Violie

The first time Violie rode from Hapantoile into Temarin, she did so alone, with just enough coin to afford her a moderate room in a shabby inn and a single change of clothes packed into a satchel with some bread, cheese, and cake her mother had packed for her. It hadn't mattered that the empress was employing her—a servant traveling any more comfortably could have been seen as suspicious, and any companions she might be traveling with had the potential to see through her lies.

Ansel had met her in a small village near the border—a surprise to Violie, though he'd apparently been acting on orders to wait for her for days. He'd been the one to provide her with forged letters of reference from a reclusive Temarinian count, and they'd hitchhiked the rest of the way to Kavelle in a farmer's wagon. They'd arrived in the city smelling like hay, having spent those hours wrapped up in each other's arms simply because it had been a way to pass the time.

When Violie and Leopold cross into Temarin, she can't help but think about Ansel. She didn't mourn his death when Daphne told her about it. After everything that had happened, she'd have killed him herself if she'd been given a chance. But now the thought of him sends a pang into her heart. Her feelings for him were a shallow puddle, born more of convenience and the need for security in a strange new world than anything else.

They were so similar when they first met, she realizes. Both angry at the world and desperate for more from life, both ready to burn the world down if they could turn a profit from the ashes. Violie agreed to work for the empress to heal her mother, yes, but she knows deep down that if her mother hadn't been sick, she'd have done the same for a bag of gold and a way out of the life she'd been born into. And in Ansel, she'd seen her ambition and ruthlessness mirrored.

They took different paths from there, but now she spares a thought for the person he might have been, and the person she might have been too. When the moment passes, though, she banishes Ansel from her thoughts for good and turns to Leopold.

"I don't suppose you've developed a plan now that we're in Temarin?" she asks him. "You know you can't simply march into Kavelle and declare yourself king again."

"Of course I know that," Leopold says, scoffing before he falls silent for a moment. "But I wouldn't say I have a plan, no," he adds. "I've been thinking about my family's allies who weren't at court when the siege happened, those who might still be alive."

Violie opens her mouth to dispel any ideas he might have about that, but he starts speaking again.

"After the siege, those courtiers would have either sworn allegiance to Empress Margaraux or been executed by her army. And I'd wager good money that none of them took the latter option."

Violie closes her mouth, surprised he saw the logical truth before she pointed it out. "Some might decide to ally with you, but at best, their loyalty would be a fickle thing you couldn't depend on. At worst, they'd turn you over to the Bessemian soldiers before you had a chance to take off your cloak."

Leopold nods. "That's a dead end, then," he says. "But I have no other allies in Temarin. I don't think I ever had true allies here. I had sycophants. I didn't know the difference then, but I do now."

Violie considers this, her mind catching on the memory of Leopold with Thalia, the striking sight of a king bowing before a commoner, asking for forgiveness and promising to atone.

"You have a gift with people," she says after a moment. "When you lived in the palace, surrounded by sycophants as you called them, you didn't have much opportunity to use it, but the way you spoke with Thalia—it didn't matter her station or yours or the fact that I'm fairly certain she slapped you across the face before I arrived. You truly listened to her, and treated her with respect and honor. If we had the time, I'd suggest you speak to every Temarinian individually in the same way."

"But that could take years," Leopold says. "And it isn't something I can summon. I just spoke to her the same way I'd speak to you. The same way I spoke with Daphne and Beatriz when we spoke of Sophie."

"That's exactly my point," Violie says. "You spoke to Thalia the same way you spoke to princesses."

Leopold still appears confused.

"It's something you've done even before we officially met, you know," she says, annoyance twinging through her when she realizes she has to mention the ghost she so recently banished from her mind. "With Ansel," she says.

The name hangs heavy between them. "Treating him as anything more than a clod of dirt was a mistake," Leopold says, his voice hard. Violie can't blame him for the anger in his tone—Ansel was the head of the rebel faction that executed Sophronia, and he'd been behind the kidnapping of Leopold's brothers as well. Leopold has every reason to hate him. Still…

"The mistakes weren't yours," she says. "They were his. You invited him to dine at your table when you thought he was just an unemployed fisherman. You listened to his concerns and tried to help him. He met your kindness with cruelty, but that wasn't your doing. I'm only saying that if the people of Temarin could see you the way I have, the way Thalia and plenty of others have at this point, I believe they would rally behind you."

