Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
And his fury.
I leave the patient briefly, returning with a crying Akilah who is both happy and sad to see me return. “Your father is—”
“I’ll have to face that later.” I reveal the makeshift stretcher and the groaning eparch atop it. “It’s him we need to worry about.”
“Arcane Sovereign! Cael, you brought someone of his status here?”
“He’s hurt. He says he can’t go to an official vitalian.”
“Can’t? What trouble have you brought here, Cael?”
“Help me get him in.”
Akilah gulps, standing still as her eyes dart between me and the unconscious Silvius.
“I have no choice, Akilah. He’ll die.”
She trembles as she grabs his legs and together we haul him inside. Akilah lights the candles and I pull herbs off the shelves onto my table, my hands shaking as I reach into a hidden cavity in the wall and draw out Great-grandfather’s notebook.
She snatches at my wrist. “Your hands—”
I look down. The struggle to get here has left them raw and blistered. There’s blood. “It’s nothing.” I pull away. “Rosemary tea will help. Thanks Akilah.”
She rushes out to the herb garden, and I start lighting the stove.
“Why didn’t you heal yourself earlier?” Silvius’s voice is faint from the bed behind me.
I look at him. “It’s called eisenchos: treatment based on need. Now quiet. I have to concentrate.”
“No one has ever shushed me before.”
“Ha. You’ve been shushed, you just haven’t heard it.”
His chuckle morphs into a groan.
I fry the swiftleaf root, add water and bring it to a simmer. The torn mustiva leaves I stir through the tincture until they turn black.
“You’d risk everything for a stranger?”
I keep stirring, not looking at him. “I can help. Therefore, I should.”
He huffs a bitter laugh. “How will I ever thank you?”
“Pay it forward. Don’t harm the innocent.”
I strain the liquid. Almost ready, but the last steps are vague. Complex spells like this are never fully detailed in Grandfather’s notes. After all, they’re written for someone adept at the finer processing.
A gurgling groan has me whipping around. Silvius has lost consciousness again. Sweat is dripping down his temples. My previous spell has waned; poison is tearing its way to his heart.
Minutes. I have minutes.
I lift the bowl to my lips—
My door bangs open and Akilah shrieks my name under the fierce grip of my father. “Caelus Amuletos. Put that down.”
His gaze is murderous and terrified, and I obey instinctively. He releases Akilah with a shove that has her falling to the floor. She looks at me, silent apologies on her lips.
Father growls and jerks a finger toward the bed. “Get him away from here immediately.”
“He’ll die.”
“Better out there than in here.”
“There’s a chance!”
He scours my table, the books I took from my hidey hole. “We could all die for this.”
“Not if we save him.”
“Trust this man, do you?”
I grimace. Could I? A gut feeling. “He won’t cause us trouble. Please, Father. Help me.”
“It’s too dangerous—”
I fall to my knees on the hard floor. “What will our forefathers think if you send him away to die? Could you meet them in the heavens with an easy conscience?”
Silence. An ominous step. Father grabs the neck of my shirt and hauls me to my feet. “Your great-grandfather was linea. With full spiritual blood, he could save this man.”
Grandfather was par-linea. Even half-blooded, he would have tried too. “You could.”
“You insolent—”
“These books were passed on to you for a reason—”
He shoves me to the ground and stares at the table, at my brew. Spoon pinched in his fingers, he peels off a congealed layer. “You’d have killed yourself if I hadn’t stopped you. You can only ingest the liquid after the skin has drawn out the toxins, and this spell must be layered correctly.”
I scrabble closer, stomach screwed into a hopeful ball.
His jaw twitches as he stares at the dark fluid in the beaker. For a second, I think he might walk away. Then he casts me a maddening look, and swallows it.
I’ve never seen such a complex spell cast. My eyes are fixed on my father as he works; I want to commit each step to memory. This is what I’ve always wanted—to see this magic firsthand, to understand it, to be given the opportunity to learn it.
Unlike my blue freezing spell, this one is bright crimson and gold, a roaring flame cradled in his left hand. His right channels the magic as he builds the spell, layer after layer, moulded in fine needle-like lines. There’s a sheen to the outermost layer . . . That must be a shield, to protect the vitalian.
He delivers it through a dozen acupoints on the feet, chest and scalp. Sweat beads on his forehead; the cradling hand starts to shake. He flicks his palms free of the spell and staggers back. I catch and steady him, handing him a brew of ginger to replenish his energies. He knocks it back and his haggard breaths slowly steady.