29. The Way Back
V iola let out a scream as the dragon fell. She lurched towards Nicodemus, only to duck down when fire raced over her head, splitting apart a nearby pile of coin. Someone held her as the cave shuddered, as rock splintered from the ceiling. Tight arms wrapped around her.
The wrong arms. The wrong person.
Viola yanked herself free the second the shaking stopped. She skidded forward, eyes scanning everywhere for Nicodemus, but a hand fastened around her wrist.
“What are you doing? ” Freya gasped. “That’s… that was the Shadowmancer!”
“I know what he is!” Viola yelped, trying to tug herself free of Freya’s vice-like grip. “Let me go!”
“He’s the enemy—”
“He saved you!”
Freya dropped Viola’s wrist, eyes wide with realisation. “You came here with him.”
Viola didn’t have time for this. “I did what I had to. To find you. To save you. ”
But Freya didn’t seem to care about this. “He… he was in your room, wasn’t he? The night of the ball—”
“It isn’t what you think—”
“You’ve been consorting with him the entire time—”
Viola didn’t have time for this, she didn’t have the time, or any explanation that made sense. All she had was the pressing, impossible need to get to Nicodemus as soon as possible.
Her hands grappled for the vial on her belt, double-checking it was the right one before smashing it at Freya’s feet and leaping backwards, covering her mouth. A glittering dust rose through the air. Freya had just enough time to glance at Viola, her eyes stinging of betrayal, before the vapour reached her nostrils and she crashed to the ground.
Viola waited a few awful seconds for the mist to clear before she ran forward, tipping half of the second vial into Freya’s mouth, and placed her in the recovery position. There was nothing else to be done. Freya would have to make her own way from here.
“Nightshade!” she screamed, running across the cavern.
Only stony silence met her. She scrambled over the piles of gems and debris, searching for the spot where he’d been standing. The dragon lay in a sea of blood and stone. All still. All monstrously, sickeningly silent.
Viola tore through the cavern, clawing through stone. “ Nicodemus !” she called out desperately. “Nico, where are you?”
“Here…” a voice replied, croaky and weak.
Viola turned and spun in the direction of the sound. She could make out a small, feeble form, crushed beneath the dragon’s tail.
“Nico…”
She raced towards him, crushing down on her knees. His face was frightfully pale and scratched up, half of his robes singed off, but he was alive.
Nicodemus coughed. “I’ve changed my mind.”
“About what?”
“I would much, much rather court you than fight a dragon.”
Viola wasn’t sure whether she wanted to laugh or cry. Nico’s groans cut through all thought before she could formulate a response.
“Being your friend is a lot more painful than being your enemy…”
“I’m sorry,” she rushed. “I’m so, so sorry…”
She moved to shove the tail off of him, but it barely budged. Could she carve him out? Even Nicodemus’ shadows had barely made a dent in the dragon’s scales. She’d not stopped to have her sword spelled. She’d not thought about anything other than Freya and now…
Now Freya was lying unconscious nearby, and Viola’s only thoughts were of getting Nicodemus out before she woke up.
The shadow that had helped locate Freya—at least, Viola thought it was the same one, though they were all perfect copies of Nico—lingered at Viola’s side.
“Help me,” she begged it .
The shadow didn’t speak, but it nodded its head, sliding its hands under the dragon’s tail. Viola mimicked its movements, placing her hands on the other side, muscles straining as the two of them heaved the appendage off Nicodemus and tossed it to the side.
Viola froze.
His body was riddled with injuries. Burns, puncture wounds from the spikes on the dragon’s tail, and, worse, his left leg was horribly bent.
Nicodemus looked up at her. His face had taken on a ghastly, sickly sheen.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“It’s… fixable.” I hope.
“You hesitated.”
“I’m processing.”
Nicodemus swallowed. His eyes shone. “Is my leg still attached?”
“Yes.”
“Broken?”
“Yes.”
He loosed a small breath. “I can’t… I can’t move it.”
“Can you feel it?”
He nodded, his jaw tightly set.
“I’m going to have to put it in a splint.”
“All right. Why do you look nervous about that?”
Because your bone is protruding out of your shin.
Viola crashed down on the ground and clutched Nicodemus’ hand. “It’s going to be all right, Nicodemus. Just hold on.”
“That just makes me more nervous.”
She scrambled about for something to use as splint, and, seeing nothing, eventually spied his cane a short distance away. With some effort and the use of her blade, she broke it into two pieces, placing them either side of the break.
“I owe you one cane,” she told him. “I hope you weren’t too attached to that one.”
