Sir Callie and the Dragon's Roost, page 5
“No. I don’t. But I wish I did.”
“Yeah, I get that.”
“It’s going to be okay. Papa’s gonna work things out and your mum will come around. It’s just…messy right now.”
Willow nods against my shoulder, but Elowen scoffs behind me.
I fix her with a glare. “What?”
“And how long are we supposed to wait? Helston’s been in shambles for years, and that’s always the excuse grown-ups use. Just wait. Just be patient. Sit still and shut up and wait for them to make things better.”
“That is their job, El,” says Edwyn.
“Then they should be more competent!”
I scooch backward, close enough that our knees bump. “It’s better now, though, isn’t it? Compared to before, I mean. With your dad?”
El’s eyes flick and catch Edwyn’s on the other side of the room. “Yes,” she says stiffly. “Better.”
* * *
Papa always comes home late these days, but tonight he’s even later, even more worn down, even more defeated.
He won’t even look at us as he sheds his cloak into Neal’s hands. As hungry as I was for information, by the shadows on his face I’m not sure anymore if I want to know.
Neal finds the courage to ask first. “What happened?”
Papa’s eyes flick to me, to Willow, to the twins, all watching anxiously and waiting to be told that everything’s okay. And he shakes his head again with a mumbled, “Later.”
My gut twists. Papa doesn’t keep secrets. He doesn’t keep things from me just ’cause I’m a kid. That’s not how we do things.
I stand up tall. “No, not later. We’ve been waiting and it concerns all of us! Please!”
Papa hesitates, more than half looking like he’s going to disappear into his bedroom and shut the door. But even though everything else is wrong today, he’s still him and we’re still us.
He sits between me and Elowen, with Willow and Edwyn on the floor, Neal standing at his side, and takes a deep breath.
“Things aren’t good,” he begins like that’s news. “This has got people spooked. Really spooked. Ewella is afraid that this is going to undo all the progress she’s managed to achieve with magic, with tolerance, with change. This isn’t just about the Dumoor kid, it’s about all of us. She has to put on a show and make people feel safe. A frightened mass is dangerous. She has to play the long game.”
Neal asks the question that’s on all our minds. “What does that mean for us?”
“I don’t know how long it will last,” Papa tells him honestly. “And yes, things are going to be a bit different for a while.” He looks around at us, taking in our family with an apology set deep on his face. “We’re all going to lie low until this blows over. Every single one of us.” He looks very pointedly at me. “I’m dead serious, Callie. It’s gonna get worse before it gets better, and I won’t see you hurt. You hear me?”
I nod slowly. I hear him. It makes sense. That doesn’t mean it sits right, though.
“Magic lessons have been put on pause,” Papa continues. “I’m sorry, truly, but I do think it’s for the best right now. And honestly, I want all three of you to stay inside until I’m sure it’s safe again. Willow, I wish I could include you, but I think your mum’s gonna want to keep you pretty close. Know you are welcome here anytime you like. Day or night.”
He takes stock of each of us in turn. “I know this is going to be a hard time, but as long as we stick together, we can weather whatever they throw at us. Right?”
We bundle up tight. I hold on to El’s waist with one arm and Willow’s with the other, burying my face in Papa’s tunic. Even Edwyn lets himself be part of the hug.
“Right,” I whisper.
CHAPTER FIVE
For days, our door stays shut, and only Papa leaves; heading out too early and coming back too late, and staying too tired and disappointed always. He doesn’t tell us what goes on during the endless council meetings. The most we hear are vague murmurs through the walls after he and Neal go to bed.
Elowen presses her ear to the wall and translates for me and Edwyn.
“Neal wants us to leave,” she whispers. “He is angry that Sir Nick is keeping us trapped here. He says it isn’t safe. Sir Nick insists everything’s going to be okay and we just have to wait it out.”
“Papa’s right,” I say, winding one of Elowen’s ribbons around my fingers like a web and pulling until my fingertips lose their color. “We can’t run away just because things get tough.”
No way am I leaving. I fought too hard for too long just to be here. If there’s a fight, I want to be part of it. It’s my duty. My job. I am a Helston page, destined to be a Helston knight. This is where I belong. Just like Willow.
Helston just needs to heal.
I hope Papa can make Neal understand that.
* * *
Stasis ends with the toll of funeral bells before first light.
Neal helps Papa with the finicky clasp on his black cloak. It’s deathly early in the morning; the sea mist is thick over Helston, obscuring any hope of a sunny day. Elowen and Edwyn are dressed almost identically in black with silver detailing; Edwyn’s tunic is free of creases like it’s never been worn, and Elowen’s dress falls long about her ankles.
My own tunic is like my formal page’s uniform but black and somber, and I feel like a shadow when I put it on. Only my orange hair keeps me from disappearing entirely.
I’m nervous at the thought of rejoining Helston in a way I never was before, even when I spent whole weeks locked in my room. It’s different this time—more dangerous and less personal.
“I don’t think my presence would be appropriate, Nick,” Neal says, picking the lingering lint from Papa’s cloak. “It would be best if I stay behind.”
