Chapter 17.5 The Master
I know what happens next, of course. The prince kills the evil witch and rides away into the sunset with the damsel, who gratefully marries him the next day and becomes a princess.
Everything just as happy as it could be, for the humans.
And who cares what happens to the green witch or the vile dragon?
They're the monsters. They are supposed to die at the end of the story, so the others can be safe and happy.
I seethe upon the ottoman, crossing my arms as I glare around at the room full of offending books.
Are these the kinds of stories Marton likes?
The kind of magic he wanted?
But I know that isn't true.
He always read between the pages of history, and when he heard the tale of a princess stolen by a dragon in Ithyma, he assumed that the princess was the dragon.
He didn't come to heroically rescue her, or to kill her.
He just came to see the truth. To make a friend, if he could.
It's just me that isn't good enough.
It has nothing to do with him. Because I'm more like the monster in the story than I ever wanted to be, fighting for a cause that wasn't all that noble.
And I'm more like the witch, too. Coveting the maiden for my lonely heart.
Just like Inobar explained about Dragomira: there's me, refusing to let go of the treasure that fell into my hands.
I'm the monster, I'm a villain, in almost every way I look at it.
It's only if Cherry needs me to protect her, that I become anything noble.
And is Marton right? Is that codependent of me?
Is that why I fret over her so much?
Unbidden, Master Albertson's words float to the forefront of my mind, If you want to write a new story, you have to fight for it.
No one may tell your story for you.
At that moment, before I can follow this thought further, the door to the room opens, and Marton appears.
His eyes scan the room and immediately fall on me.
A real smile, genuine but wary, crosses his face.
"There you are." He enters the room, pulling the door shut behind him.
He has another tray, this one full of dinner smells, balanced in his hand.
"Here I am." My tone comes out rather arch.
Marton winces, setting the tray down on the bed.
He turns his body to face me, bracing his shoulders.
"I-I wanted to apologize. For earlier. For prying.
It was foolish of me, to be making a difficult situation worse by critiquing your feelings, which you have a right to—"
"Never mind," I say, sitting up.
"I'm...over it. It's fine." I'm not over it, not at all, but I'm not mad at him about it.
Marton hesitates, hands behind his back, seeming to want to say something further.
"Did you find anything after I left?
" I ask.
Marton sighs, slumping against the bed.
"No." He rubs at his face. "Nothing useful.
I can't find mentions of that painting anywhere, which seems bizarre considering it's hanging openly in the halls of the Academy.
"
"Mmm." I consider it.
Marton thinks it odd that there wouldn't be any writings about an illustration displayed so prominently.
But maybe that means that if any such writings do exist, they are already in the possession of whoever hung the painting there in the first place.
Whoever was so interested in the subject that they wanted it on the walls.
Someone, perhaps, who has an office in that hallway.
"Marton." I hold my breath as he looks at me.
"I can't help but think," I say carefully, "that our surest way of finding out more about that painting is to ask one of the masters.
"
"Yes," says Marton slowly.
"It's possible that one of them would know more about it.
"
"One of them, probably, with an office in that hall.
"
His eyes go guarded.
"You mean the Headmaster."
"Yes.
"
Marton takes a deep breath.
Lets it out gradually. His expression and tone are diplomatic when he replies, "I really don't like the idea.
"
"It's risky," I nod, "but so is delaying for too long.
Leaving our friends in danger. We're risking ourselves no more than they are already at risk.
"
"But if it goes wrong—and we still don't get the information we need—"
I don't have a ready response for that.
"Let's just...try really hard...not to let it go wrong.
"
Marton shakes his head, the smallest bit of exasperated humor in his eyes.
"You really hated research so much?"
"The books here are not my favorite.
" Inadvertently, my gaze goes to the book of fairy tales on the floor.
Marton grimaces—at the condition of his book, I think at first. But when he responds, it is to say, "A lot of the more recent children's stories are of the slay-the-monsters variety.
"
"Yes..." I whisper.
Marton is silent, and I think about the question he asked me earlier, the one that I avoided.
