Violet made of thorns, p.28
Violet Made of Thorns, page 28
But— “Your eyes,” I whisper. Or is the color shift just a trick of the light? His eyes have always been green, but not like this—vibrant as new fairy growth. Almost glowing, like a pair of enchanted jewels.
Cyrus turns toward the vanity’s mirror. He’s visibly pained as he clambers to his feet; while his cuts don’t bleed, there are many of them. The remaining bits of his clothes cling on like a mockery of modesty.
He stares into the mirror for a long minute, fingers paring over his face and pressing against the scar on his chest. The rest of him looks human enough. Does he feel human?
What do I say to him? I’m sorry I tried to kill you? It’s so easy to take a life—just the single swing of a blade, done in anger. Flesh gives way so effortlessly. It should be more difficult to do something so monumental.
“I understand why you wish you never met me,” I finally say, as close to an apology as I’ll get.
The candles are low; they’ve been burning since before I got here. It’s a wonder that we haven’t been discovered yet. How will Cyrus explain what transpired? No one will believe any story I put forth. I won’t be forgiven for this, and I don’t suppose I should be.
Cyrus finally turns from the mirror with a weary stagger. “Let’s go.”
So forward we go, trudging into the future we’ve chosen.
Cyrus scavenges a bathrobe from the claw-foot wardrobe before we head out the door together. He leans on me for support. His right ankle doesn’t look like it shifted back correctly, now that I see it in better lighting, or maybe it’s just twisted and swollen.
I peer out into the hall. We’re somewhere in the west wing of the palace, far from the audience chamber. At my feet are two guards who died choking on roses, their bodies punctured by thorns. A breath shudders beside me.
We trudge past them.
The palace is eerily quiet. When we arrive at one of the side ballroom doors, the crack of light shines upon a slick red floor. I don’t want to look further. I know what I’ll see.
When we glance in, I clasp a hand over my nose and mouth to cover the stink and to hold in my retching. Bodies strewn everywhere—and not all human. Petrified and rotting vines spiderweb from floor to ceiling, their roots feeding off the death at our feet. Leaves and stems crackle as they spread, unheeding of any horror.
The sight imprints upon my mind like a brand until I think I might bow from the pain of it. Cyrus slumps against the door with a shaky, wet breath, fist pressed against his temple.
A noise, like shambling, behind us. We jolt.
“We should…” Cyrus mumbles as he glances at the hallway’s alcoves and shut doors.
Then, around the corner, a hulking, horned shadow.
We both stumble backward, hands and arms pulling each other in different directions. A rose-horned beast comes barreling at us on thick-trunked legs.
This beast is farther along than Cyrus ever was, but their gait is human enough, some remnant of panic hurtling them forward.
We haul each other down the hall we came from, certain that at least that space was safe when we’d left it, but the distance between us and the beast is narrowing fast.
I dart to the closest room but find the door locked. I lurch to the one across the hall, but that one’s locked, too. Cyrus bangs his shoulder against it.
The floor rattles with the beast’s steps. Shit, shit, shit.
I tear a pin from my hair, but my hands aren’t steady enough to jam it in the lock, let alone try to pick it.
“Help!” Cyrus bellows. He coughs fitfully.
As if in echo, the beast moans, “Help…”
Blood will transform them back. But this beast’s bared teeth are snapping without much restraint and I’d lose a whole hand to them.
I push the pin through the lock. A claw yanks me by the sleeve of my chemise, spinning me around, and I scream inches away from the face of a fanged monster.
Their next words come out garbled, and in my open-mouthed shock, I’m too numb to shove it away. The beast rises stiffly, slanting to one side as green sap flows down their neck.
Another flash of a blade, and they fall, headless, victim to Camilla behind them.
She is panting and stricken, grime splattering up her trousers and bare arms, sword heavy at her side. She nudges the body over so it looks less grotesque, staring at it as if she’s unsure of how to mourn. They were human not long ago, after all.
