Wizard's Masquerade, page 30
The days following the funeral went by in a blur, and without the closure of seeing Bancroft’s body, Leyna half expected him to show up at any moment. The compiled list claimed he was there—but it was impossible for anyone to say which of the unrecognisable corpses was his. As she walked the rows of bodies, helping identify the victims, she tried not to breathe in the pungent smell. The pressure in her chest grew. There were several faces that fed her anguish, but none of them were Bancroft’s.
Grace’s eyes raked the scene, too, lips pressed tight and arms folded as she searched for Quinn. As with Bancroft, they could not say for certain which body was Quinn’s, or whether he was there at all, but his name appeared on the death records all the same.
The funeral provided one small consolation; it brought her closer to her parents, Grace, and Sophie, and they spent the evening in the Saunders’ suite, reminiscing over a bottle of her father’s sweet sherry about Bancroft, Quinn, and the others they had lost.
Ten days later, the tragedy was still fresh in Leyna’s mind, and she felt just as confused as she had on the day of the funerals.
Even with the use of demons, how had the enemy overwhelmed the king’s finest to the point that there had been no survivors?
Except for the two guards.
The subsequent announcements from the steward were vague, and Leyna and Grace were convinced he was holding back information.
“Let’s find Maurice and Firmin,” Leyna suggested. “If they’re the only survivors, we should see what else they know. Maybe they saw what happened to Quinn?”
They found Maurice on the battlement. He was a balding guard with broad shoulders and was friendly enough at first, but his smile disappeared when they asked him about the Massacre. “Can’t talk about any of that, sorry,” he said, his facial muscles growing taut. “It’s confidential. I’ve made my report to the Royal Council. That’s all I’m allowed to say on the matter.”
Grace pressed him for information, revealing a ferocity that Leyna was glad not to be on the receiving end of, but Maurice waved them away, eager to be left alone.
Firmin was even less helpful—short and hulking, he ignored their questions, scowling at them with dark, beady eyes as he polished the helmets in the armoury without uttering so much as a word in greeting.
“The Royal Council must have its reasons for barring them from discussing what happened,” she said as they left the armoury.
“Like what?” asked Grace.
“Like if releasing the information could endanger someone.”
Grace sighed in frustration. “I’d rather just know the truth.”
They gleaned more from the soldiers who had seen the aftermath of the Baxton Estate.
“It’s awful,” said a young soldier called Lily. “There were bodies all over the lawn and inside the Baxton House. Blood and mud everywhere, and bits of people…”
“Could there be more survivors?” Leyna asked quickly, as Grace’s hands flew to her mouth in horror.
“Dunno,” Lily said, but then she spotted Grace’s trembling lip. “Err, we couldn’t identify everyone…so…maybe?”
Leyna and Grace both lived for that ‘maybe,’ however dubious.
Lily and the other guards investigating the Baxton Estate reported finding unusual animal tracks, and by the time the steward addressed this publicly, Leyna had already formed her own suspicions about these ‘animals’.
“The Royal Council did not wish to cause alarm while we awaited confirmation,” the steward began, “but new information has come to light about the attack. Amongst the traitors were wizards—”
“Leyna, you were right,” said Grace in an undertone, pulling on Leyna’s sleeve. “The traitors had to have used magic!”
“And,” continued the steward, “these wizards commanded an army of demons.”
“And you were right about the demons,” she added.
There was no joy in being right. A stunned silence followed, and the steward had to repeat himself several times before his meaning registered with the crowd, many of whom had only heard of demons in stories told to frighten children. When words finally sunk in, the hall erupted into panic.
“Talk later,” Leyna muttered to Grace, and they found themselves too busy trying to calm the unruly crowd to process the information themselves.
It was only later that night, on the eve of the last day of mourning, that Leyna had time to consider all that the steward had said.
According to the investigation, the king and queen had been the obvious targets of the attack. But then why had the entire court been killed? The men, women and children who tried to flee did not get far. Not even the Baxton household had been spared; Lord and Lady Baxton, along with their many children and grandchildren, had been killed, obliterating the Baxton bloodline in a single night.
At least Seth stayed back at the castle. At least he’s safe.
But it was no longer clear whether the castle was safe. The news of the enemy wizards and their demon army had shattered any semblance of safety Leyna had felt, and she’d never seen the castle folk so frightened, some refusing to leave their rooms. Even Sophie, who Leyna considered one of her closest friends, lived in fear of seeing a demon.
“It’s your day off,” Leyna said. “Don’t you want to see Tom?”
“I’m fine here, thank you,” she said, folding and unfolding a set of towels.
But Leyna knew how much Sophie lived for her days off when she saw her beau, and was able to persuade her.
“I’ll take you on Budsworth,” she offered, “and I’ll return for you before sunset.”
Sophie lit up and dropped the towels in her hurry to hug her, making Leyna feel bashful.
“It’s fine, I’m on my lunch break anyway,” she mumbled as the maid planted a kiss on her cheek.
Soon, Sophie was standing outside Thomas the painter’s studio in Lower Royad wearing her best blue dress, waving goodbye as Leyna rode away.