"My—my favorite kind of stories...they were never the kind that came from the pages of a book.
They were the stories that Cherry and I used to make up together, with her imagination and my.
..my dragon-ness. In those stories, the beasts were always the heroes, or allies of the heroes.
The damsels rode dragons and saved the kingdom, and fell in love with handsome men along the way.
"
When I pull my gaze up from the floor to look at him, Marton is smiling, eyes lit up with happiness as he looks at me.
"I'd like to hear some of those stories.
"
I flush. "Cherry's the one who knows most of them.
I just...floundered through. She inserted the majority of the content herself.
"
Marton makes a noncommittal noise, still smiling.
"Maybe we'll live one of the tales, instead.
"
My heart jolts in my chest, its beat ratcheting up.
"Are you—Are you calling yourself the handsome man in the story?
" I try to joke, voice weak.
"That depends.
..are you the heroine who falls in love with me? "
"The—the princess is the one who fell in love with all the handsome men.
Not the dragon."
"Well, that doesn't seem fair," Marton says nonchalantly.
His eyes are still intent on me, making me feel strangely breathless.
"That—this—isn't—this isn't the time for.
.."
He raises his eyebrows at me.
"Flirting," I growl.
"Or whatever this is." I flick a hand at him, and notice a bit of talon and scale is showing through at my fingertips.
A sign of nervousness. I curl my hand in, but Marton grins hugely at me.
My dragon form moves under my skin, responding to my distress, and I shiver.
Marton shakes his head, expression penitent, though his gaze is full of humor.
"My apologies." He gives a chivalrous, mocking bow.
"I didn't mean to make you...flustered."
"I am not flustered," I insist, flustered.
I note that he didn't deny that he was flirting with me.
"We just need to focus on—"
"The princess," Marton finishes, looking less amused.
But he nods seriously. "Of course," he sighs.
"So...the Headmaster."
"I think we should ask him about the painting.
" I nod.
"And how do we couch it?
"
"Couch?" I glance at the furniture in confusion.
"How do we phrase it?
" he clarifies. "What are our reasons for asking about the painting?
Or do you propose we dive right in with the truth?
"
"We—I suppose we can try concealment first. But you're the scholar.
What's a good reason for inquiring about the painting?
Or the Trove?"
"I suppose I could make it seem part of my research.
I was looking into dragons before I left.
But I had turned my attention towards current legends and rumors, and all the masters knew I wanted to go out looking for them.
I'm not sure if anyone really believes that isn't where I've been all this time.
"
"But then who do they think I am?
"
He looks confused.
"They think you're my wife."
"But.
..Oh. Okay. Anyway." I'm not flustered again.
"So will they believe you if you say you're now researching ancient dragon art?
"
"Maybe...though I don't know how I can lead up to asking questions about the location of the Trove without them supposing I mean to head out in search of it.
And then I might be in some trouble."
"What kind of trouble?
"
A shrug. "I might be working up to my own expulsion.
"
"You mean...they may kick you out of the Academy, if you make it clear you're going to leave again.
Without permission."
"They'll likely expel me when I do leave again, one way or another.
" Marton seems unbothered by the notion.
I breathe out shakily, upset by the turmoil I'm wreaking in his life.
"I'm sorry, Marton. You shouldn't have to make this choice.
.."
"Hey," he interrupts quickly.
"I already made my choice, okay? When I left the first time.
I thought I burned my bridges then, and I didn't care.
My future isn't here." He spreads his arms, indicating the stacks of books and room around us.
The whole Academy. "My future is..." he trails off for a moment, dropping his arms. His throat works while his brown eyes fix on my face.
"It's out there somewhere," he whispers.
"Where the stories are happening."
Where the stories are happening.
It sounds like a place I want to go. Is that where my future is too?
I don't know.
My future is wherever Cherry is, isn't it? Wherever she wants to be. The Ithymian palace, likely. That's where she's always wanted to get back to.
The thought of it is perhaps not quite as enticing as the place Marton claims he's going, but it isn't up to me.