Iron Hearted Violet (17 page)

Meanwhile, the castle groaned with grievance and division. Those with rank and status—good people all of them, who had always chosen cooperation and humility over subservience or prejudice—began to see their daily tasks as beneath them. They barked orders at assistants and apprentices; they formed secret societies and enjoyed the power of exclusion. And resentment spread, as thick and foul as smoke, until we choked on it.

And as for King Randall—was it grief or distraction? He might have noticed—
should
have noticed—but he spent all day and all night watching the dragon, tracking its movements, writing notes on its biology, all the while wondering why he could communicate so well with his horses, with his dogs, with his falcons, but the dragon, for him, was as cold as any stone.
Talk to me
, the King pleaded daily, but the dragon was silent.

Come back to me
, he pleaded to his dead wife, but she was just as silent.

Far away, the Mountain King continued his preparations for war. He would not admit it, but it was true. Troops
were armed and massed at the borders. (“Military exercises!” the Mountain King said.) The forges billowed forth giant columns of black smoke, lifting nearly to the limit of the mirrored sky. (“The development of skills and trade!” the Mountain King soothed. “For the good of my people.”) And the King’s council, acting (they hoped) under the orders their King surely would have made had he not been… altered by grief, sent out pleas for alliance and aid from the other three kingdoms.

“We must do what is necessary, sire, to protect your people.
You
must do this,” the councillors told him.

“Fine,” the King said absently. (
Come back
, pleaded his heart.
Come back to me.
) “Whatever you think is right, of course.”

Violet continued to read the story of the Nybbas. She read it and read it and read it again. She read until her face paled and her lips chapped and her fingers trembled and the dark circles under her eyes became puffed and black as bruises. She took her meals in her room. She wouldn’t see me. She wouldn’t see Demetrius. She simply read.

Is it possible, she wondered, for a story to remake the world? For a story to remake a person? Can a story bring back the dead?

YESSSSSSSSS
, hissed a tiny, itchy voice at the very back of her mind.

Now, the book of the Nybbas was a special volume—a magic volume. Each page carried an enchantment to bind the reader closer to it. It was a shifty, tricky thing, a cowardly sort of magic that did not announce itself or state its purpose.

Every time Violet came to read the story, it changed. In fact, the moment her eyes passed a sentence, the words rearranged themselves, so with each read the story was bigger, wider, and more gripping. It transported her beyond the limits of our mirrored world and showed her the wonders beyond.

But worst of all, the conclusion of each story was the same:
FIND THE NYBBAS. IF YOU WANT POWER, FIND THE NYBBAS. IF YOU WANT BEAUTY, FIND THE NYBBAS. IF YOU WANT THE WORLD AS IT SHOULD BE, THE WORLD YOU DESERVE, FIND THE NYBBAS. THE NYBBAS MUST DO AS IT IS TOLD. IT IS A WILLING, HELPFUL SERVANT. YOU HAVE ONLY TO ASK.

“But how can I find the Nybbas?” Violet said out loud.

In answer, the book flew from her hands, spun three times, and fluttered back to the table, its pages rustling like
leaves and opening to the beginning of the story. A new story.

ONCE,
the story began,
THERE WAS A TELLER WHO LOOKED AT THE WORLD AS IT WAS AND THOUGHT IT WAS NOT RIGHT. HOW SHABBY ARE OUR FORESTS! HOW FEEBLE ARE OUR RIVERS! INDEED, HE ALONE WAS ABLE TO SEE THAT THE WORLD HAD BECOME GRAY AND WEAK AND UGLY—A PATHETIC SHADOW OF WHAT IT MIGHT BE.

BUT THERE WAS A WAY TO BUILD THE WORLD ANEW, TO MAKE RIGHT WHAT ONCE WENT WRONG.

“A STORY,” THE TELLER SAID. “I NEED A STORY TO REMAKE THE WORLD.” SO HE PACKED UP HIS RUCKSACK AND WENT OUT IN SEARCH OF THE NYBBAS.

It was, my dears, the story that was supposed to make my career. I believed at the time that it would place me among the giants of my field—those tellers whose stories still rang through the ages, whose words made them immortal.

I put on my best robes, and I oiled my beard until it shone. I gazed at the mirror for a long while—hours, perhaps—before I was satisfied and ready to sweep into the hall.

Did I notice, dears, the subtle glitter of jeweled eyes that flashed with each fluttered blink? Did I notice the shimmered tongue flicking out again and again to lick
those golden lips? Perhaps. I certainly remember it, but memory is tricky business, after all. Memory invents itself. If I did notice it at the time, I certainly did not notice myself noticing, if you understand me. Only the story mattered. Only the story.

The great hall swarmed with people, though I’ll admit that it was not as crowded as I would have liked. Or, to be more specific, it was not as crowded as I believed that I
deserved
. Surely, thought I, the servants that I sent scurrying off with my adamant orders did not spread the word of my magnificent story as they were instructed. Surely, I thought, they had been lazy, defiant, and slovenly in their duties. And indeed, I may have been right on that point. Ever since the capture and return of our dear King, a cloud of disdain had settled over every resident of the castle—from the lowliest page to the highest-ranking generals. We, all of us, took to spending more time in front of mirrors, imagining ourselves more powerful, more beautiful, more exalted. Each of us felt that we
deserved
it.