“Are you all right?” she asks hastily.
Cyrus looks about one breeze from fainting. “No.”
“What’s happened out here?” I ask.
She drags her arm across her forehead, wiping sweat. “That Lady Raya—that bitch—she killed the Captain of the Guard. She killed all of his men—no, she transformed them. And then the rest of us had to kill them.” She swallows. “Most of the beasts are probably them. We had no choice when they attacked the ballroom. But it could have been a lot worse—probably half the attendees are cloistered in the east wing right now, safe. I came out here to find you.”
We are all barely holding it together. “Are you okay?”
“That witch nearly killed me when she ambushed me and Nadiya in my quarters before the wedding, but it’ll take more than some vines to strangle me.” She grins shakily. “I haven’t seen Nadiya since, though—she is just Nadiya, right? I heard about the two Lady Rayas.”
“Yes.” Cyrus’s eyes flutter shut, accepting his error far too late for it to matter. “She’s just Nadiya. Have you seen Dante?”
“He was with me earlier, but I lost him during a scuffle. I’m sure he’s fine—he has to be. He’s never reckless.” Then, as if realizing she’s staring at the two most reckless people in her life, she adds, “Why don’t I get you two upstairs? It should be safe there. You both look rough. You’ll be more of a hindrance than a help down here.”
Camilla takes over carrying Cyrus and we plod over claw-scraped carpets and broken glass toward the main staircase. I tell her the witch got away, though I got a good stab in. She cheers at that, because I don’t tell her about anything else that happened in that room, nor does Cyrus.
I’m winded by the time we arrive in the royal wing. I could collapse and fall comfortably asleep on the carpet. Close to Cyrus’s quarters, an open door farther down the wing catches my eye. I might not think twice about it on a different night, but there’s never been a night like tonight.
“Are those your father’s quarters?” I ask, lifting an elbow in its direction.
The three of us are suspicious enough of the eerie quiet to creep closer, trepidation jolting my tired muscles to life. Camilla peeks in and flinches away with a sob.
The guards inside are dead—one stabbed in the eye, the other scuffed up as if he put up a fight, but ultimately died with a knife in his neck.
Cyrus pushes past both of us, stumbling toward the shut doors of the king’s bedroom.
“It could be dangerous!” Camilla hisses, readying her sword.
But he doesn’t heed her at all. He pushes the bedroom doors open without any finesse, panting and desperate to discover what’s inside, as if he already knew what he’d find.
When I draw up beside him, I follow his frozen gaze along the trail of shattered porcelain and the dropped lion-headed cane to the winged armchair by the fireplace. Where Dante, dressed in all black, has a dagger to King Emilius’s throat.
A spy.
An assassin.
“No, no—you can’t—” But at Cyrus’s approach, Dante presses the dagger deeper until a red line appears on the king’s pallid skin; the king groans, barely conscious. Cyrus halts, empty hands up. “No one has to know. Don’t—”
“Did you think I would be here if this weren’t my last resort?” Dante says, low and calm. There is still warmth in his eyes. Pity. “The Seer of Balica told me of many futures. This is the final one that might save us.”
“Please—”
With a flick of his wrist, Dante slashes the dagger across the king’s neck.
Emilius slumps fish-eyed in his shining mantle, red spilling from his cut throat.
Camilla screams. Cyrus staggers forward like the world has tilted. I am the only one who never looks away from Dante, all at once horrified and understanding of what he’d done.
He saw his destiny. He chose without hesitation.
Dante paces backward to the open window behind him and climbs onto the sill in a single lithe leap. He pauses, framed by the night and the fluttering curtains, his mouth shaping things he seems to want to say.
All that finally comes out is, “I’m sorry, Your Majesty.”
And without another word, he tips backward out the window.
The Sun Capital mourns amid chaos. Celebration banners are taken down. Regalia is exchanged for somber black. Whispers are louder than ever.