The city had shed its sorrow faster than the castle had, and the streets were humming happily with people too busy making ends meet to stop for long. The journey back to the castle was uneventful, but she couldn’t relax, dreading another attack, this time closer to home.
This fear wormed its way into her dreams that night. Demons, big and small, slashed at her tranquillity, running loose across the landscape of her mind and hunting down the people she loved. Against a fiery horizon was a silhouetted figure dressed in black, surveying the destruction. It was the wizard who had summoned the demons, but he—or she—was faceless in the nightmare.
She woke, groggy and cold with sweat.
My legs, she thought wildly, wrenching the covers aside to make sure they were both still there. The pale sliver of moonlight lit up them up; the skin was smooth on one, whilst the other’s was rippled like a windswept sea. Alone with no one to see it, she could almost find beauty in the scarred surface. Would anyone else think it beautiful? Nasty comments fluttered close like insects, threatening to bring her down, but she batted them away and massaged her injured leg; it was always stiff in the mornings, but it warmed up once she got moving, and the cramps and spasms were less frequent.
“Yah?” asked Floofy sleepily from his place on her pillow. Grace snored, but did not wake.
“Go back to sleep,” she whispered, but he waddled over to settle in her lap and licked her hand, his pink tongue ticklish against her palm. The sky lightened outside, and she left her room dressed in black for the last day of mourning, with Floofy perched on her shoulder.
She found herself in the training yards without remembering how she’d gotten there. It was eerily quiet, and despite the humidity, she hugged herself as she sat on the wooden bench. Floofy didn’t understand her melancholy, and she took comfort in his blissful happiness as he tottered along the bench, sniffing the air.
She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t notice Chamberlain Percy until he sat down beside her.
“Careful,” he said, picking Floofy up just as he was about to launch himself off the bench into a horse trough. “I’m not sure they can swim.”
He set the creature down between them. Floofy made a sound of protest, but Percy ran a hand through his fur in a way that made him purr.
“I used to have gombotch as a boy,” he said, as Floofy rolled over expectantly, requesting a belly rub. Percy obliged him.
“I didn’t know they were called that.” She had never even seen one before.
“They were bred by Kormendian wizards a long time ago. Gombotchs fell out of favour during the war, and were even banned at one stage.” He frowned. “Anyone who had one in Rosaria had to hide it, or dispose of it.”
Leyna drew a sharp breath and resisted the urge to seize Floofy and hide him in her cloak’s pocket.
“I had the ban lifted a few years ago when I became the lord chamberlain,” continued Percy, rubbing Floofy’s tummy. His silver hair had flopped forward and his spectacles slipped to the tip of his nose. “All part of improving our relations with Kormend—and, as you can see, I have a soft spot for them. It’s nice to see them slowly return to Rosaria. They’re such gentle creatures. Where did you find him?”
“He was a gift,” she said. “But I’m not sure from who.”
Percy’s demeanour shifted, his tone becoming sombre. “Actually, I have something for you.” He handed her a neatly folded banderole.
“What’s this?” she asked, smoothing the shining fabric.
With a sad smile, the chamberlain turned the top fold over, revealing fine golden embroidery that read Bancroft. Just like hers had Saunders on it. Her fingertips brushed the golden threads.
“Recovered from the scene,” said Percy. “I understand you two were close—that he was something of a father figure?”
She nodded slowly, still thumbing the silky fabric. “Something like that.”
“In that case, I think he’d want you to have this. Please, accept my condolences.”
“Thank you.” Leyna had heard the expression uttered countless times in recent weeks—too many people had lost someone they loved.
After the chamberlain left, she remained sitting on the bench, staring down at the banderole folded in her lap. Grace had received one just like it, except it was stained with blood and embroidered with Quinn’s surname, Volak.
Closing her eyes, she breathed in the smell of fresh hay and sawdust, and for a moment, she could almost believe that Bancroft was with her.
Footsteps approached, and she jumped, eyes flying open as she searched, hoping…
Hoping it was him.
But it wasn’t Bancroft. It was Damian, dressed in uniform.
“That his, then?” he asked, taking a seat beside her. He lifted the cleft end of the banderole, where a black mark suggested a burn.
“I suppose so.” She wasn’t ready to accept it was Bancroft’s banderole—that he was dead.
“Nah, it’s definitely his.”
“How can you tell?”
He pointed to the burn mark as he exhaled a puff of smoke. “That there was me from a couple of years back. Bancroft always liked ter tell people he burnt it in battle.” He gave a bark of laughter, the sound ringing bizarrely in the deserted yard. “His favourite story was that a fireball singed it.”
“But you’re a blade,” Leyna said. “You can’t cast fireballs.”
“Nope. Can’t even light me farts on fire.”
“So what really happened?”
Damian smirked and leant forward. “Well, Bancroft was drunk, and runnin’ his mouth off like he does, so I might’ve pushed him—and we had a bit of a tussle. But then he went and stepped into the bloody fireplace.” He inhaled from his pipe. “Poor fool tried to put the flames out with his bare hands. I don’t reckon I would’ve risked burning my hands for my piece of cloth.”
