20. The Winter Ball
V iola had half a mind to chuck the stupid notebook into the sea as she sailed over it on Blackberry. That would have been the sensible thing to do. The sensible thing would be to go to King Jax right now and say she’d had an anonymous tip off that the Shadowmancer—the Nightshade— was living in the Shadowcrest Mountains under an enchantment and that they should rain down fire on it, just to be sure.
Although Cordelia would perish too. And the cat. He was a really good cat…
And Nicodemus.
For whatever stupid reason, he trusted her, and that meant she felt honour-bound not to betray that trust until he gave her no choice.
She still kicked his notebook under her bed when she got back to her room. It made her feel slightly better.
What are you trying so hard to defeat?
He had no right to ask that. He had no right to know it. What was it about him that got under her skin?
The next morning, she took the damned notebook to a mage in town, just to make sure it wasn’t malicious. The mage confirmed it was a simple communication notebook with a twin somewhere out there. It wasn’t traceable. It wasn’t going to release some secret poison in the night.
She paid the mage half a crown for his troubles and went back to her room.
She should still get rid of it.
But despite all her reservations, she found herself opening it instead.
On the first page, an elegant hand had written:
Viola didn’t want to reply. Or, to be more precise, she wished she didn’t want to reply. But there was something simple and straightforward in his words.
The first message had disappeared by the time the second one emerged.
There was pain in his past too, she was certain of it. Perhaps that’s why she couldn’t kill him. Perhaps something in his broken soul spoke to hers.
It was a long while before Nicodemus responded, the page flooding with words.
Viola took a while to digest all this and even longer to formulate her own reply. She knew Centaur’s Crossing. It was only a few miles east of her own home town, although she couldn’t remember visiting it. She did not believe she would choose money over love, but she was inclined to believe his views on happiness, though her chest stung with the truth of them.
She waited in earnest for his reply, wondering if she said too much or too little. She hadn’t even mentioned Sebastian and Miranda. It was too big a confession, too great a wound to reveal.
The prickling at her eyes that began when he praised her parents quickly vanished with his second point. How he had the ability to do that—how he’d known that a jab at her spelling, of all things, would pull her from her melancholy—was beyond her.
You are not, she scribbled hastily. And then, after a pause:
Viola paused for a moment.
The next answer was short and brief:
Nicodemus folded away the notebook and stared at the front cover, his own words bleeding back.
I don’t remember much about her, he had said. That was a lie, of course. He’d been six when his people were slaughtered, six when his mother left him at the temple. He couldn’t remember her face, but he remembered her skin was milk-white like his, her hair dark, her eyes as bright as blue flame. He remembered she used to make shadows dance around the walls of the tent they called their home, that she used to tell stories through the pictures. Everyone in their community did. He remembered the songs, snatches if not the whole thing. He remembered that he had a grandmother, too, and maybe cousins—or perhaps that was just how all the other children in the community referred to one another. He remembered some of their names. John, Marta, Ada, Lou.
Yes, he remembered things.
He just didn’t remember enough.
And some things he remembered even if he didn’t want to.
Viola never did get an answer to the first question: why are we doing this? She didn’t really want to answer that question herself, to dive too deeply into the answer. Perhaps it was the same reason she gave him as to why she had no plans to kill him: because she wanted to believe the best in people.
Her parents would have liked that answer. Nicodemus was right when he said that the world was a poorer place without them in it. It was part of one of the questions that kept her up at night:
Why them? Why them and not me?
Because even though she knew she wasn’t a bad person—or hadn’t been before she lost them—she was quite sure that of all the members of her family, she was the one who least deserved to live. Any kindness in her was a learned habit, something she’d mirrored from them and had had to stamp out her anger to get at. But for the rest of them, kindness came as naturally as breathing. Sometimes, she choked on it.
Why are we doing this?
Because when you’d lost everything, you latched onto anything that made you feel something.
Even if that something was darkness.
As they did every year, to celebrate the thawing of the frost, the King and Queen hosted a grand ball. All the knights were invited to attend, some on duty, some as guests. Viola was a guest this year, and as such, turned up to the occasion bedecked in the floating gown of ice blue that Queen Isabeau had so kindly bestowed upon her.
It was perhaps a little out of fashion. Skirts and bodices tended to be stiffer nowadays, made of heavy brocade fabric with flat, elongated torsos and puffed, slashed sleeves. Almost every other guest was adorned with pearls and jewels, elaborate headpieces and floating veils. Viola did not care. The dress was the most beautiful thing she’d ever owned.
