Violet Made of Thorns (Violet Made of Thorns #1)(4)
“What if I don’t want to work with you?”
“You’ll have to, one day. I’m your Seer.”
“I could change that.”
I laugh out of habit, but the dip of his gaze has a cold edge. We’ve always argued like this, yet—no, Cyrus couldn’t really let me go. He doesn’t have the nerve to do something so unprecedented as removing a sitting Seer, not when there are so few in the world.
I lick my lips. “You need me more than you hate me.” Arrogant, maybe, but that’s the only way to call a bluff.
The edge of Cyrus’s mouth curls upward, the only hint that he might have enjoyed any part of this conversation. “Is that so?”
He turns back around. I watch as he leaves down the hall toward the gilded doors of the Council Chamber. A footman opens them for him with a bow, and Cyrus disappears inside.
* * *
Most of the Council’s fourteen dukes or their stewards arrived a week ago for their twice-annual session. There’s plenty of pomp and very little progress as they squabble over taxes and Dragonsguard allocations for their respective dominions. Auveny is the largest and wealthiest of the three Sun Continent nations—outpacing the Republic of Balica to our south and the Kingdom of Verdant beyond the Fairywood and eastern mountains—a status that encourages a mix of ambition and complacency in our leadership. We also pride ourselves on being a model kingdom, with fair laws and opportunities for even the lowest subjects.
So there’s a great deal of self-importance, too.
It’s too much hot air to make eavesdropping worth it for me, but anything interesting will find its way around soon enough; secrets jump like fleas in the Sun Capital. And if there’s a matter that requires a Seer’s attention, King Emilius will call me in himself.
After Cyrus enters the Council Chamber, I await the fallout in the upstairs library. I spend many afternoons among the curated tomes; dry as they might be, they’re one way I put names to the unfamiliar things I’ve seen in my dreams. I’ve never been far outside the river-veined hills of the capital myself. My duties keep me here, and I try to be reliable in presence; I get enough criticism lobbied at me without lazy being added to that list.
I’m flipping through a travelogue of a famous Yuenen explorer from the Moon Continent when I hear doors slamming open, followed by a spill of shouts. It hasn’t even been an hour. Setting the book down, I follow the racket along with a growing crowd to the main courtyard, where Lord Rasmuth of the Seventh and Lord Ignacio of the Thirteenth are quarreling.
The latter stamps his foot loudly enough to startle birds into the sky. “Efficiency be damned!” Ignacio bellows. “The prince is still cursed! I will not support him as king until he finds a queen—and, dare I say, even then!”
Even with my shorter height, I stand out among the crowd with my black rope of hair and shimmering, shifting robes. Nearby eyes begin turning toward me for answers—exactly the situation I wanted to avoid.
I sigh heavily as the shawled lady at my elbow does a triple take in my direction, as if drumming up the initiative to ask. She finally speaks up on the fourth gawk, after a short bow. “Sighted Mistress, will we not have a wedding soon? But you said—”
“That his Highness would find his true love before his journey’s end,” I finish with emphasis. “Not his tour’s end. Clearly, his journey isn’t over yet.” This is why the exact words are important.
I excuse myself, feigning a headache. Pushing a path into the palace, I can see the fresh implications of my reply rippling through the throngs in shocked expressions and whispers. The news will bleed through the entire city before dark.
Cyrus’s footsteps echo near, louder than everyone else’s, sending the message that His Highness will not be answering questions right now. The tail of his jacket flaps past me as he heads toward the wing containing his father’s offices.
I can’t resist calling after him, “Hate to say I told you so, Princey—oh, wait, no I don’t. I told you so!”
He doesn’t even stop to glower.
Cyrus’s attempt at rebellion inconveniences both of us, but more him than me. King Emilius knows his son’s moods. Despite the diplomatic smiles they wear in public, Cyrus might argue with his father more than he argues with me—and Cyrus never wins. I know this because I’ve never in my life heard the king change his mind about anything.
I, on the other hand, have always been in the king’s good graces, and Cyrus resents me for it. His father’s respect is hard-earned, rare as a treasure plundered from the depths of a dragon’s lair. That respect will protect me even when Cyrus ascends. King Emilius will likely keep one hand on Auveny’s puppet strings even after passing on his crown; the Council of Dukes—all appointed by him—are loyal to Emilius, and that is where the true power lies.
Evening curtains the sky soon after I return to my tower. I relish these hours, when it’s too late for anyone to call for my services. Up in my bedroom, I light the hearth and draw a cold bath. I slip my robe from my shoulders, unbutton my skirt, pull my blouse and shift over my head.
Bracing myself, I plunge into the tub, then scrub down by firelight. Old scars have mostly faded from my soap-softened skin. My hair pools around me, dark as ink and heavy with perfumed water.
Seeing me today, you wouldn’t guess that I was born a scraggly weed of the Moon District slums. Now I have my own tower with its own porcelain bath and a bed of silks. I can read and write, I eat as heartily as the royal family, and people bow to me.