The wine had been poured, the bread broken, the first songs sung, and I, with a grand gesture, raised my hands and stood. The room mostly quieted, and I cleared my throat.

“Good evening, my beloved,” I said, using the formal voice as I swept low into a bow.

“Good evening, beloved Cassian,” the crowd responded. (
BUT OH!
that unpleasant voice whispered.
THEY DO NOT MEAN IT. YOU CAN TELL.
)

“As you know,” said I, “our dear King pursues at our expense a marvelous folly involving the care and study of one heartless and overgrown lizard just west of the castle.” Many at their tables brought their hands to their mouths and tittered. I had expected the King to shift uncomfortably in his chair, but he remained motionless, his gaze trending toward the far windows.
HE’S NOT LISTENING TO YOU
, the slippery voice in my head taunted again and again. I gritted my teeth and continued.

“Now, all of you, from your varied infancies, have listened to stories about dragons. You’ve learned how to track dragons and how to trick them. You’ve learned how to find the holes in their armor, and the ashen caverns in their chests where their hearts should be. But all of you—and indeed, I blame myself for this gap in your collective educations—know nothing of how dragons first arrived in our world. You know nothing of the person who once
sought to control these beautiful and terrible beasts, nor of the power that such control can bring.”

The King was standing now, his eyes blazing on me. I bowed toward him and, with a casual swish of my robes, turned back to the listening crowd. “Therefore, my dears, I will begin with the tale of a god—one of the Old Gods—who, after a long day of walking, found himself wanting a chair, a fire, and a friend.”

“STOP!” bellowed the King.

“CONTINUE!” shouted the crowd. They clinked their glasses; they pounded the table with their fists; they shouted for the story. I nearly wept.

“Guards,” the King ordered, “please escort our dear friend to his quarters. Do not let him leave until I arrive.”

The crowd rose to their feet. They shook their fists and stamped their feet. And truly, I have no doubt that they would have revolted, or rioted, or… well, I shudder to think of it. So agitated and unhappy was every last man, woman, and child in the castle, it was quite possible that the unthinkable could have come to pass—revolt, unrest, revolution—and I would be telling a very different story indeed.

Fortunately for all of us, the riot was instantly averted by two simultaneous entrances into the Great Hall.

First, from the main doors, four riders burst in, their uniforms filthy and torn, their hats askew, their faces red and blotchy and damp. Two had been bloodied, and one held her arm with her good hand, and we noticed that it had twisted sickeningly in its socket, its fingers quite swollen and blue.

“The Mountain King,” gasped the young woman with the broken arm. “His armies are coming—a thousand regiments are marching down the southernmost slopes. They’ve crossed the border. We have two days at best to prepare.”

Those words created a silence as absolute as stone. Indeed, we would have remained silent for some time had it not been for another entrance, this time from the side door.

Princess Violet’s primary governess—the woman who saw to the girl’s education, who coordinated the work of her teachers and instructors, who ensured that our dear Princess would grow in wisdom and grace—was not a flighty person. She was broad-shouldered, strong-armed, and stern. So you can imagine, my dears, the shock we felt when we saw that woman burst through the door, smacking it open with such force as to leave a hole in the plaster where the handle hit. Her black-and-gray hair, normally smoothed back into a severe knot at the nape of her neck, flew about her head like feathers, as though she had been tearing at it, and tears poured from her eyes and ran in rivulets down the deep creases in her dark skin.

“The Princess!” she cried. “The Princess is missing!”

If the world had ended then and there, I doubt many people in that room would have minded very much. Indeed, for most of us, the end had already come.

And where was the Princess?

King Randall’s normally pale face grew paler by degrees. In short order he divided the roomful of people into groups: one to search the grounds for the Princess, one to assess the castle walls and to fortify the weak areas, one to send messages to the outlying farms and villages, and so on.

“She will be found,” I told the King after I had been forgiven and kept near, as though I might draw the Princess in the way that metal draws lightning. “She will be found.”

But where was Violet?

The King called a meeting with the generals, advisers, ambassadors, and regents and discussed the developments and strategies. They dispatched three riders on the three fastest horses to the kingdoms to the south and the east and to the Island Nations to the west to beg for aid and assistance, while a small delegation rode northward in an attempt to persuade the Mountain King to resist the temptations of war.

But there were rumors of madness coming from the north. It was said that the Mountain King neither slept nor ate, that he spoke of a lover no one had seen. And recently he was never without an ornate hand mirror, exquisitely wrought, and clutched in his fists. He called it “my love.” Could such a man be reasoned with?

“Tricky business going to war against a madman, sire,” an elder general said, her two long braids hanging down her body like silver whips. “It could go either way.”