25. Laying down your Guard
V iola’s parents were sitting at the dining room table, long after dark had fallen, poring over records and tallies—how much they had to eat, what would last, what wouldn’t, how much they needed to survive and how much they could give away. They spoke of trying to plant the lower fields, of sending the hands to fish in the lakes, of trying to cultivate their own ponds. The dark shadows under their eyes ran deeper than Viola had noticed when she was a teen. Their faces were hollow.
Then they were discussing something else with similar urgency, something else to do with numbers. A map was spread between them.
She didn’t remember this. She wasn’t even sure it was her memory at all.
A door slammed. Viola was blown backwards, into the parlour, lying underneath a blanket fort with Seb beside her. He looked like he was around fourteen, and she supposed she was that age too. They were supposed to match.
“Seb.” She grinned at him, and he grinned back. Gone were the memories of haggard faces, of worries that weren’t hers.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She squeezed his hand. “I am now.”
“You seem happier than usual.”
“I feel happier,” she admitted, although the word tasted strange on her tongue. Odd, how she could taste that and feel nothing else.
Her mind tried to work back through the sludge of the dream, to the reason for the joy, the lightness. She couldn’t quite trace it to its source .
“Seb,” she asked quietly, not sure where the question was coming from, “do you believe people can change?”
She wasn’t sure why she was asking, or why the question suddenly seemed so important to her, but she knew she needed the answer. And Sebastian would know. He always did.
“Of course people can change,” Seb replied. “Slowly, quickly, for better, for worse. Change is the only uncertainty of life. But that’s not the question. The question is whether or not we should expect people to change.”
Viola froze. “I don’t want to change,” she admitted. “I’ve changed enough. I don’t want to anymore and have to…” To leave you behind.
Seb’s fingers clung to hers. “I know,” he said. “I know you don’t think you’re ready.”
Viola sighed, turning up to stare at the blanketed ceiling, knowing all he didn’t say—that she was ready, that it didn’t matter that she thought she wasn’t, that she had to, that he didn’t want to hold her back.
She swallowed. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
Viola woke up late the next day, well into the afternoon by the look of the sun streaming through the curtains. Someone had placed a jug of water and a vial of painkiller by the side of her bed. She drank both. Her head was pounding.
She sank back into the pillows and tried to gather her thoughts from the night—day—before. Drinking, obviously, had taken place. There was a memory of fort-making, of skidding across polished floors. Had she swung on a chandelier? Surely not. There was a shadow-puppet making competition, which she definitely won because he cheated and—
She bolted upright in bed.
“Would you like to kiss me, Nightshade?”
Oh, no. Oh no.
Thankfully—mercifully—he had declined her request, but her words from the night before slammed back to her, full force.
I promise to be gentle.
She grabbed the pillow behind her and groaned into it. Surely, such mortification wasn’t survivable? How would she ever face him again ?
Why, why, why had she not just killed him when she had the chance?
Because you like him, said a voice.
No, I don’t.
Now who’s the liar?
She rolled out of bed and gathered the clothes she’d managed to take off. Her boots were still missing, as was her sword. She’d have to retrace her steps from the night before in order to find them. After relieving herself in the chamberpot, she crept out of her room, searching for any signs of her missing belongings. Not in the library. Perhaps the dining room—
Nicodemus was sitting at the table, reading a book as she opened the door. He did not look up.
“Good morning,” he said flatly.
“Morning,” Viola murmured back, certain nothing could be good again.
“Breakfast?” he offered. A nearby shadow held out a plate of thickly-buttered bread and honey. “More like afternoon tea at this rate, but who cares?”
“Um, no thank you.”
The shadow dipped away, passing the plate to Nicodemus instead.
“Do you wish to talk about last night?”
“I do not.”
“Very well.”
Another shadow appeared behind her, this time brandishing her sword and boots. Viola jumped. “You have got to tell me how you do that—the multiple shadows out of sight, functioning independently…”
“Maybe someday I will,” he told her. “But you can’t have all my secrets, Windbright. That would be greedy.”
“You don’t… have to sacrifice a small child once in a while to make it work—do you?”
“Wouldn’t that be something?”
“Nightshade!”
“Oh, very well. No, no sacrifices of any kind, I assure you.”
“Good.” She sat down to pull on her boots, her sword already buckled on. A chilling thought occurred to her, hard as his weight against her when he collapsed after exhausting his magic. “It doesn’t… it doesn’t drain your life force or something, does it?”
Nicodemus raised an eye from his book. “Would it matter if it did?”
It ought not to. It ought to be better for her if it did. Another way for him to be stopped that had nothing to do with her.
But when it came to it, she could not lie. “Yes.”
“I see.” A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “No. It doesn’t drain my lifeforce. But it wouldn’t make a difference to me if it did. I’d rather live a short life with everything I desired than a long one with nothing.”
Viola didn’t know what to say to that, both relieved that his powers didn’t harm him and disliking how much she’d hated the idea in the first place. Thankfully, her stomach rumbled, filling the gap. “On second thought, maybe I should eat something.”
