Iron Hearted Violet (18 page)

The delegation murmured. There had been no war in our world for five hundred years. And the thought was terrifying.

“It is imperative,” the King said slowly, addressing the assembled men and women before they left, “that we resolve this conflict peacefully. I do not want a single drop of
blood—not from the citizens of the Andulan Realms, nor from the subjects of the Mountain King—to defile this great and beloved country. The Mountain King’s control over his people is oppressive and absolute. My heart breaks for his people, but that yoke is theirs to overthrow; it is not ours. However, I will do everything in my power to prevent the oppression of
my
people. Make sure he understands that.” The delegates nodded, pressing their hands to their hearts as they bowed low. Their hopes of survival, let alone success, were minimal. A suicide mission. They set their faces and stopped their tears. “Stay safe, my beloved,” whispered the King.

Armies mobilized; people built barricades and armed catapults; hospital tents were erected and supplied throughout the kingdom.

And still the question remained:

Where was the Princess? Where could she have gone?

Where indeed, my dears?

In the hours before she disappeared, Violet read the story of the Nybbas, over and over and over again. She couldn’t stop. She couldn’t slow down. The story had weight and meaning and
voice
. It breathed in her ear and whispered against her skin. Its voice spun a tale around her heart and pulled it tight, and all the while it
told
her things—
awful
things—and Violet believed them.

YOU ARE NOT A REAL PRINCESS
, the story told her.

It was a thing that she always believed. That she always
knew
. But still she found herself arguing, using the same
tired truisms that she had heard her mother say. “But I am,” Violet tried to argue. “I know I am. I always—”

LOOK AT YOURSELF
, the story said.
PRINCESSES HAVE SKIN THE COLOR OF AMBER OR EBONY OR IVORY. THEY DO NOT HAVE FRECKLES. THEY DO NOT HAVE MISMATCHED EYES. THEY ARE NOT LOPSIDED.

Violet hung her head. She was supposed to be beautiful. She was supposed to be
perfect
. And now the kingdom was ruined, and it was all her fault. The thing that she worried over was
true
. The Nybbas said so.

“Still,” Violet said, raising herself up. “The people love me.”

ONLY BECAUSE THEY MUST.

“And my father loves me,” she countered, feeling her voice deflate. “And my mother loved me.”

ONLY BECAUSE THEY MUST.

“My mother…” Violet began desperately.

IF YOU HAD BEEN BEAUTIFUL, SHE LIKELY WOULD NOT HAVE DIED. IF YOU HAD BEEN BEAUTIFUL, HER WOMB WOULD HAVE STAYED STRONG. YOU WOULD HAVE HAD BROTHERS AND SISTERS.

“If I was beautiful…”

THEN EVERYTHING WOULD BE BEAUTIFUL, CHILD. EVERYTHING WOULD BE AS IT SHOULD BE.

“My mother—”

IF YOU WERE BEAUTIFUL.

“My mother—”

EVERYTHING WOULD BE RIGHT AGAIN.

Violet carried a stack of books to her room and locked herself inside. In addition to the story of the Nybbas, she had histories and biographies and explorations of art. Her collection had increased over time, and now she struggled under the weight of her books. She had reproductions and paintings of every princess of the Andulan Realms as far back as anyone could remember. Girls with faces that glowed on the page. Shimmery lips. Sleek hair. Eyes fresh as rain. She stood in front of her mirror, looked at her dull masses of hair. Her face unbrightened by her usual smile. Her mismatched eyes shadowed by circles as dark as ashes. She grimaced. Shuddered.

IT CAN BE FIXED.

“But how?”

YOU KNOW WHO CAN HELP YOU.

“But I can’t. The story says—”

FORGET THE STORY AS IT WAS. THE ONLY THING THAT MATTERS NOW IS YOUR STORY. VIOLET’S STORY.

Violet closed her eyes, expelling her breath in a long,
rattled sigh. “All right,” she said. “There once was a girl who made a wish…”

AND WITH THE WISH THERE WAS A PROMISE.

“What sort of a promise?”

THERE IS NO GAIN WITHOUT LOSS, CHILD. THERE IS NO GLORY WITHOUT RESPONSIBILITY.

“What will I lose?”

A TRIFLE, CHILD. YOU’LL NEVER MISS IT. YOUR NATION DESERVES A REAL PRINCESS. YOU DESERVE BEAUTY. WHAT WOULD YOU GIVE UP FOR THAT?

“Everything.”

EVERYTHING.

“I wish…” She leaned toward the mirror.

YES
…

“I wish…” She felt herself falling, and falling, and falling.

“I wish…” And she saw the mirror growing bigger, opening up like a door, and then a lake, and then an ocean, and then the sky.

YESSSSSSSSSS
…

And just like that, the Violet we knew, the Violet we
loved
, was gone.

In the meantime, I must confess, I was in a bit of a snit. My story had been ruined, my moment ruined. There was no salvaging the situation, no reclamation of the lost story. Even if I had attempted, it would have been a shadow of what it
ought
to be—the pathetic ramblings of an old man past his prime.

