Violet Made of Thorns (Violet Made of Thorns #1)(9)
“Where were you?”
“My uncle’s leaving today. Had to bribe him with lunch so I could drop off a few letters for family.” A leisurely ride to the Balican border takes up to two weeks; his uncle won’t be back anytime soon. “So, what’d I miss, hmm?” Dante claps his hands. “What horrors hath Camilla wrought this time?”
We stroll around to the emptier west gardens, following a path of mosaic sunbursts as I tell him about the announcement. Patches of dirt, prepared for new planting, are dusted with the tender green of shoots. A topiary sheared in the shape of a lion roars at us as we pass underneath its arching paws.
Dante taps a thoughtful thumb against his chin. “Cyrus mention anything else about his tour? Anything worrying?”
“Like what?”
“Patrols found rotting trees at the edge of the Fairywood.”
“In the Eleventh Dominion. Old news. I heard they’re burning it. Oh—it’s close to Balica, isn’t it? Can’t imagine they’re happy.”
He grimaces. “They’re not.”
On record, Auveny and Balica have been peaceful for two centuries, but there’s a history of territorial disputes between them, mostly regarding the Fairywood at the heart of the Sun Continent. It’s the last parcel of sovereignless land: a tangled mass of gnarled trees and thorny undergrowth, inhospitable to all but the strangest creatures, like the fairies that give it its name.
Balica considers the Fairywood a sacred area. The Auvenese treat it like a clump of overgrown weeds that will curse us one day if we don’t torch it first.
The rot isn’t even the problem, though some worry about it tainting the groundwater; it’s just a symptom of how unpredictable the Fairywood is. It doesn’t behave like a forest. It doesn’t change with seasons, and its plants grow at whim. Some say that it isn’t a forest at all—that its trees are just magic that’s taken the shape of them, and it can shift and create anything it may please. Along the border, you’ll hear tales of phantoms that flicker in the woods’ shadows, of charmed fruit that lures you toward death, of things that should not be, there and gone in a blink.
But it still burns like a forest. And Auveny is quick to use fire to curb it—or invade it, depending on who you ask. The four newest dominions are sitting on land that was Fairywood at the beginning of King Emilius’s reign. Balica has warned against overstepping, but the king insists on the Fairywood’s danger and eradication. He only acquiesced after those warnings escalated to a skirmish eight years ago. An isolated incident, but tensions have been fraught since.
“You think we shouldn’t burn it?” I take the flattened custard bun from my sleeve, tear off a chunk, and offer the rest to Dante, but he declines.
“Just because it’s strange doesn’t mean it’s dangerous, but…the problem is, it might actually be dangerous, more than we know. Cyrus passed the rotted area during the last leg of his tour. Went right up to the edge of the Fairywood—you can’t see this from the road—and the ground there was covered in roses.”
I choke on my next swallow.
Dante slaps my back hard. “All right?”
Blood and roses and war. I wheeze, hacking bits of bun. “Normal roses? Prophetic roses?”
“Here—first, don’t die.” He takes the flask from his belt and pushes it into my hand. “Was sort of hoping to see if you knew. Have you dreamed anything lately?”
I nearly choke again while drinking from the flask. I considered telling him about last night, but if there’s some truth to those omens…It’s one thing if I wanted Dante to convince me it was only a nightmare; it’s another task entirely if I told him his best friend is truly doomed.
“No, but I’m still worried.” I take my time wiping my mouth. “A…gut feeling. Big things tend to happen all at once. There’s his ascension, this ball…”
“Cyrus thinks Lord Denning planted the roses intentionally to start rumors. They weren’t live ones—just the buds and heads—but they were fresh, and I doubt anyone keeps a massive rose garden out there, so where did they come from? Cyrus paid off the patrols to keep quiet, but if something prophetic is emerging from the Fairywood…”
“Then he knows he shouldn’t be stubborn about picking a bride.”
Dante snorts. “He isn’t without reason. But I agree.” He stares past me toward the palace. “Hmm. Speaking of Cyrus.”
I turn around. The prince in question is striding down the path toward us, purple cloak billowing, looking like one of the garden’s statues come to life: perfectly carved body buttoned beneath perfectly tailored clothes, and—chiseled upon his face—a perfectly pissed-off glower.
I can already hear the long-suffering sigh in the back of Dante’s throat. “Violet…you wouldn’t happen to know why he looks like one of us forcefed him a lemon?”
A flush rises to my cheeks. “Earlier, I might have, um, said his head was up his ass. In front of everyone.”
“For the love of—”
“You think so too!”
“Yes, under my breath.” Dante massages his wrinkled forehead. “We’re not children anymore. He’s going to be king soon, capital K King.”
“A capital T Toad-brain if he doesn’t listen— Hello, Cyrus.”