17. Temple of Shadows
T hey subdued the wilder animals at large and freed the others. The mermaid was quickly questioned and returned to her people as soon as possible, leaving the knights to deal with the rest of the creatures. Unicorns in particular were a protected species. It was forbidden to even ride one, let alone take it captive. They were released as soon as they could be rounded up, galloping off over the fields in a trail of glitter.
Viola interviewed the staff, but none of them had seen anything of note. They’d awoken to find themselves locked in, the animals running riot. Nicodemus must have arrived at first light.
King Jax arrived with another set of knights a few hours later, taking apart Alesto’s study for signs of his contacts and interviewing his employees with the aid of a royal mage and some truth serum to decipher who was part of the operation and who was simply there to serve the estate. Viola was pleased to discover that the slain guards definitely appeared to have been hired to subdue and watch over the creatures. It made her feel better about their deaths. Anyone who stood by and watched evil happen deserved to meet a grisly end.
You’re just glad he didn’t kill an innocent.
But it wasn’t just that. Not entirely.
Viola debriefed the King, reporting everything she had discovered and showing him the card they’d found next to Alesto’s body.
“We could try checking with the local printers—” Jax suggested.
“I don’t need to, the damn thing’s handmade.”
“He made this?” The King snatched it from her grip. “It’s good work. ”
“Don’t compliment him!”
The King smirked, not seeming at all offended that he’d just been shouted at. “I apologise.”
“You don’t seem to be particularly cut up about this, Your Majesty.”
He shrugged. “We’ve been looking for a reason to get rid of Count Alesto. And now we have a rather nice estate sitting empty to award as we see fit. The Shadowmancer— the Nightshade— has saved us the spectacle and expense of a trial. For once, he’s taken nothing from me.”
He paused for a moment, glancing around at the estate. “Admittedly, it does look poor—a former knight responsible for such chaos being dispatched by another enemy of the Crown, but I’m sure my excellent Queen and council members will have something to suggest—”
“You’re not thinking of hiding this, are you?”
“Hiding this? Windbright, you wound me. I’m nothing if not honest.”
Viola snorted, but Jax’s expression sobered within a second. He placed aside the papers he was shuffling through and sighed.
“Sire?” Viola prompted.
“I didn’t much care for Alesto,” Jax admitted, “even before there were rumours about his smuggling. He was… not the kind of knight I wanted in our ranks.”
“Not loyal?”
“Oh, he was unfailingly loyal, by all reports. He was also… brutal.” He hovered on that word a moment longer, his blue eyes turning dark. Viola wondered what exactly Alesto could have done whilst still serving the crown that would have earned him such a reputation. “I don’t think he became a knight to help people. I think he became one because he liked to fight.”
Viola paused. Alesto would likely not be alone in that. She too, liked the fight, enjoyed the thrill of battle, of success—but only without pain. And with just cause. “Sire?”
“Yes?”
“Why did you become a knight?”
Jax hesitated for a moment before he replied. “For the same reason you did, Windbright, I’d wager. Because I wanted to save people.”
Viola nodded, although his pause grew longer in her recollection. She ignored it, continuing to help him sift through the papers, ignoring the servants scrubbing the bloodstains on the floor nearby.
“We’ll get him eventually, Windbright,” Jax remarked. Clearly Viola wasn’t ignoring the blood as well as she thought.
She also wasn’t entirely sure she wanted Nicodemus to be caught, which was an awful admission. She should bow out of this, hand over the reins of this operation to someone else. At least then, she wouldn’t be responsible for what happened when he was captured. She wouldn’t have to kill him.
Or him, her.
She had promised herself she would kill him, but it was easy to kill someone you didn’t know, easy to kill someone you’d barely seen the face of. It was harder to kill someone once you realised they were human, once they’d placed you in their debt, once they made you laugh and once you saw that somehow, deep down, they were a lot like you. She thought about how he’d tended to her wounds with gentle fingers, how he’d taken her mind off pain with silly conversation. She thought about his scars, about the way he danced around his history and the way he cared about Cordelia. Maybe it wasn’t so deep down. There was a reason you never named the animals you were raising for slaughter, a reason she tried avoid speaking his name.