“I am much more attached to my leg…”
Viola unbuckled bits of her armour and tore off strips of her shirt, realising too late that her arm guards would have made much better splints and feeling guilty over the loss of his cane and the time she’d wasted breaking it. She knew better than this. She’d been trained better than this.
Think, her mind reminded her. Focus.
She looped the strips under his leg as carefully as she could, before taking a deep breath.
“Nico—do you have a happy memory? ”
“Maybe,” he said, his voice muggy and uncertain.
“Go there now.”
She pulled the strips together, forcing the bone back into his flesh. Nicodemus let out an awful scream, the kind that reverberated into her own bones. His body buckled, eyes rolling in their sockets before he crashed back down to the floor.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” he said.
Viola turned him onto his side just as he retched, holding him there as he emptied the contents of his stomach. She stroked his back, whatever good she thought that would do.
Then, mercifully, he passed out.
It started off as the good dream. Nico was in a meadow inside the Feywood, one not far from the temple. It was high summer, and Viola was stretched out on the grass, wearing a dress the colour of sunset. She wore a crown of daisies and buttercups in her hair. He had never seen her this way before, and yet he felt intrinsically that she would be this way if she could be, if they had time.
She sensed his approach, inclining her head towards him, and breaking into a smile that could shatter starlight. “Nico,” she whispered, in a way that made his insides melt.
He started towards her, and she raced into his arms, folding inside them, her weight strong and sturdy against his. She enveloped him like sunshine, like the rich brown earth, in a way that made him want to sink inside her. If the Endless Sleep was anything like this, he welcomed it. If not… he would fight tooth and nail to remain in whatever realm she inhabited.
“Nico,” she whispered again, over and over, like a peel of bells.
But then the warmth grew harsher. The world around them crisped away, going up in flames, smoke surrounding them. Viola started to scream.
“Don’t worry!” he told her, gripping her tightly. “You’re safe. I’ll keep you safe!”
His shadows blasted out of him, engulfing the flames, slicing through the fire until darkness was all that was left. Viola vanished. The meadow turned into dry, cracked wasteland, a few black hulls of the trees all that remained of the forest.
And a giant, bleached skeleton, the skull as tall as he was.
“Nico,” said another voice, and Nico turned to see a pale, dark-haired woman shaking her head. “What have you done?”
His mother, or whatever version of her his mind could conjure.
“I… I didn’t mean to.”
“And these ones?”
Bodies dropped from the sky, landing on the ground in front of him. The knights whose lives he’d taken.
“They killed you,” he said, not wanting to stare at their blank faces. “They deserved to die!”
“Many who live deserve to die,” his mother reminded him. “And many that die deserve to live. But Umbra knows no wrath, my son. Only mercy.”
She vanished from sight, the bodies vanishing too, followed by the mountains, the trees… even the ground, until only darkness remained.
Darkness, and a pale-faced, white-haired figure in a dark cloak, slowly shaking her head.
Nicodemus’ shadow remained by Viola’s side long enough for her to get him back to the airship, but disappeared not long after. Viola got them airborne as quickly as she could, not wanting Freya to wake up and discover the ship before they’d made their escape. As soon as they were clear of the mountains, she switched to autopilot and headed below deck to deal with the rest of Nicodemus’ wounds. At least they had better supplies here.
She took off all of his jewellery and ripped off most of his clothes. His torso was a patchwork of cuts and bruises. She could only hope that none of the injuries were internal. Her fingers shook as she raised them to inspect his wounds, cleaning them as well as she was able and dousing them with disinfectant. She quickly ran out of burn ointment. Despite the sheer number of them, most of the injuries were slight as far as she could tell, apart from the leg, and there wasn’t much to be done about that. She had to hope that Cordelia was a better healer than she was .
The silence was deafening, and at the same time, the thought of him being awake was worse. She readied one of the vials of painkiller in case he should stir, but prayed he wouldn’t. What would she say to him? What could she do?
Despite her wishes, Nicodemus woke briefly shortly after she’d finished cleaning his wounds, groaning with pain. She snatched up the vial and pressed it to his mouth.
“Drink this,” she commanded.
Nico did as he was told. She handed him water next, and his eyes rolled back again. She thought he might have returned to unconsciousness, and moved away to go to check their position.
Nico’s fingers clung to hers before she could rise, his grip kitten-weak.
“My mother used to tell me stories by making the shadows on the walls act them out,” he whispered.
“Come again?”