I don’t mourn King Emilius, but he was like a father, even if he was an awful one. Close to everything in my life. Once the most powerful man on this continent, and now he’s just gone. I can’t be anything but shaken by that.
No official culprit has been named for his murder, mostly because Cyrus refuses to do it. Camilla is silent but furious about it. She won’t out Dante directly—more sentiment lives in her heart than she will ever let on—but she was attached enough to her father to want a taste of vengeance as well, or at least an answer.
When I ask Cyrus about Dante, he only says, “He made certain I would have the throne by any means necessary.”
I wonder when Dante planned it. Whether it was spur of the moment or whether he’d been waiting to strike at the doomed wedding all along. Over and over, I replay that day we sparred outside the city, so innocuous back then, when I gave him hope that Cyrus’s ascension might make all the difference. And what had he learned from his own country’s Seer?
Mostly, as the shock fades away…I miss him. Or, I miss who he was. Who we all were, before the bloodbath at the wedding.
I slip between the cracks at the palace. I’m lucky that the gossip surrounding a disgraced Seer pales in comparison to a massacre and an assassination. There were enough witnesses to the witch transforming people into beasts that people no longer think that I am responsible, but some wonder if I aided her. I watch my back closely whenever I leave my tower, newly aware of the suddenness of death and the target on me. No one believes what I say anymore, and goodwill is crumbling around Cyrus as well. He’s probably glad I can be a scapegoat for our affair, as his hands are full with clamors for war.
At the first open assembly, everyone is shouting and no one is listening.
“Our king cannot continue putting his heart before Auveny—or justice!” Lord Ignacio proclaims from his seat. He lost a foot during the witch’s attack. Nearly salvageable until it turned gangrenous. “All evidence points to Balica’s involvement in Emilius’s death.”
Upon the throne, Cyrus states calmly, “The witch was the one masquerading as Lady Raya and responsible for the beasts. She’s likely my father’s murderer, too.”
“Who’s to say Balica didn’t send the witch themselves? Who’s to say they weren’t colluding? Whose face is still missing among this crowd? Where is your dear friend, Your Majesty?”
“Dante Esparsa is a scholar. He isn’t capable of killing someone.”
“Where is he, Your Majesty?”
Cyrus scrapes a hand through his hair, lingering on a spot where a horn once grew. Sometimes I see him pinching at the lacings of his shirt, as if to further hide the scar I put on his chest. He never named me guilty of anything, soft-hearted fool. “I hope somewhere safe. I am not ready to mourn another. But we also haven’t identified all the bodies of the beasts, and it’s highly possible he was among them. One thing is for certain, however: we will not jump to conclusions in order to start a war.”
The assembly becomes a complete wash, descending into insults and how-dare-yous from attendees. There are, as always, too many questions and not enough answers.
King Emilius is dead and Dante is gone. Nadiya is missing as well. I fear she may have been a true casualty of the witch; no one has seen her.
In the eyes of the public, two Rayas showed up, then disappeared the same night their king was murdered and beasts roamed the palace. One Raya was a failed savior—if she was ever a savior. The other was a witch who nearly killed them all.
Cyrus sent his condolences to Lunesse regarding Raya, continuing what remains of his ruse, but it isn’t enough. A bride and a spy and a witch who all came from Balica. Strangeness after strangeness after strangeness from our southern neighbor.
War will happen. It is written across the lords’ faces, and it is the Fates’ will. No one has hope of avoiding the last piece of the prophecy any longer. Cyrus should give in to the demands to invade. Give the dukes their taste for whatever support he can get.
Otherwise, we might be looking at a coup.
* * *
The only good news is the land has begun to heal. With the witch in hiding, there’ve been no new beasts nor bramble—except upon my tower.