You can’t kill him, said a voice inside her. You know you can’t.
But if he killed someone else, or did something else intolerable, what choice would she have then? No choice, she realised. Just the hope that someone else would kill him before she had to.
“Sire, I wonder if I’m the best person for this,” she said sharply, whilst she still had her nerve. “It’s been weeks and we’re no closer to him—”
Jax looked up, his face pulled into a tight frown. “Nonsense, Windbright. You’ve done a commendable job so far—foiled him as much as you’ve failed. Don’t let this one loss get the better of you. I won’t hear of it.”
Viola swallowed, unable to argue against that. “Of course, Sire. Forgive me.”
“Nothing to forgive. Now, go and take a break.”
“A break?”
“It’s when you do nothing for a short time so that you can do more later,” the King informed her. “I’m sure you’re familiar.”
“But—”
“No buts! The Captain will be most displeased if I push you too hard so soon after your recovery.”
“I—very well.”
“Also, I’ve had something delivered to your room. A gift from Isabeau, this time. An old dress of hers. She’s nowhere near your height, but she’s similarly well-built. I’m sure you can have it adjusted. We hope you’ll wear it to the Thawing-of-the-Frost ball.”
Viola blinked at him, certain she’d misheard. It was common for royalty to gift their old garments to their coterie, but giving a dress to a knight was unusual. It was, undeniably, an honour.
“Sire— Jax— I’m flattered. I don’t know what to say— ”
“Say you’ll accept. I’ve already checked with the Captain. You aren’t on duty.”
“Of course, Your Majesty. It would be an honour.”
“Marvellous. I do hope the colour suits.”
So do I.
Not that it would matter, of course. She was honour-bound to go in the dress if it was a sack, now. But she’d be lying if she didn’t want the dress to be beautiful, too. No longer annoyed over Alesto and the Shadowmancer, she rode Blackberry home as fast as his feathers could carry them, flinging his reins in Josef’s direction with little more than a quick pat on his long neck, and sprinted back to her room.
For once, the coldness of the room since Freya’s departure from it didn’t race up to greet her. Instead, her gaze was drawn to a large, ribbon-wrapped box on the bed. Eagerly, she pulled back the wrappings and lifted the lid.
Viola gasped.
It was an ice blue gown made with layers of petticoats in a dozen different shades, from sunset mauve to midnight blue. The skirt and bodice were studded with glassy gems in the shape of tiny starbursts. A glittery cape trailed along the back. She’d look like a goddess of winter in this creation. It was the prettiest thing she’d ever touched. Not a perfect match for her skin tone, perhaps, but she doubted many other than she would notice. It barely seemed to matter.
“You are beautiful,” Viola whispered, not caring that she was talking to a pile of fabric. “I am going to look so fine in you.”
Viola took off her armour and dumped it unceremoniously on the floor in her haste to get into the dress. She couldn’t lace it properly by herself, and there was no calling Freya, whose room was only a few doors down, to help her this time. Viola tried not to imagine her reaction to the gown, tried not to imagine the compliments she’d give her if the two of them were still together.
The gown’s beauty faded at the thought, and she quickly crawled out of it, hanging it up in the sparse wardrobe and turning to her discarded armour. She cleaned it and placed her sword back on its holder. There was no need to inspect the blade—she hadn’t needed it today.
She took Nicodemus’ ridiculous card from her doublet pocket and thumbed the shiny surface, half expecting it to transform, or for him to fizzle out of the shadows with a disgusting smirk on his face. He didn’t, of course. She was alone.
With nothing else to do—and with strict instructions to take a break—she took out the book he’d stowed in her belongings and continued to read it. She wasn’t far off the end, but had paused last night because she was certain that not everything could possibly be resolved in the space she had left, and wasn’t sure she could handle the heartbreak. Sure enough, by the end of the next chapter, Korrigan had been kidnapped. Wilde led a daring rescue attempt, but was severely injured in the process, and Korrigan once more out of his reach.