“It would be worse if you were thought to be hiding,” Papa argues, catching Neal’s hand in both his own and raising it to his lips. “And you have nothing to hide. You should be there, with us, as a family. Show them all that we are not afraid.”
Neal’s expression softens. “But I am afraid. And you should be too. You know as well as I what these people are capable of when driven by fear—”
The next kiss is on Neal’s lips. “I would like to see anyone try anything,” says Papa.
But, like Neal, I can’t help but feel Papa is missing the point.
We join the procession from the palace to the highest cliff in Helston, with a clear view of the moors to one side and the sea to the others; keeping close together in a tight-knit unit.
I’ve never been to a funeral before and I have no idea what I’m supposed to be doing or thinking, so I just go along with the flow, making sure I don’t lose my family. There aren’t as many tears as I was expecting, just stony, somber expressions and fierce glares that turn on us. On Neal.
I keep his hand tight in mine and squeeze; his pulse thumps hard against my fingertips. But even I can’t stop myself thinking about the mark on his side. The mark of the witch. The enemy who slaughtered our people.
I feel like I did when I first realized that Helston wasn’t my friend, except this time I don’t know how I’m supposed to claim my place and prove that I belong. I don’t think there’s anything I can do.
The air outside is thick with fog speckled with ice, like we’ve been plunged into winter despite it barely being autumn. Everyone clutches their cloaks tighter around themselves, staring up at the sky like they don’t recognize it, like the weather is a Dumoor attack.
“It doesn’t feel right,” Elowen breathes, the words forming ghosts. “It feels…magical.”
“Hush, El,” Edwyn warns.
I agree with Edwyn. If her magic starts sparking, I don’t think anything could contain the mob. If Helston starts thinking there’s more magic in the air, who knows what chaos will ensue. We’re in survival mode. Get to the other side of the day. Get to tomorrow. Keep going until things are better.
Keep going.
It’s a long journey all the way up to the hill. Queen Ewella waits beside Prince Jowan’s statue, her face fierce and stoic as her black hair streams behind her in the punishing wind. Willow is on Jowan’s other side. His tunic is almost identical to Edwyn’s, though there’s a touch more silver and his cloak looks much thicker. The crown nestled in his hair sparkles like frost.
His hair, so proudly grown, has been clipped short above his ears.
My breath catches in my throat and I nudge El. “Look what they’ve done to Willow.”
She looks and her lip goes between her teeth. “I told you,” she whispers. “I told you we were going backward.”
We huddle together in the wind as a member of each family who lost someone stands and speaks of their loved ones. The speeches run together, tragic ballads of unique bravery and lost hopes. There are no tears apart from Lady Dahlia, who sobs into her cloak as her husband speaks of the son they lost. The way they talk, you’d think he was a seasoned knight with decades of mighty deeds under his belt. Not a sixteen-year-old squire on his first ride out of Helston.
Just like Prince Jowan.
Just like us in not so long.
My breath struggles in my chest.
I have never feared battle or injury. Knights fight. That’s what they’re for. That’s what I want. And it’s not like I’ve ever been under any illusion that this path wasn’t dangerous. People fall all the time.
But—
I swallow.
It’s not supposed to be us.
We’re supposed to survive. Win. Live.
I don’t care that to the other side we’re the enemy. I know we’re the heroes. The victors. We’re fighting for right and good, and we’re supposed to win! That’s what all the ballads say.
But the ballads aren’t the whole truth, are they? They’re just one shiny side of a messy story, bloodstained, tearstained, muddy.
It isn’t always the bad guys who lose.
Like Prince Jowan.
If the ballads are to be believed, he should’ve lived and he should be here now.
Ballads are just stories and this is real and dangerous, and every battle comes with a possibility of not coming back. Of losing. Of dying.
I never worried about Papa. I was miserable when he rode out but that was because of me, because it meant months alone with Mama. I always knew Papa would come home. And he always did.
I had no idea how lucky I was.
How lucky I am.
My whole body shudders and Papa squeezes me closer, and I’m grateful for the physical proof that he’s still here with me. Still alive.
The thought of anything less hurts too bad even to nudge with my mind.
Willow shifts at his mother’s side, and I can see his hands twisting behind his back, not quite hidden. He looks like a real prince up there, every hair, every inch of his tunic perfect. The gold crown bright against his raven-black hair. And he looks absolutely miserable. The weight of the kingdom already rests too heavy on his shoulders, even with Papa and the queen to help him.
Once the words run dry, we all stand at the edge of the cliff. On the sand below are five pyres, one for each of the recovered fallen, their bodies wrapped in thin shrouds that make them look like ghosts.
Helston’s best and bravest.
Queen Ewella faces them, her long hair whipping in the wind, raising both arms high. “Helston will be forever indebted to you for your sacrifice.” Which makes it sound like it all happened on purpose, intentionally, like they knew what they were heading into.
Fire blazes from her palms and the whole court flinches as it engulfs the pyre. There is no struggle for the flame to catch in the wood, even with the sea-spattered wind doing its best to blow it out.
