Page 4 of The Iron Flower

I slide my fingers over the pendant’s embossed tree design, the soothing image of a pale leafed tree rustling to life in the back of my mind. Increasingly, I find myself drawn to the pendant, compelled by the comfort it offers, much like the white wand Sage gave me.

As I clasp the pendant more tightly, a shimmering energy ripples through me, and I’m reminded of Wynter’s words of caution when I donned the necklace for the first time. We both sensed the subtle power in it, a power that calls to some deep part of myself I can’t yet name. It holds the warmth of a flickering flame, the rooted strength of an ancient tree—and a temptation I’m having trouble resisting.

I release the pendant with a sigh, glancing covertly at Yvan again. Iris is pressed so near to him that her chin is almost resting on his shoulder. A fresh wave of envy laps at me, and I fight to subdue the bitter feeling, but I’m so exhausted it seeps in anyway. Longing tangles up inside me as Iris leans even closer to him, her blond hair like honey in the lamplight as it brushes against his arm.

Did I imagine it, Yvan? How you almost kissed me that night? Why did you pull away?

As I search Yvan’s beautiful, angular face, hoping to find an answer, Iris turns her head toward me. Her eyes tighten with censure, and I wrench my gaze away from them, my face heating to an uncomfortable burn. I struggle to regain my composure, but when I look back up, Iris is still glaring at me. She makes a show of gently resting her head on Yvan’s shoulder and wrapping a languid hand around his arm.

Yvan absentmindedly glances at Iris, then brings his hand comfortingly over hers. The triumphant smile on her face makes me swallow hard, my throat gone coarse and dry as my dark mood deepens.

“Is there any word on amnesty for the refugees?” Tierney asks Lucretia as Jules and Fernyllia wrap up their conversation.

“We’re trying,” Lucretia says. “The political climate is...difficultat the moment. The Amaz are taking in a limited number of refugees, but only women—and with the covert understanding that the Vu Trin will eventually bring the refugees east.” Seeing Tierney’s anxious look, she hurriedly adds, “But thatissignificant. And quite brave of the Amaz.” Then Lucretia’s mouth hardens. “The Lupines and the Kelts and the Verpacians are wary of provoking Gardnerian ire.”

“So, what do we do now?” Tierney asks, almost a demand.

“We continue to work to get refugees out of a Realm that is hostile to them,” Jules answers. “Out of the line of Gardnerian and Alfsigr fire.” He sits back, takes off his glasses and fishes a handkerchief from his pocket to clean them with. “The local Vu Trin might be able to help us. Their commander, Kam Vin, is sympathetic to the plight of the refugees.”

Surprise fills me at this revelation, as I remember how harsh and intimidating Commander Vin was when she wandtested me.

“Commander Vin is trying to maintain a careful balance, though,” Jules adds. “Politically, the Noi people are on guardedly good terms with the Gardnerians. And they don’t want their own Vu Trin military to inadvertently provoke a war.”

“So, the Noi are appeasing the Gardnerians,” Tierney spits out, disgusted. “Like the rest.”

Jules flashes Tierney a jaded look. “They are, Tierney. They most certainly are. But it appears that Commander Vin sees the writing on the wall. She knows that it won’t be possible to appease the Gardnerians forever, so we have a potential ally in her. Which is good, because the current situation is likely to get much worse.”

“It’salreadygotten much worse,” Tierney adamantly states.

“She’s right,” Yvan interjects, glancing around. “Some of the Gardnerian military apprentices have started cropping Urisk.”

Iris pales, and Bleddyn spits out what sounds like an Uriskal curse.

“There have been four incidents in the past two days,” Yvan gravely continues. He looks to Fernyllia and Bleddyn with concern. “So be careful. Don’t go anywhere alone.”

“What’s cropping?” I blurt out, confused.

Bleddyn glowers at me. “The Gardnerians are cutting off the points of our ears, like we’re animals. And shearing the hair from our heads.That’swhat cropping means.”

Holy Ancient One. Shock and nausea roil through me.

“A Gardnerian farmer here in Verpacia was attacked by some Urisk workers,” Yvan says to me, his demeanor momentarily softening as his eyes meet mine, as if he can sense how much this has upset me. “The Gardnerians on the Verpacian Council are calling for retribution, and it’s provoking mob violence.”

“I heard about the situation on that farm,” Fernyllia says, her expression hard as a plank. “The Gardnerian farmer was abusing his workers mercilessly. Beating them to within an inch of their lives.” She hesitates, her expression darkening. “And much worse.”

“Grandma? What’s going on?”

All eyes dart to little Fern, who has just slipped into the room. Her arms are wrapped around her favorite cloth doll, Mee’na—the doll lovingly stitched by her grandmother, Fernyllia. Mee’na has blush-white skin, rose braids and sweeping pointed ears, just like Fern.

I pray that she didn’t hear a word of this horrible conversation, but I can tell from her wide, frightened eyes that she’s heard quite a bit.

Fernyllia clicks her tongue and goes to her granddaughter. She creakily lowers herself to Fern’s level, hugs the child close and murmurs to her gently in Uriskal.

Olilly slips in shyly behind Fern. The lavender-skinned Urisk kitchen girl gives us all a slight, faltering smile.

“Run along with Olilly now,” Fernyllia says in a reassuring tone. “I’ll come tell you a story in a bit,shush’onin.”

Fern gets a hug and kiss from her grandmother and leaves with Olilly, the wooden storeroom door clicking shut behind them.

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