A shadow jumped into life, passing her the plate again. Viola sat down, still keeping her distance. She polished off the toast in seconds. More appeared before she could even voice her desire.
The awkwardness slipped away by the time she’d finished the second portion. She got up from her chair and walked towards the window, where someone—Nicodemus, presumably—had installed a window seat into the recess. She could imagine him sitting there on rainy days, staring out at the courtyard garden with Zazzy on his lap. She sat down now, reclining against the cushions. The courtyard was the one part of the castle that looked abandoned. It was a wild, untidy square, filled with withering bushes and deserted flowerbeds. Clearly, Nicodemus wasn’t much of a gardener.
Her thoughts finally turned to the reason she’d come here to begin with, to Freya and the words she’d wanted to forget.
“She called me cold,” she whispered out loud. “Freya. She called me cold. That hurt worse than the face.”
Nicodemus sat down beside her, his back pressing against the window pane. The steam ghosting his cup had almost cleared before he spoke. “I don’t think you’re cold. I think you’re guarded. That’s not the same thing.”
Viola fought against her tightening throat. “I don’t want to be either,” she whispered. “I don’t want to live like this. Closed up. Stony. I just… I don’t know how to be another way.” She glanced across at him. “You’re not wearing your mask.”
“No. I’m not.”
“Why not?”
He paused, for so long she wasn’t sure he would speak again. “You want to know how to be unguarded?” he started. “You start by laying down your shield.”
Viola was in a good mood when she returned to the barracks later that day. The effects of the alcohol had worn off (the soak in Nicodemus’ impressive bath had helped) and she felt strangely light, like taking off her armour at the end of a long day. Knights’ armour was usually forged of mythrilite, much lighter than steel but exceptionally strong, but it was still a weight nonetheless, and one that she was glad to get rid of.
No such weight burdened her today. She put on her fighting leathers and headed off to the training wing, partnering up with Heindrich.
“You’re in a good mood,” he remarked.
Viola punched the bag he was holding up. “How can you tell?”
“You aren’t punching as hard as you usually do.”
Viola hit the bag with more force to prove otherwise.
“Yes, all right, I deserved that.”
Viola fired several punches in quick succession.
“I would have thought after yesterday… Where did you go, exactly?”
Viola hesitated. She’d not thought to prepare any cover story. Usually her visits with Nicodemus were short, easily passed off as just a fly. But she’d been gone all night and most of the day. Of course Heindrich had noticed.
When lying, Viola knew it was best to stick as close to the facts as possible. “I went for a ride and bumped into an old friend in a town outside of the Feywood. We spent the night together. Platonically, I hasten to add.”
Heindrich raised an eyebrow. “You have other friends?”
Viola punched him again. “None as good as you, Henry old chap.”
“Well, that goes without saying.”
They swapped places, giving Heindrich a chance to pummel Viola for a change. “Who is this friend? Have I met them?”
Viola hesitated. She was fairly sure Heindrich had run into Nicodemus at least twice, but both times he was wearing a mask and one was trying to capture the other. However, that hardly counted as an introduction. “I don’t think so.”
“What’s their name?”
“All these questions, Heindrich!”
“I’m just curious to know who’s put Viola Brightstone in such a good mood and whether or not they can give me some tips.”
Viola drew back. “Windbright,” she reminded him.
Heindrich stopped. “Old habit,” he responded, before picking up again. “This friend—do you want them to be?”
“Come again?”
“You said it was platonic. But do you want it to be something else?”
Viola almost lost her footing with Heindrich’s next punch. She didn’t want to think about that, didn’t want to add yet further complication to the absolute insanity that was her… friendship with Nicodemus in the first place.
“Not sure it’s on the cards,” she confessed.
“That isn’t a no…”
“Heindrich?”
“Yes?”
“That good mood of mine is fading.”
“Understood.”
A ship cut through their conversation, skirting dangerously close to the chimneys of the barracks, swinging wildly through the air. The blackened cast jagged shadows on the ground below. Everyone looked up as it grated past the mage’s quarters, groaning and shaking violently. Tiles crashed to the ground, shattering into sharp fragments that scattered across the courtyard.
Viola froze. It was the airship that left yesterday to fight the dragon. She scanned the skies. Where were the rest of the knights on their flying steeds? Panic clawed at her as she strained her eyes, expecting to see them in the distance—nothing but empty sky met her gaze.
“Get the ropes!” someone cried, their voice slicing through the rising chaos.
Several mounts took to the skies, their wings beating furiously as they flung ropes and nets between them. The ropes whistled through the air, coiling around the flailing vessel. The mounts strained, muscles rippling, desperately trying to guide the airship into the harbour. The vessel at last shuddered to a halt, kicking up water and sending spray flying. It braced against the rocks with a final, bone-jarring thud.
Viola and Heindrich abandoned their training, their boots pounding against the cobblestones as they raced towards the harbour. Two knights had landed on the small deck. They were hovering over someone slumped beneath the helm, their movements frantic and urgent.
Flameborn.
Flameborn, and no one else.