The book ended with Wilde crawling towards him, swearing he would find him.
“No!” said Viola, surprised by the sound of her own voice. She threw down the volume in disgust.
“Are you being attacked?” a voice called from the corridor. A knight whose voice she knew but couldn’t name.
“Ah, no! Just reading!”
“Do it more quietly.”
Viola realised, somehow, that it was already night time. The book had absorbed her completely. She’d missed dinner. Frustrated, and hungry, she crept along to the communal kitchens to find herself something to eat, tearing into a roll of bread, furious with both the fictional characters in the book that had prevented the lovers from being together, and at the author for ending it in such a place.
And for Nicodemus, who’d given her the book knowing it ended on a cliffhanger.
The absolute bastard.
A little voice reminded her that she seemed more upset about him giving her a book with a cliffhanger in it than she did over the murder he’d committed today, but she didn’t lend it much weight. Alesto deserved to die, and Wilde and Korrigan did not deserve to be separated like that. It hardly seemed to matter that they were fictional.
What is the matter with you?
She didn’t sleep well that night. At least it wasn’t nightmares keeping her awake, instead acute distress for fictional people. It certainly beat the usual distress.
As soon as it was morning, she set off for the library, asking if they had a copy of the sequel in stock. The librarian tapped the golden index in front of her, whispering the name of the series. The book turned as if moved by the wind.
“Nothing, I’m afraid,” she concluded. “We don’t even carry the first in the series.”
Viola shouldered her annoyance, thanked the librarian and set off for town, scouring every bookshop she could find in search of the sequel. It was nowhere to be found.
Viola had now moved beyond frustration to full-blown anger. She decided to go for a fly over the Feywood, hoping that the cool air might dispel her temper. Perhaps she’d get lucky and find a monster in need of slaying. Or maybe she’d bump into Nicodemus. She had decidedly less qualms about killing him today.
She found herself flying over the Shadowcrest Mountains, the stone peaks protruding out of the snow like shards of black glass. It was strange to know that his home was there and yet completely invisible to her. She could be flying right past his window and have no idea.
She couldn’t find him. Of course she couldn’t. But she did find herself flying over the ruined temple she’d spied from her window.
Curious, she landed, leaving Blackberry to nibble leaves from the frosted bushes. It was a temple made of simple grey stone, built with pillars and arches in a fashion similar to all the monuments built to the Seven. Any stained glass had long since vanished from the windows. Foliage spilled in through the empty roof, and patches of the stone floor had become flower beds filled with wild winter lilies, their petals closed to protect them from the cold.
Viola wandered towards the remains of an altar. A statue stood there, its face rubbed away by the years. There was little of detail in the figure at all—a vague, insubstantial body, cloaked, arms open.
There were seven gods in Auro, all linked to the noble houses. The week began with Auriel, the goddess of light and life. Then Emberos, Zephyros, Naiadon, Quartzar and Sylvana.
The week ended with Umbra, the goddess of death and darkness. Due to her affiliation with the Houses of Shadow and Bones, no one worshipped her any more. Her temples had fallen to obscurity.
Which is why Viola had never heard of this one.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” said a voice from behind her.
Viola didn’t startle. Of course he was here.
“Do you know who she is?” he asked.
“Umbra,” Viola whispered, not wanting to raise her voice. “The goddess of death.”
“The goddess of darkness and mercy,” Nicodemus corrected. “People always seem to forget that last part.”
“Death isn’t merciful,” Viola snapped, and then, so quietly she wasn’t sure Nicodemus could hear her, “not to those it leaves behind.”
He turned away from her, looking up at the statue. “Do you know the tale?” he asked eventually.
“Bits,” she admitted. “I know that Auriel and Umbra are supposed to be sisters and they had a fight about something. My teachers skipped over the rest.”
“May I retell it?”