The whole palace was similarly decorated. Great banners of pale, shimmering blue were draped across every wall and balcony, streaming down from the turrets like icicles. Dancers twirling ribbons flooded the walkways, firemancers spouting flames created fantastic displays that melted ice sculptures crafted by Auro’s finest watermancers. A great feast was laid out on golden plates: roasted pig, stuffed venison, pies bursting with tender meat, towers of cheeses topped with winter berries, figs dusted with honey and fruit cakes so sweet they made Viola’s teeth ache.
Viola greatly enjoyed balls. She was no stranger to a party in her childhood, but the opulence of the palace affairs seldom gave her cause to miss them. Sebastian joked once, when she came home raving of a ball thrown by the House of Wind, that her knighthood ambitions were propelled by her desire to attend frivolous parties.
“They are not frivolous,” she had returned. “But you may be right in the other regard.”
So Viola turned and swirled with the music until her sides hurt, grateful that Freya was on duty and wouldn’t accidentally end up as her dance partner. She’d caught a few glimpses of her so far, but she seemed to have moved to patrol the inner corridors.
Ducking away from the dancing to search for the restroom, Viola spotted Freya at the end of the corridor. Eager to avoid an awkward discussion, she dived into the nearest door she could find and ended up in a long gallery. Unlike the formal ones surrounding the ballroom, with their gilded frames and shining chandeliers, this one had murals painted directly onto the walls. They depicted the origins of the land at the entrance of the room—the death of the giants on one side, the twin goddesses on other, the artist or the historians not able to make up their minds over which story they wanted to lend credence to. Further on came other moments in history, famous monarchs crowned, great battles won. One near the end of the finished space, deep into the shadows of the room, illustrated the War of Bones and Shadow. Terrifying-looking necromancers with red eyes and twisted faces commanded armies of the dead, shadows streaming behind them until the green fields of Auro ran red with blood.
Images of peace followed: treaties signed, a royal wedding, Jax rescuing Isabeau from the giant. The pleasantries were punctuated by only two gruesome images. One, the famine of six years ago. The other a group of knights slaughtering a caravan of Umbra’s Children.
It fell a little before the famine, the knights dressed in the uniforms of the late king. Viola paid the knights little attention, however, her eyes drawn to the rest of the scene. The caravans were bronze, red and green, mimicking the hogyo roofs of Tsubasa. Viola had seen them for herself last year when she had ventured overseas. The Tsubasans took great care of their buildings, believing that an artist left a little of their soul in everything they made, and that the spirits of their ancestors blessed the constructions they lived in. Souls for them were tangible, liquid things, as plentiful as the river. A soul could cling to that which it had loved.
By the looks of things, Umbra’s Children had similar beliefs and had taken similar care with their caravans, but though the artist had rendered them with detail, the same could not be said for the shadowmancers themselves. They were drawn only as shaded figures, faceless and indistinct, but some of them were small—no more than children.
None of them bled as the knights plunged their daggers into them.
“Ser Windbright?”
Viola’s attention snapped to the woman behind her, and she quickly dropped into a bow. “Your Majesty!” she said quickly. “Forgive me, I did not see you there.”
Unlike her husband, Queen Isabeau did not tell her to dispense with the formalities. She was a regal woman with strong cheekbones, a proud nose, a pale, creamy complexion and mountains of perfect dark ringlets piled neatly onto her head. Strands of gold had been woven through her tresses and studded with pearl pins. Her generous figure was wrapped in layers of deep blue silk, her high collar pure gold and cut like lace. Even a stranger to Auro’s shores would have recognised her for what she was .
The Queen smiled. “That’s quite all right, Windbright, you are off duty, after all. Lost in thought?”
“Um, trying to avoid my ex-girlfriend, Your Majesty.”
Isabeau’s nose crinkled at such honesty. She laughed, but the laugh soon fell when her eyes settled on the image that had held Viola’s attention.
“An ugly moment in our history,” she remarked. “Necessary, perhaps, but ugly nonetheless. My father didn’t wish to see it rendered. My mother persuaded him, however. She said we should remember the price we paid for peace.”
“Do you not agree?”
“As individuals, I think it does us well to remember our follies,” she paused for a moment, no doubt caught in some old memory—some mistake she must have made herself, as all humans had a tendency to do. “But as a country? I am not so sure. People do not think as one. There is no telling how a truth may be received, interpreted… even twisted.” She tore her eyes from the painting, facing Viola fully. “You’ve known chaos, Windbright. You’ve seen how people react when confronted with ugliness. Would you spill it out into the world?”
Viola hesitated. No one had ever asked her such a question before. There was a reason she was a knight and not a politician—she liked to fight, not think.
Sebastian would know the answer, a voice reminded her.