I notice it too late. What might have been a few patches of rot turn nearly half my tower black. The whole place stinks like a corpse. Based on the rate of the rot’s spread, I suspect the witch spilled her blood on my tower the night of the wedding. Maybe it was her source of magical thorns to make beasts, or an attempt to make me look guilty.
I visit Cyrus in his study to discuss what to do and where I might stay instead. The room is mostly as I last remembered it. A few things have been taken from his father’s study, including the large map of the continent. Last time I was in here, I was in Cyrus’s arms as he pleaded with me to listen to my heart.
Look at where that’s gotten us.
Behind his desk, Cyrus barely looks up. The circles around his eyes are surprisingly dark; the hollows are usually hidden with glamour. “Your tower—” he begins, straight to business, because it’s the easiest kind of interaction we have.
“The witch probably corrupted it. It’s probably too much to salvage,” I say simply.
He sighs into the pocket of his folded hands. “I’m afraid of it spreading, too. We have to burn it all as soon as possible. Move out anything you need.”
It might just be the flicker of candlelight, but I swear something glints in the muss of his hair. Cyrus waves me away, but I keep staring at the top of his head. Catching my gaze, he sits straighter so I can’t see. His eyes are still too green.
“Are you okay?” The words feel strange in my mouth, not exactly gentle but an attempt at it. It’s a stupid question, anyway. Of course he’s not okay.
But of course he says, “I’m fine.”
“Have you heard from him?”
Cyrus hesitates, glancing at the pile of unread letters stacked in a basket on his desk. “No.”
Every topic is dangerous between us: his father, his crown, Dante, his scars. In this new Auveny, with war brewing and old magic crawling out of the ground, I’ve tasted regret. There are things I almost want to say to him, but none are worth the price of broaching. If he still wanted me, if he wanted a moment to forget the world in the tangle of my body, he would seek it. He was never shy about it before.
But there is a kingdom to manage and a scar upon his heart, so I leave him to his work and head back to my tower under the wary watch of soldiers.
Most of the ceremonial items have been removed from the tower already, and I only pack up my clothes and saved coin. I have knickknacks from street festivals and patrons over the years, but nothing I would keep. No letters to remember anyone by, no gifts I like except a small journal Dante gave me. I only wrote on the first page of it. I slip it in between my folded blouses and skirts. I’m almost embarrassed at how unfilled the trunk is when I hand it off to a servant.
I take one last look from the balcony and remember the sight of the Sun Capital from what is—for the last time—the tallest point in the city.
Maybe I’ll see it again in a dream.
The bramble continues climbing up, around and around my tower. By nightfall, it’s covered all the way to the top, and curling, spiked briars spill through the palace’s north gate. The smell of it carries downwind, stinking like rain mixed with gutter water, like dying roses.
I observe the burning from the gardens, close enough to see everything happening but not too close to catch suspicious glares. Soldiers are hacking off the thickest vines, piling dry fuel, and building up a bonfire. I can only see the shape of my tower’s corruption as a shadow against the stars, and soon the silhouette is completely obscured by the smoke.
The boy must die before summer’s end, or you will burn, the Fates told me. But Cyrus is alive and so am I. Was it my defiance of the witch that saved us, or was it what nearly doomed us? How close was that other future?
And is this one really any better?
Everything I worked for wasn’t worth much in the end. I would curse out the stars and the gods who live among them if I thought it mattered.
I understand why others put such faith in the Fates: Don’t we all wish—beyond any gold or fame—to be right? To have some authority tell us with certainty that we’ve done the best we could with the life we have? So we idly listen to kings and gods who tell us what to do, even when we have no idea what their true intentions are. Even if all they want is blood.
It’s easier than figuring it out for ourselves. Easier than carrying the regret when we don’t make the choices we should. For once, I’d happily let someone else make my decisions for me, just so I can blame my mistakes on them. Just so I don’t feel like every choice I’ve ever made was a mistake.
I watch my tower go up in flames as it once did in my dreams.
And I finally cry.
I decide on my own to leave.