As soon as the words are out of Violie's mouth, she pulls her horse to a stop. Leopold follows suit a beat later and looks at her in confusion. "What is it?" he asks.

"We need people to know you, to know that you aren't the spoiled king who fled when Temarin needed him. We need them to know that you're here, ready to fight for them, to make up for your mistakes. We can't show that to every person individually, but whispers will travel farther and faster than we ever could."

Leopold still looks confused.

"We'll make our way to Kavelle," Violie says. "Careful to avoid the detection of the Bessemian army, and with a few stops along the way. In villages and towns where you can meet with a handful of people—people I can ensure are open-minded. They'll tell stories about you to their friends and neighbors, who will spread the stories further. Anyone who wishes to join our party is welcome to. By the time we reach Temarin, we could have an army at our back. Or, should my plan fail miserably, it will just be us."

Leopold takes this in, nodding slowly. "If that's the case," he says, his gaze on her softening, "there's no one I would rather fight beside."

Violie smiles, the words warming her, but she shakes her head. "Much as I appreciate the sentiment, Leo, I'd like for us to not die, so let's try to recruit an army, shall we?"

The first town Violie and Leopold arrive at sits just south of the Amivel River. They ride around its perimeter, giving it a wide berth and looking for signs of a Bessemian presence. They don't have to look hard. A Bessemian flag waves from the guard tower, the gold sigil of the sun against a pale blue background. It's unsurprising that the Bessemians have a stronghold here, given how close the town sits to the Bessemian border, and there's no telling how many soldiers will have made themselves at home within the town's walls.

They find a small copse of trees to the east, and when they're inside, they dismount.

"You stay here," Violie tells Leopold, passing him her reins, which he takes without complaint. She's surprised by how quickly he acquiesces. She expected him to insist on blazing into the town himself, determined to be the hero, but instead, he nods.

"I'll see that the horses graze and drink," he says. It's only then that he pauses. "You're no novice when it comes to going unnoticed, I know that, but I'm still asking you to be careful."

"I will be," she assures him, though they both know it's a hollow promise. If she were truly to be careful, she wouldn't walk into a town occupied by their army. But then, if he were being careful, they wouldn't be in Temarin at all.

Violie finds she can slip into her Temarinian accent as easily as an old cloak, getting past two armed guards standing at one of the town's entry gates with an empty smile and a story about visiting her cousins from a village in the south. The guards don't give her a second look before letting her in. They certainly don't think to check for the dagger in her boot.

Once inside, Violie takes a moment to get her bearings. She's seen enough towns and cities in Vesteria that she understands the general layout. While Hapantoile was crammed full of public houses and shops for everything from ribbons to horseshoes, the smaller towns she's visited usually only have a single public house, which acts as a hub for the community.

When Violie finds it, the sun has just started to set and the public house is already filling up, with a dozen townspeople scattered around the main room—a group of three women gathered near the fireplace with their knitting and mugs of mulled wine; two men hunched over a table too small for them, laughing over their ale; a family of four supping on bowls of soup at a booth in the corner; and a trio of teenagers only a couple of years younger than Violie, sitting at the bar and making jokes with the barmaid, oblivious to her irritation.

Violie feels curious eyes on her as she makes her way to the bar, greeting the barmaid and ordering a mug of ale. In a town this small, strangers are uncommon, she'd wager, and cause for wariness even before so much of Temarin became a battlefield. Violie casts her gaze around the room, smiling when she catches someone's eye, and sipping at her ale. She chooses an empty seat in the far corner, largely obscured by a pillar and far enough from the rest of the patrons that no one will think she's eavesdropping.

Slowly, the townspeople realize she means them no harm, and their attention fades, meandering back to their own conversations. And while Violie isn't close enough to anyone to hear what they're saying, their body language gives her some idea.