The war was to blame.

Violet was to blame.

The world, it seemed, turned against me and sought to mock me in my defeat.

And worse—
worse!
—after the King was finally pulled from the room with the generals and advisers, he turned to me.

“You know her better than anyone, Cassian,” he said. “Find her. Please.”

I left the Great Hall in a foul temper, my best robes flowing behind me. No doubt, thought I, she was hiding. Another selfish game from a selfish Princess! How I chafed at the thought of it! I imagined Violet quashing her giggles under her hands, listening with that infernal Demetrius as the footsteps of their elders pounded hither and yon, as our voices grew hoarse with worry.

And in that moment, I detested that girl. In fact, I detested them all: all girls, all boys, all children. Everyone.

I continued on to Violet’s room. I had thought, you see, that Violet’s governess and teachers had simply not looked thoroughly enough through the length and breadth of the room, nor had they checked its many nooks, crannies, and secret places. But I did not find her in the room at all. On the bed there was a small handheld mirror. It was a beautiful thing and reminded me of our dear, departed Queen. I picked it up and gazed at my reflection.

But then something very odd happened. My grizzled
beard, my tired eyes, my sagging skin all vanished. And in their place, very briefly, an image of Violet appeared. She pressed her hands against the glass, tilted her haunted eyes upward until they found mine.

Help me, Cassian
, mouthed her lips.

And Violet vanished from sight.

Despite your concern over the fate of our dear Violet, I must redirect your attention for a moment to the actions of Demetrius. You see, on that terrible day when Violet disappeared and war was declared and the world as we knew it shattered before our eyes, Demetrius was
also
nowhere to be found. He had left the castle an hour before and walked toward the dragon’s enclosure. On the western wall, the King had built a small platform with a spyglass to more closely watch the dragon in its new home, and a tiny hut to keep out the rain. There was a ladder at the back, and a
system of ropes and pulleys to supply the small observation station with quills and paper—not to mention food and drink.

“Sire,” Demetrius called. “King Randall!” He climbed up the ladder in a flash and swung his legs onto the platform with a thump. For the previous hour, Demetrius had practiced what he would say to his King once the moment arrived. He would explain the incident involving the two apprentices of the baker, and the words that his father had spoken and immediately forgotten. He would explain what he and Violet had found in that hidden corridor ever so long ago. He would describe the sudden and troubling change in Violet—something
different
from grief. Something
else
. He would, Demetrius told himself firmly, keep his voice steady and his eyes dry.

“Hello!” Demetrius called, but the platform was empty, and Demetrius was alone. He sat down at the edge feeling very miserable indeed.

One yellow eye glowed from the manufactured cave at the far end. Two nostrils poked their way into the light, with two ribbons of smoke curling lazily toward the sky. The dragon stepped out of its cave and blinked. It limped into the center of the enclosure and looked up at Demetrius.

“What are you looking at?” Demetrius said to the dragon.

The dragon sat on its haunches and tipped its head.

“This is all your fault, you know,” Demetrius went on, feeling a growing anger burning his neck and ears, hissing like acid in his mouth. “Everything was
fine
before we went looking for you. Now everything is
terrible
.”

The dragon said nothing. It took a long, slow breath in, showing its brown-and-yellow teeth, and lay down heavily on the ground.

“You’re old and broken and pathetic. You don’t care about any of us. You’re
heartless
.”

“Well, that one is obvious,” said a voice behind him.

Demetrius froze, then turned around. No one was there. “Who said that?”

“Dragons keep their hearts elsewhere, don’t they?” the voice continued. “Everyone knows that. Using ‘heartless’ as an insult to a dragon is simply cruel. Like insulting a blind person by calling him sightless. It’s not like you’re telling them something they don’t already know.”

“I don’t recognize your voice,” Demetrius said, craning his neck. “And I can’t see where you are. And anyway, I have work to do, and I don’t want to sit around and play
games.” He pulled himself to his knees, adding, “It was nice meeting you, though,” because it seemed polite.

“It doesn’t much matter what you want, you ridiculous boy,” said another voice entirely. This one was a woman—an old woman, by the sound of her. “Your services are needed, child. And there’s not much time.”

“Why can’t I see you?”

“Because you can’t see through wood,
obviously
,” the first voice said. “He sure does think a lot of himself, Auntie.”

“
Hush, Nod
,” the woman’s voice said. “We’re under here, dear. Under the platform. And Demetrius, if you wouldn’t mind, please keep your exclamations of surprise to a minimum. We do have—”

But Auntie couldn’t finish. Demetrius, belly on the floor, limbs splayed outward, had already peeked over the edge of the platform, had already seen both Auntie and Nod—human-
looking
, but not human at all—and had already screamed. Still screaming, Demetrius scrambled to his feet, swung down the ladder, and ran through the woods toward his home.

Under the platform Auntie sighed, shook her head, and
brought her palm to the back of Nod’s head with a quick, sharp smack.