“When we danced around a fire, the shadows danced too. My foster brother and I used to fish in the stream near our house and take back jars of sickles and minnows. My foster mother made lovely currant buns. Cordelia likes to feed me when she thinks I’m sad.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I don’t have many nice memories,” he explained. “Not until I met you. I thought about the time I showed you Shadowfall from the sky. It was the first time in a long while I could remember ever making someone happy.”
Viola didn’t know what to say to that, but thankfully, he slumped back onto his makeshift pillow before the silence could stretch on longer, his eyes fanning shut. She went upstairs just to see where they were, but returned again a moment later. She picked up the discarded jewellery and rummaged around in the benches for something to store them in.
Her eyes fell upon a second sleeping pallet, shoved right at the back, in a way any knight would have been ashamed of.
“Oh, you bastard,” she whispered, turning back to Nico’s pale face.
Somehow, she couldn’t be cross with him, not when he was hurt, when he’d saved Freya like he said he would, when he’d spoken of having so few nice memories that he’d drawn on one of her.
She left the other sleeping pallet where it was, curling up beside him, one arm thrown over his body like she could protect him from any further harm.
Viola didn’t stay long by his side. She couldn’t. It was easier to be on deck, and, in any case, the ship couldn’t navigate itself. She needed to guide it, to get him home.
Finally, the castle shimmered into sight along the Shadowcrest Mountains. For an awful moment, Viola had been worried it wouldn’t appear at all, that Nicodemus had to be awake for it to show. Thankfully, this didn’t appear to be the case. She steered the airship over the courtyard and slowly dropped it into the middle.
Cordelia was out before Viola had even placed it into hover. Her eyes scanned the deck, waiting for Nicodemus to appear.
When he didn’t, her gaze began to shake.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“He’s injured,” Viola told her. “He’s below—”
She moved to drop the ladder to let her up, but Cordelia clapped her hands and two dozen bones shot out of the soil, arranging themselves in the shape of a ladder, threaded through with the same blue magic as her fingers. She scrambled up onto the airship and raced below deck, Viola quick behind her.
Cordelia stopped at Nico’s side, freezing in place. She held a hand over his body, her fingers shaking.
“I’m sorry,” Viola whispered. “I didn’t mean to… it’s all my fault. I tried… I didn’t want—”
“Help me get him upstairs.”
With some difficulty—and some floating bones—the two of them manoeuvred Nicodemus into his bedroom and onto his bed, him groaning as they did so. He didn’t say anything, didn’t murmur anything other than a few incomprehensible words.
“You’re safe now,” Viola told him. “You’re home, Nico.”
If he understood, he didn’t say. He didn’t say anything until Cordelia grabbed his leg and snapped his bones back into place with her magic.
“Fuck!” he said, spasming against the sheets.
Viola took his hand as Cordelia’s fingers worked down his body, checking for other injuries, making him bark and scream. She didn’t stop. Her focus was arrow-sharp.
“Your… bedside manner… is better…” Nicodemus whispered, turning his face into Viola’s shoulder .
Viola had no idea what he was talking about. She was terrible at this. She didn’t know what she was doing. All her training was failing her. She wanted to bolt. She wanted to stay. She was a frayed patchwork of emotions, a constellation of contradictions, all coming undone, burning up—
“Make him drink this,” said Cordelia, pushing a mug of something into Viola’s hands. Viola had no idea where it had come from, if Cordelia had left at any point or had some skeletal creature collect it.
She didn’t ask. She took the container and pressed it to Nico’s lips, cradling his head in her arms. Slowly, he slipped back into unconsciousness.
Cordelia worked through the rest of his wounds, tearing off bandages, clearly not trusting Viola’s judgement. She laid out all her potions at the side of the room, checking things off on her fingers.
Viola wriggled out from under Nico and placed herself by the side of the bed, staring down at his inert form.
“Is he going to be all right?” she asked.
“I think so,” said Cordelia, still staring at her potions. “We could use a few more healing supplies, especially for when he wakes—”
“I’ll fetch them. Give me a list.”
“I can go into town and get them myself if you want to just—”
“Please. Let me do this.”
Cordelia nodded. “I’ll write everything down.”
Viola stared at her as she scribbled out a list, still waiting for her fury, her vengeance. She kept expecting the pile of bones in the corner of the room to rise up and start battering her. “Why aren’t you angry with me?” she asked, her voice quiet.
Cordelia frowned at her, as if the answer was obvious. “You brought him home.”
“But he’s hurt—”
“Did you hurt him?”
“No, but—”
“He’s hurt, but he’s alive. You didn’t let him die.”