She wanted to kick it. Seb had an answer for everything. It was incredibly annoying and she missed it beyond measure.
“Depends on the circumstances, Your Majesty,” Viola said at last, channelling her father’s diplomacy. “Generally speaking, I do tend to avoid creating chaos where I can… unless you ask my old school teachers.”
Isabeau laughed at this, and the thick air in the room seemed to crackle. “I can see why my husband likes you, Ser Windbright.”
“I am undeserving of his praise, I assure you.”
Isabeau raised a hand to her chin. “Hmm, Jax does tend to be quite free with it, it’s true,” she decided. “But he’s also seldom wrong. At least when it comes to people. Everything else, however…” She gave a light laugh, free and elegant. “You look lovely, by the way,” she added, when Viola didn’t return the laugh. “The gown truly suits you.”
Viola blushed, looking at the ground. “Thank you, Your Majesty. The gift was much appreciated.”
“Keep up the good work, and I’ll send you another for the Summer Solstice. I’ve got one in cerulean I’m growing tired of that I think would suit you perfectly. ”
Viola wished her heart wasn’t so easily swayed by the thought of pretty dresses, but it would be a lie to admit otherwise. “That’s incredibly generous of you.”
“Think nothing of it. Well, until next time, Ser Windbright. Do take care.”
Isabeau drifted off without another word. Viola supposed she should follow after. She wasn’t at all tired, the waltz was calling her name, and there was still a buffet table to devour, but indulging in such frivolities after witnessing such a painting seemed… unsettling.
“Not returning to the dance?”
Viola’s heart leapt in her chest. She turned, certain she’d mistaken the voice.
It can’t be…
She was met by a pale-faced man with a shock of black hair, wearing a suit of such deep blue that it merged almost entirely with the shadows behind him. His face was half-hidden by a mask made of gilded leaves. A few others in the ballroom were wearing masks, but they were mostly performers.
“Are you insane? ” she said, gaze snapping to the nearby door, fearful that someone might walk in at any moment. “What are you doing here?”
Nicodemus grinned. “I heard there was a party. I thought I’d join in. You look very fetching in a gown by the way, Windbright. I almost didn’t recognise you. Your scowl helps. Keep doing it.”
“If anyone finds you here—”
“Relax, I didn’t come to cause trouble. Although I am interested in testing the palace’s defences. It turns out it’s very easy to get in—”
“You can teleport —”
“It’s not quite that simple, I did explain—”
“I ought to murder you. I really, really ought to murder you. Today I want to murder you.”
“I’m sure you do, but wouldn’t it be more fun to dance with me instead?”
Viola stamped her foot. It was better than strangling him. Marginally. “I am not dancing with you here.”
“Is that a promise to dance with me somewhere else or at a later date, because if so, I accept.”
“It’s not—” Viola glanced around her. “Were you here the entire time I was talking to the Queen?”
“More or less.”
Viola wasn’t sure what to make of that, whether this was good news or bad. He’d had the opportunity to kill the reigning monarch, and he hadn’t taken it. Whatever his plan was, apparently it didn’t involve regicide .
But he could do it any time he wanted.
Kill him, kill him, kill him. Kill him before he destroys you.
Nicodemus’ gaze turned to the mural behind her, and beneath his mask, she thought his eyes might have flickered. His breath hitched, just for a second, like he was struggling to keep it steady.
All thoughts of murder vanished from her mind.
“Tell me,” he said, his voice unusually stony, “if the Crown told you to slaughter innocents, would you do it?”
“No,” said Viola swiftly, imagining those little shapes with faces like Cordelia’s—like Miranda’s. “I don’t care what the punishment would be, I’m a knight of the people before I’m a knight of the Crown.”
She glanced back at the image. For a moment, she wanted to ask him if that had actually happened, but of course it had. The question she was really asking was were you there, and she wasn’t actually sure she wanted that answer.
“I’d never kill a child,” she told him, which she realised immediately was a stupid thing to say, because of course she wouldn’t, and she didn’t deserve praise for it. No one did.
“What about a shadowmancer?” he asked. “Fully grown, of course. Committed no crimes. What if your Crown commanded you to hunt them down and bring back their head?”
Viola paused, trying to think.
“More difficult to see an adult as an innocent, isn’t it?”
“No,” Viola responded, “I’m just trying to think of where I’d get another head from…”
Nicodemus snorted, not loudly. The door at the end of the corridor clicked open, and a group of courtiers spilled in, laughing and shouting. Viola seized Nicodemus’ arm and dragged him down to the door at the end, along another corridor, outside onto the terrace, down the steps and away from the performers practising fire juggling in the grounds, and towards a spot where she was sure they couldn’t be overheard.