Nature has nothing on magic.
And we stand back and watch the fallen burn.
The heat is intense and the smell is worse. The court cringes from the smoke, lords and ladies covering their faces with their cloaks. I hold my breath for as long as I can before giving in and using my own cloak.
Queen Ewella never turns her face away, nor does she cover her face. Her dark eyes follow the smoke spiraling up and up to mar the clouds; then she raises a hand high and lightning flies from her fingers, cracking and fierce, to stab through the clouds as straight and true as an arrow.
When she speaks, her voice is thunder. “Let this serve as your only warning. To all who dare ride against Helston, to all who underestimate our strength, to all who seek to tear us apart, we will not sit still and silent as you threaten us. We will meet you and win. You will take no more of our children, and you will pay for what you have stolen in the blood of your own.” She turns back to her people, expression grim, and tells us softly, “From this moment forward, Helston is at war.”
The five of us are the only ones who do not cheer.
CHAPTER SIX
Any pretense that we’re kids at school ends in that moment.
No more games. No more playing.
This is life and death, and if you’re not better than your best, you’ll die and take all your friends down with you.
There are no guarantees. No promise that we’ll win, but I’m ready to do my best.
We all are.
Even the littlest pages have a newfound solemnity. We’re soldiers, and none of us are willing to be the weakest link. Adan takes over from Jory and every day is a new fight, a new hell, just to stay on our feet.
Edwyn and I return home late in the evening, battered and exhausted, and it takes Neal and El all the way to bedtime to heal us enough to sleep. Every day, Neal gets angrier and quieter, and his arguments with Papa after we go to bed grow more insistent.
“This isn’t safe, Nick. Not for Callie, not for me, and certainly not for the twins. They deserve better. They deserve—”
“It will be better, love,” I hear Papa tell him through the walls. “Everything will settle down soon enough. Have faith.”
“Faith in whom? Ewella?”
“Me.”
A long pause, then, softly, “You know I do.”
“Then be patient. Fear brings out the worst in people, you know that.”
“I do, but why should we be the ones to suffer for it?”
Papa pauses, his silence strained. Then, “I have a duty. I cannot run away again.”
“And the children?”
“Try telling Callie not to fight.” I can hear the smile in Papa’s voice. “This is what they’ve been working toward—”
“But not yet,” Neal insists. “They’re twelve. They’re not a squire yet. Stop treating them like they’re older than they are! Let them be kids!”
“A knight’s life is not easy. This is what they want.”
I move away from the wall, my heart thuddering. Papa’s right. Of course he is. He knows me better than anyone does, even Neal. This is what I’ve always dreamed of—a life of danger and duty. That’s what knights do. That’s what I signed up for. Sure, it’s not exactly happening the way I thought it would, but nothing ever does. And that’s okay. It’s hard and I’m hurting, but it’s supposed to be hard, and no one can learn to fight without getting hurt.
Neal just doesn’t understand.
Nor does Elowen.
Every day she gets pricklier. It doesn’t help that she stays inside the apartment with Neal day in and day out, the suspicion surrounding all things magical at an all-time high. She has endless hours to brood over everything that’s wrong with Helston and blow it all out of proportion.
“Is this really the kingdom you want to serve?” she demands of me and Edwyn as she tends to our bruised skin and bleeding knuckles. “They’re going to kill you before you even make it out onto the field.”
“It’s special circumstances, El.” I hiss as her magic touches the stinging scrape on my elbow where my opponent knocked me to the ground. “If we weren’t at war, it’d be different. We have to be ready to fight at a moment’s notice, and that means stuffing years of learning into—”
Her eyes flick up, brows arched. “A few weeks?”
I shrug. “I guess. It’s fine.”
“It’s not.”
“It is!”
It has to be.
It’s not like we have any choice.
And it’s not like we have time to think about it. Even Peter doesn’t waste time picking on us, as needle-sharp focused as the rest of us as we go through our drills over and over; strength and resilience over form and footwork.
Fight for Helston.
Protect Helston.
Our duty to Helston.
To the Crown.
To each other.
No longer individual rocks but a single, impenetrable stone wall.
And with the single entity we’ve become, the race to graduate first is forgotten.
We all go together.
Every single one of us, whether we’re ready or not.
I am ready, obviously. Edwyn and Peter and the older pages are ready. But I can’t help looking at the little ones, the boys who only arrived in Helston just a short while ago, who are barely used to being away from their parents and holding practice weapons, let alone fighting for real.
I watch them struggle and fall. I watch their tears and their determination. I watch Adan and his men break them down into something usable if not durable.
It’s in those moments that I wonder, distantly, if maybe Neal might not be completely wrong.
But it’s too late now.
This is the choice we all made.
It was never supposed to be easy, even if it wasn’t supposed to be quite this hard.
“We will prepare to ride out in one month,” Adan tells us, striding up and down the lines of kids holding themselves ramrod rigid as per order. “You are expected to be ready. You will not be excused if you are not.”