Viola pushed through the crowd and leapt on board as the others were assessing his injuries. He was covered in burns, his right leg a black mess of cooked flesh and exposed bone. Viola faltered when she saw it. How had he made it this far?
He was still half-conscious.
“Flameborn!” she cried. “Where are the others?”
“Gone,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, “the dragon’s fire… it got them all. It was too big. Too… too strong. ”
Viola slumped against the side of the boat. No. No, this couldn’t be happening. Freya couldn’t be dead. She couldn’t have lost someone else to the flames…
Captain Drakesbane arrived seconds later. Someone filled her in on the news Flameborn had uttered. She quickly began belting out instructions, calling for a healer.
But no cry to launch a rescue. Nothing about readying another vessel.
“Captain—” Viola started.
“Not now, Windbright.”
Flameborn was lifted from the deck. Only then did Viola’s eyes fall to the rest of the boat—the scorched sails, the blackened hull, the deep tears in the panels. The prow looked like it had been bitten off.
She couldn’t move. She was frozen beneath the flaming tree all over again, and this time, there was no shadowmancer to magic her away from it.
Heindrich was at her elbow. His eyes were shining, his throat trembling. “Vi,” he whispered, “oh Gods, Vi…”
Other people were murmuring other things, prayers for Flameborn, prayers for the dead. Hymns for the fallen knights.
“ Though their battles be over, we shall carry their shields. May their souls temper our swords. May their bodies rest eternal…”
But Freya wouldn’t want rest. She wouldn’t want anyone to carry her shield. She would want to be alive and fighting and carrying it herself.
Why weren’t they going after her? Why were they trusting the words of a half-dead man? They needed to check, to be sure, to bring home their bodies for burial. They couldn’t just leave them there, exposed to the elements.
They couldn’t leave her there.
The Captain had returned from seeing Flameborn off to the healers. She was speaking to another knight at the docks.
Viola tore away from Heindrich and marched towards her. “Are you sending a rescue party?”
The Captain’s face fell. “No, Windbright. I’m sending a retrieval party.”
Retrieval. She was sending someone to collect the bodies, if they could. There would be no engagement with the foe, to attempt to check for life.
“But the dragon—”
“Is hopefully satisfied for now.” She sighed, running a hand through her short hair. “Eleven knights. Eleven.”
Viola swallowed. “Captain, please allow me—”
“Windbright, I know how close you were to Whiterain. This is not something you need to see.”
“ Everyone here was close to one of those people. This is bullshit— ”
“Viola, you are a fine knight when you keep your emotions in check—and you do, most of the time. But I also don’t trust you not to try to take on that dragon by yourself. I don’t want to lose another knight.”
Viola sagged again, knowing she was right. If she went, she wasn’t coming back without Freya, or the dragon’s head.
And most likely, she would not be coming back at all.
She bowed her head, and ducked away.
For hours, the knights kept watch outside the healing quarters where Flameborn was being attended to, no one speaking a word. Several people were crying, including Heindrich. Viola was beyond tears. She’d moved into that numb, dark space where thoughts and feelings didn’t exist.
She’d waited like this before, years ago.
Queen Isabeau appeared at one point, her presence as radiant and composed as ever, despite the heaviness of the moment. She passed out food parcels and brought with her a basket of goods, “For Ser Flameborn, when he wakes.” She hovered for a long while by Viola’s side.
“I heard you lost someone,” she said gently, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Everyone did,” Viola responded, not looking directly at her.
“I am sorry, Ser Windbright. Truly.” She glanced at her like she wanted to say more, like she was searching for the perfect words to offer comfort, only found them all meaningless. She bowed her head and walked away, offering a prayer to Auriel to guide him back into the light.
The knights kept vigil at the door. No one seemed in the mood to talk. Certainly no one shared Isabeau’s optimism.
And what of the others? Viola wanted to snap. Who guides them back?
Some lore would have them believe they were safe in Umbra’s embrace, that they were at peace, but Viola had never believed in either of those things. This was the only world she knew, and she knew it could be an utter bitch at times.
Finally, the healer emerged from the room, his face damp with sweat and his robes bloodied. “He’ll live,” he declared, causing everyone to breathe a sigh of relief.
“His leg?” asked someone .
The healer faltered. “A replacement will have to be arranged, but there’s a lot of fight left in him.”
Some of the sighs of relief turned into murmurs of concern, but most agreed this was still a favourable outcome. A few of his closer friends wanted to see him. Viola suddenly found the space too crowded, too noisy. She moved away, heading towards the pharmacy instead to secure a sleeping potion from whatever healer she could find.
No one noticed her slip away.
No one noticed her head into the barracks.
No one was in her room waiting for her.
I deserve this, she thought dimly to herself. She deserved this pain for hurting Freya in the first place, or for consorting with the enemy, or for having fun with Nicodemus yesterday when she should have been doing something—anything—else. Something good or kind or helpful.
Because however awful the world was, Viola still hoped it could be something else. That if she was good enough, it would be better.
But the world didn’t work like that, and perhaps she should stop trying to play by those rules.