“You should leave,” she told him.
“Maybe I will, after I’ve sampled the punch.”
“I’m serious! If anyone catches you here—”
“Who’s going to catch me? You?”
“There’s not much light here, Nightshade. I could probably take you down.”
He stepped closer, his grin cat-like. He folded his hands into his pockets. “Ah, but will you?”
“It’s awfully tempting. ”
A hoot went up from behind them, followed by a loud cheer. Apparently, King Jax had arrived and was trying his hand at fire juggling. Viola turned to glance at his attempts, finding him surprisingly adept.
“He’s good,” she remarked.
Nicodemus groaned. “He’s a show-off.”
“Not the King’s biggest fan, Nightshade?”
“He’s not done much to warrant it.”
“King Jax, slayer of monsters, feeder of the hungry, bringer of the age of light? That King Jax?”
“People who act that good invariably aren’t.”
“You should meet my friend Heindrich.”
“I’m serious, Windbright. Be wary of anyone who seems too perfect.”
“But not of supremely-powerful shadowmancers you meet in the Feywood?”
“The great thing about shadowmancers?” he said, conjuring a miniature dragon made out of shadow to leap across his palms. “We wear our darkness on the outside for all to see.”
Viola wasn’t sure that was true. Yes, Nico was cloaked in literal darkness and made shadows dance at his fingers, but there was plenty of him he didn’t wear on his sleeve. A part of his darkness, she expected, or the reason for it. “Do you know something I don’t, about the King?”
“I didn’t say that. I just have… good instincts.”
“Is that why you’re so interested in me?”
The next smile wasn’t cat-like or teasing at all. “Yes.”
A scream of fright went up from the lawn, and a fiery phoenix raced overhead, setting fire to several bushes. It transpired that an overeager young firemancer, keen to impress the King, had summoned the display and quickly lost control of it. The phoenix soared over the maze, the leaves smouldering.
“Get the watermancers!” ordered the King.
Nicodemus inched back. “Perhaps we ought to—”
But Viola was already racing towards a fountain in the centre of the gardens. She knew that each of the fountains was equipped with a hose for situations just like this whenever watermancers couldn’t be found in time. Her fingers fumbled over the engravings, searching for the concealed catch and springing it open. She yanked the hose out. Someone else was already on the tap.
“Hold this!” she said, shoving the hose into the hands of someone else and racing towards the second fountain.
The watermancers had arrived at this point, but the gardens were ablaze. Nobles were crawling out of the maze, coughing and spluttering. Viola directed them towards help, and with the mancers trying their best to control the flames, she sped off into the grounds, searching for anyone lost or scared. She didn’t have any of her equipment, no sword to cut down boughs or even a cloak to protect her from the flames, but she was a knight nonetheless. She would not stand by while people were in trouble.
It took her a long while to realise that Nicodemus was following her.
“What are you doing?” she barked, as she pointed a frightened courtier in the direction of safety.
“I have absolutely no idea.”
Viola dashed over the lawns, her voluminous skirts trailing behind her like a river of blue. Shadows flashed across the grass, the light flickering red.
Fire, she thought dimly, why did it have to be fire?
But there was no time to stop, no time to fixate. Ahead of her were two young women, clutching at each other, their backs against a hedge. The phoenix circled overhead, its tail a trembling ribbon of flame, cutting them off from safety.
The tail singed the edge of the dress of one of the women, making her scream.
There were no hoses this far out, and no watermancers close by. Viola dipped her hand into a nearby pond and hurled a fistful of water at the creation, catching its attention. It started towards her. Viola scrambled backwards. The phoenix dove and swirled, like an eagle racing for its prey. Viola streamed underneath a tree. The fiery bird met the boughs, and went no further.
The tree was alight in seconds. Viola stared up at the branches spasming against the night sky. Smoke crawled into her nostrils. She imagined beams burning, smoke clutching her throat like a hand.
One of the boughs started to crack.
“Windbright!” called a voice.
She barely heard it.
Move, one half of her said.
Stay, called another, darker part.
She didn’t want to stay. She wanted to run, to escape, to live, but her feet wouldn’t obey her thoughts. Instinct evaporated. Thought abandoned her.
Flaming bark came away in sloughs, like flakes of skin. She imagined the smell of burning flesh, of lungs clogged with smoke. Someone was screaming her name. She knew the voice, though the desperation was new to her.
No one could care about her like that.
But what if they could ?
She didn’t have time to fixate on the question. A cold sensation rippled over her, and she was enveloped in a sheet of darkness.