Not for a moment had it ever even crossed Viola’s mind that she could just leave him when that would have been the perfect solution to her problems. And not because of Cordelia’s threats, or because of any sense of morality. She couldn’t leave him because she had to save him.
“I wouldn’t have left him to die,” she whispered, almost afraid of him overhearing, of him knowing what that meant.
“I didn’t know that. Not before now.”
“Why do you think I kept seeing him?”
“To find out his weaknesses and exploit them. ”
Viola half-snorted. “That’s fair.”
She certainly knew his weaknesses now. She knew them, and she had every intention of keeping them secret until the day she died. She would be the shield over the gaps in his armour, damn the consequences.
“You should clean yourself up before you leave,” Cordelia advised her.
Viola looked down at her torn clothes, and her fingers stained with blood. Nico’s blood.
“There’s some clothes in your room,” Cordelia told her. “You might want to change.”
It took just under an hour for Viola to fly to Florenwall and locate a pharmacy that had everything they needed. A part of her wanted to leave the supplies in the kitchen and slip away, back to the barracks and her cold, empty room where she could lick her own wounds in silence. She didn’t want to be here. No matter what Cordelia said about Nicodemus being all right, it was too much like Miranda, too many bandages, too much waiting, too much pain.
But she could not leave him to bear it by himself, so she silently slipped back into Nico’s room and laid down the potions and ingredients on the side.
“How is he doing?” she asked.
Cordelia’s jaw tightened. “He’s running a slight fever.”
Viola hovered over Nico’s side, his brow beaded and twitching with pain. She raised a hand and then drew it back. “I’m not very good with this,” she admitted.
Cordelia raised an incredulous eyebrow. “But you’re a knight? Surely your comrades have been injured before—”
“They have. I have. But I usually just deal with it and pass it on to someone more qualified. It’s… it’s different.” Because I don’t care about most of them. A broken bone is just a broken bone on a person you don’t—
You don’t what?
Cordelia nodded, as if she understood. Her eyes were bloodshot and hollowed. It occurred to Viola she’d probably used a lot of her own magic today, and likely hadn’t slept well during their trip if she was anything like her. It was getting late .
“Go lie down,” Viola insisted. “I will sit with him for a bit.”
“If you’re sure?”
Viola nodded. Cordelia didn’t argue more. She scuttled off down the corridor, leaving Viola inside the sickroom, overwhelmed by the smell of ointment and the thick, unmistakable scent of illness—sweat and heavy breath.
Nico was lying on the sheets, heavily bandaged, his skin pale and clammy, sheening with sweat. Everything in her still wanted to run, but she was pinned by a pain no longer her own. She would stay. She had to.
She took a cloth from a nearby bowl and dipped it in the water, placing it against his feverish brow. Nico murmured under her touch, like he was crawling into the coolness. “You’re all right,” she whispered, though it seemed a foolish thing to say.
Nico kept murmuring, tossing his head restlessly, the rest of his limbs jolting with such fervour that she feared he might hurt himself.
“No,” he muttered thickly, “no, please. Don’t do this—” His eyes darted desperately behind closed lids.
Viola grabbed his face—the one part of him she thought was safe to touch without hurting him. “Wake up,” she called to him. “You’re dreaming. Nico, Nico—wake up.” And when that didn’t work, she leaned down and placed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
Nico’s eyes shifted open groggily. “Viola.”
She stroked his face, fingers brushing through strands of sweat-soaked hair. “You were dreaming.”
“It wasn’t a dream,” he told her. “Is this?”
Viola shook her head. She leaned over to get the cloth that had been tossed inside and applied it once more to his forehead. “No. No dream. You’re safe here, Nico.”
His eyelids fluttered, and he reached out to stroke a lock of hair behind her ear, rubbing his thumb against a slight cut on her cheek. “You only call me Nico in my dreams,” he told her. “But you’re never hurt in my dreams. I always keep you safe in them.”
Viola had no idea what to say to that. “You only ever call me Windbright.”
“That’s because Viola is too pretty.”
“Are you saying it doesn’t suit me?”
“You’re beautiful, Windbright, and I’m sure you know it. I just didn’t want you to know that I knew it too.” He paused, breathing quickly. “Whoops.”
Viola didn’t know what to say to that, either. She wasn’t sure if she felt complimented or terrified, or a strange, fearful mix of both. “Close your eyes,” she whispered instead, dabbing at his forehead .
“Will you stay?”
“Yes,” said Viola, surprised by how easy the promise came to her. “I will stay.”