“Go ahead. ”
Nicodemus grinned. A small shadow lifted from his feet and slid up to the nearby wall, dividing into two female figures. Viola recognised the silhouette of Auriel immediately, having seen it in a number of books and temples. Auriel was a beautiful, curvy goddess with a wild head of curls and skin the colour of bronze. The sun given human form.
But the second goddess, her sister, was reed slim, a figure shrouded in layers of shadow. Viola had never seen her face, though the books depicted her as lily-white, with hair the colour of cream—moonlight to her sister’s sun.
“The first gods,” Nicodemus began, “and the first mancers—were the divine twins, Soleil and Umbra. While some believe that they weren’t gods at all, just powerful mancers, the products of the magic the bones of the Divine Giants had seeped into the earth, others believe that it was they that came first. They summoned the other gods out of ether, and created the world with their revelry. Where they danced, forests bloomed, and where they sang, life began anew.”
As he spoke, the shadows acted out his words, the figures dancing, pulling flowers and trees from the corners of the temple until seven gods twirled over a world of shadow and stone.
“For centuries, life continued in this way. The gods procreated, and their children, though not as powerful as they were, possessed the ability to shape the world in smaller ways. As time grew on, this power weakened, and soon only a few held power at all. The others learned to change the world with their hands and with their words, or channelled the natural magic all around them. They crafted spells and potions out of bones and leaves and bark, and for aeons, all was good.”
Sunlight streamed through the roof, blessing the tableau in front of them, but then the air grew colder, and the scene darkened and the flowers shrivelled.
“But then the world began to burst, too full of people. The land withered, unable to sustain their numbers. The humans grew hungry and tired, but they could not rest. Soleil conjured other lands, other countries, but it was not enough. And the people grew more tired, more exhausted. They longed for the Endless Sleep. They knew not what it was, only that in their hearts and in their bones, they wanted to lie their heads down in the earth and sleep forever. This was in the days before death, when Umbra was only the goddess of darkness.
“‘Please, sister,’ she begged Soleil, ‘let the people rest’.
“But Soleil’s solution was to create the seasons, to give them months of darkness to rest their weary bodies and the earth alongside them. It wasn’t enough. The exhaustion grew until many of the folk were as living corpses—beating hearts and empty minds. ”
The shadow figures shrunk to paper-thin, skeletal things, crawling along the floor of the temple. Memories of the famine filled Viola’s mind, and although the shadows were silent, she could hear the groaning—the weak, plaintive groans of empty, swollen bellies.
“Finally, Umbra could stand the suffering no longer. Against her sister’s wishes, she created a realm of shadows where the weary could rest eternal, where bodies too broken could heal. Soleil, displeased that her sister would take so many of her beloved creations, banished her to the darkness, never to be seen again.”
The earth swallowed Umbra and all the dying humans, leaving only Auriel behind, standing alone in the sunlight that now seemed as cold as winter.
“She never spoke her sister’s name again. She changed her own from Soleil to Auriel, breaking the link between them eternally. From that day on, no human has ever lived forever, each first breath a countdown towards that Endless Sleep. Auriel weeps for them all while Umbra prepares their beds. It is said that Auriel has never quite forgiven her sister, nor has she ever stopped missing her.”
Viola kept her eyes on Umbra’s figure until all the shadows had faded from sight. She had not expected the tale to be so sad. Nor that death was created as a mercy. She wanted to fight against the idea on principle, but couldn’t. The Endless Sleep. She could understand the peace of that, even if she was built to fight.
“Good tale,” she managed eventually, her voice scraping against her throat.
“Thank you.”
“Did you build your lair here—”
“ Castle —”
“Because of her?”
Nicodemus frowned. “Why would you think that?”
“Isn’t she the patron of shadowmancers? Didn’t they used to call the clan ‘Umbra’s Children’?”
He looked down at his feet. “I’m surprised they still teach that,” he whispered, but then shook his head. “But Umbra oversees the House of Bones, too. Shadowmancers and necromancers both.”
“Is that why you took in Cordelia? Because she’s one of you?”
“I took her in because she was useful to me, and I could offer her something in return. Don’t assume that it was for any noble reason.”
