thick underbrush that crowded the sides of the pathway, to assess the situation without fear of detection. Sure enough, posted on opposite sides of the oval walls were two sentries, sitting on partially covered platforms. One was asleep on his chair, a book open on his lap. The other stood at attention, his eyes focused on the ground, though darting around at the smallest sounds. He seemed particularly frightened of birds.

“Jumpy bugger, isn’t he?” Violet whispered.

The enclosure was a renovation of an old structure—the King believed that it had once held enslaved dragons in the dark and wicked days of my world’s faraway past—and made of stone. The King had shored up the crumbling sections, braced the outside of the entire structure with timbers, and seen to the gaps.

But not all the gaps. Violet slid her fingers around Demetrius’s hand, hanging on tight. She gave a little pull and led him through the thickest part of the undergrowth. She didn’t let go.

“There’s an open spot. It’s small. I saw it last night.”

“You were here last night?” Demetrius said incredulously. “By yourself?”

Violet shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep.” She pointed. “It’s right over there.”