“I would have,” said Leyna at once, but as she hugged Bancroft’s banderole to her chest, she wondered if that was still the case.
With the mourning period over, the court was ordered to shed their black clothes and return to usual attire in honour of the new ruler, Marek Volak. This expectation divided the court; some felt the mourning period should have been longer.
It made little difference to Leyna; the tragedy had turned her world grey, and clothes and appearances didn’t matter half as much as they once had. She cringed at the memory of how she had preened upon her arrival in Royad, and how Jester had openly teased her about it.
He was right.
She’d been too self-absorbed to see it. While the jests had stung, he’d been right to call her out, and she now cared about his opinion in a way she hadn’t expected to.
Everything was different now. She had finally achieved everything she ever wanted, only for her world to be upended, and she felt adrift, without anchor or safe harbour, forced to reevaluate everything—including herself.
She was glad to have Grace and Sophie—despite the similarities between the two, Sophie was ten years older than them, and was more constant in her calmness than Grace, who beneath her happy, outgoing nature, had a hidden fieriness made prominent by the tragedy.
Despite studying alongside Grace at the Guild, Leyna’s friendship with her was new. Grace had always been popular with everyone, and Leyna was beginning to understand why: her ready acceptance of others, no matter their differences, was a gift. She had the same ability to light up the room that Bancroft had possessed. She wanted to be more like Grace, to unite and inspire others—that’s what a true leader did. It had nothing to do with the banderole or being hard-hearted.
I’ve been going about it the wrong way. Grace is a better leader than I am. She lifts people up.
Whether it was Quinn’s bluntness, Sophie’s placidness, or even her own reservedness, she could only marvel at the way Grace could bring them together.
Except that Quinn was gone now. His death caused a dramatic shift in Grace, who alternated between mourning and denial, and had taken to chewing her fingernails without realising it, clawing at her arms with what remained.
“They never found his body, so we can’t give up on him,” Grace said, before bursting into tears.
Seeing Grace so distressed ate away at Leyna and compounded her own grief, but she did her best to console her friend. They would stay awake late into the night talking, often joined by Sophie. These conversations revealed Grace had her own secrets—she was unwilling to discuss her family whenever Leyna or Sophie asked, and they suspected she carried an old trauma she was not yet ready to share.
Prince Seth, meanwhile, had lost his boyish enthusiasm, and it was heart-wrenching to see him so sad. Her attempts to cheer him up failed, and even Jester’s antics failed to lift the boy’s spirits.
Like Grace, whose bubbliness barely concealed her grief, Jester had become quiet and withdrawn. Dressed in black garb, he said little, and as the days went by, she wondered if his jests and teasing were a thing of the past. She couldn’t decide how she felt about this new, serious jester. While she missed the banter, his lack of flirting made it easier to forget the dream she’d had of him, a fantasy that had caught her off guard.
“Are you alright?” she asked Jester, after he ended an evening performance in the Great Hall that left many of the audience members tearful. Unaccompanied, he had played his violin for the court, sending mournful music resonating throughout the room. His eyes were shut, his head nodding onto one shoulder, and he looked a million miles away. The sombre music gripped her heart, drawing grief from her with each long note, and as the music shuddered through her body, silent tears rolled down her cheeks.
She was still wiping her eyes when she approached him afterwards. He was crouched and packing away his violin, but glanced up with a hint of his mischievous smile when she greeted him.
“Ah, Huskarl Leyna! How nice to see you.”
“Just ‘Leyna’ is fine,” she said.
“Oh?” Jester seemed startled, but recovered quickly. “A new title? Well, then…Just Leyna, may I say, how nice it is to see you. Is the ‘just’ short for justice? Defender of the people?”
She shook her head, not taking the bait. His music had been too enchanting, the horrible sadness of it a cathartic release, and right now, she couldn’t feel anything but grateful.
“You played beautifully,” she said. “Thank you.”
Just like that, she had side-stepped the Jester’s mockery, disarming him of his weapon without even realising she’d done it. He blinked, then rose, his arms loose by his side as if shedding the jester’s mannerisms. As if it was just him and her.
“You’ve changed,” he said, and it wasn’t a question.
“Have I?” she asked, because what else was there to say? Hadn’t they all changed? The attacks had touched them all, and the death and destruction would inevitably shape them into different people. At least, that’s what her father had said.
“Yes, you have. I see you’ve been crying.” He produced a handkerchief, and she gave an embarrassed laugh as she accepted it. He waited patiently as she dabbed at her face.
“There were children who died,” she said suddenly. “Over forty of them, if we count the Baxton’s grandchildren.”
Jester pressed his lips together. “There are no words.”
“No words, even from the jester?” Her question was sincere.
“None that could do such sorrow justice.”
She took a step closer—to do what, she wasn’t sure.
“Err, here,” she said, thrusting the handkerchief at him.
He reached for it gracefully, but rather than take it from her, he rested his fingertips upon the fabric, his hand on hers. She felt his light touch through the thin cotton, and swallowed nervously as he tipped his head and peered at her with twinkling eyes.
“It must be my lucky day,” he murmured, “to receive a handkerchief from a young lady.”