Then why don’t you use her?
She wanted to ask the question—maybe even wanted to suggest that perhaps Nicodemus wasn’t as bad as he pretended to be—but she held back. Why was she looking for reasons to defend him ?
“If I asked you to tell me why you killed Count Alesto—the real reason—would you tell me?”
His eyes flickered darkly, like he disliked the reminder of what he’d been up to this morning. “No,” he said, “not yet. But you can’t exactly say he didn’t deserve it.”
“That’s the only reason I haven’t attacked you already.”
Nicodemus snorted. “The only reason?”
Viola narrowed her eyes, hating that he could see right through her. “I have your book,” she said, taking it out of her backpack and thrusting it into his hands. She didn’t dare ask for the third one. She ought to go right now—
“Thank you for returning—” Nicodemus froze, his eyes widening. “Wait, why are some of these pages folded?”
“Oh, that was just to mark my place as I was reading—”
Nicodemus set out a sound akin to a squeak, clutching his chest. For a moment, she thought that there might be something seriously wrong with him. “Of the two of us, ask yourself—who is the real villain here?”
“Um, you? Definitely you.”
“Who would do such a thing—”
“It’s… it’s paper. Relax.”
“A heinous crime—”
“You have literally killed people.”
“So have you, although I daresay your victims deserved it a little more.” He looked down at the book in his hands, and sighed. “I would not enjoy killing you, even if you ever get in my way,” he said, before his eyes darkened. “But if you fold down the pages of my books again. I will have no choice.”
“But—”
“No choice, Windbright!” He took in a deep breath, smoothing down his black robes. “Stay here.”
“Where are you going?”
“To get the third book for you!”
Viola wanted to object—and perhaps admonish him for killing the Count—but he was gone before she could.
This is ridiculous, she told herself. You cannot honestly be thinking of letting a murderer go free just because you want the next book in a series.
But it wasn’t just because of that, of course. It was because it was hard to kill someone you knew. It was because the Count was, by all accounts, a terrible person. It was because she suspected Nicodemus wasn’t.
It was because if he was executed, she’d never find out why he did the things he did.
And she’d never find out if Wilde managed to rescue Korrigan .
Nicodemus was back before she could come to her senses. He handed the book over to her.
“Oh, yes!” said Viola, taking it in her grip. “This is the last one, yes?”
Nicodemus grinned wickedly. “I’m not going to tell you.”
“Oh, you’re evil. ”
“I’m so glad you noticed.”
“At least tell me it has a happy ending?”
His smirk widened. “No.”
Viola skimmed the first few pages of the book, half expecting it to be a trick, or for him to have stolen the last chapter. She didn’t dare flick that far ahead, though.
“How long do you think it will take you to read it?”
“Depends on whether or not I’m having to waste my time chasing a Shadowmancer around the country.”
“Ha! Fair point. If the Shadowmancer was on his best behaviour, how long would it take?”
Viola mentally went through her upcoming list of duties, and calculated how long it had taken her to read the other two. “A week?” she suggested.
Nicodemus smiled. “Shall we meet here next Umbrasday? Gives you eight days.”
She should not be agreeing to this. Or maybe, she should. She should agree, and then ambush him. Her mind was already calculating the best way to do this. She could ask him to meet near dusk and keep him out after dark, allowing her fellow knights to ambush him. She could share a drink with him and dose it with a paralysis potion. She could bring a light bomb—
But she’d have to explain how she knew where he would be, and trust him not to reveal their connection.
And Nicodemus would have to die.
Let him, said the voice of reason. He’s dangerous. He’s a killer. Surely he deserves this?
But maybe he didn’t. Cordelia certainly didn’t deserve to lose the last person she had in the world.
And maybe, just maybe, Viola didn’t deserve it either.
“Sure,” she said. “Around noon?”
“Noon suits me perfectly.” He bowed, taking her hand, and softly kissed the knuckles before fading away into shadow.
Viola stared down at the book in her hands. Inside the back cover was a black silk ribbon.