The knitting circle, for instance, is tense, though that tension doesn't seem stretched between its members. Their words are hissed more than spoken, and the conversation is stilted and wary. The laughing men are loose enough, though judging by their flushed skin and glassy eyes, the ale they're drinking isn't their first or even second round. The daughter eating dinner with her parents is young, four or five, and seemingly oblivious to the simmering argument between her parents, who speak only to her and not each other. The teenagers, she suspects, are frightened, their raucous laughter both a mask and a balm for that fear.

She is considering whether to approach the drunken men or the knitting circle when the door bangs open, the sound of wood slamming against wood thunderously loud. As soon as Violie hears the click of their boot heels against the public house's wooden floors, she knows they're soldiers. Five of them, she counts, without looking up. She imagines herself melting into her chair, blending in with the shadow cast by the pillar half hiding her from view. She thinks herself small and easy to overlook.

"A round of ale, girl!" one soldier shouts to the barkeep in Bessemian. The barkeep understands nevertheless and hastens to pour five mugs of ale. Even from where Violie sits across the pub, she can see the barkeep's hands shaking.

Everyone else in the public house has fallen silent, the tensions Violie noticed moments ago heightened. Even the child has gone still, staring at the table in front of her with intent eyes.

"We're celebrating, aren't we, boys?" the same soldier continues, a grin stretched over his face that Violie instinctively wants to slap off. The other soldiers grin as well, cheering in assent. The man Violie picks out as their leader claps one of them on the shoulder and laughs. "We caught the thieves who were stealing from our armory."

The soldiers cheer again, but Violie's attention is drawn to the group of teenagers at the bar, standing a mere five feet from the soldiers. One of them inhales sharply at the soldier's news, though he keeps his gaze focused on the wooden bar top. He's careful to keep his face angled away from the soldiers so they don't see the fear flash there, but Violie can see it perfectly. It's a fear she felt before, when she learned about the coup planned to capture and kill Sophronia and the other nobles, and then again when she discovered that Daphne had orders to kill Leopold shortly after they'd left Eldevale together for Prince Cillian's starjourn. Dread, fear, and helplessness.

But Violie was never truly helpless in those situations. Both times she'd set out to save the people she cared for, and she knows with shocking certainty that this boy will do the same.

"And we caught them just in time for the baron's visit tomorrow—I'm sure His Lordship will take great pleasure in seeing them punished."

The baron.Violie hadn't expected that the empress would send a nobleman to fight in Temarin, though baron is a relatively low rank. Perhaps this baron had some military talent that made him volunteer for the role. But while Violie studied the names and details of Temarinian courtiers before the empress sent her here to spy, there was no need for her to learn anything about Bessemian nobility. Daphne and Beatriz might know who the baron is, but Violie hasn't aclue.

The boy Violie is watching knows, though. He tenses further at the title, his knuckles turning white around the mug he holds. The soldiers watch him and his friends as well, expecting something, but Violie can't tell whether or not they receive it. The leader watches too, and Violie realizes with growing dread that he understands exactly what he's doing. He's taunting the boy on purpose, to what end Violie can only begin to guess.

As the soldiers laugh and drink, oblivious to or enjoying the discomfort of the rest of the room, Violie takes a closer look at the boy and his friends.

She'd dismissed them immediately because of their youth, though she knows they aren't much younger than her. Older, certainly, than she was when she started working for the empress. It wasn't that she thought them incapable, though, just that word of Leopold's return and promise to reclaim Temarin would hold less sway coming from their mouths. But looking now, she realizes it isn't only one boy upset at the news from the soldiers—they all are. The other boy and girl with him are simply better at hiding their simmering anger.

Violie sweeps her gaze across the room again. All the townspeople are angry, she knows, but most of their anger is drowned out by fear. But while she's sure the youths at the bar are afraid, the anger rolling off them is too strong to leave room for much else.

She lifts her ale to her lips and takes a small sip as the soldiers put on their show to assert their power and intimidate. They don't so much as glance in her direction, and they speak to no one else, not even the barmaid to settle their tab. But against the din of their laughter and shouts, Violie's mind is working quickly, her plan shifting and growing.

Leopold will be furious with her, since what her new plan entails is the very antithesis of caution, but she knows that if he were in her place, he wouldn't hesitate.