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)
“Then don’t get caught.”
Akilah whispers beside me, “That’s usually your line.”
Skriniaris Evander smiles and I slowly smile too. “Will it get me into Thinking Hall?” I ask.
Scholars from every region of the kingdom go there to share their thoughts on art and beauty and magic. Isn’t the last day of the week the day they recite newly penned poetry? Share their visions of an ideal kingdom?
He reads my determined expression and laughs. “You can head there right now.”
On a pent breath, I leave Akilah to some much-deserved time to herself, and head off.
Extravagantly dressed men flash their soldads and are ushered inside by stationed guards, and the guards usher me in too. It’s that easy.
What power.
But I swore by the spiritual power of the luminarium not to get my family in trouble . . .
I don’t even believe in the Arcane Sovereign.
I’ll do this carefully. Use an alias.
The aroma of polished oak and perfumed scholars hits me at once, and I gawp at the imposing elegance of the hall. Carved wooden beams support high-vaulted ceilings, flickering lamplight exaggerating their shadows and angles. There are two levels—the lower packed with scholars vying for a good spot around the stage, and curved balconies above filling with well-dressed spectators.
If I’d arrived earlier, I’d have been able to see the action from the floor.
I head up the staircase, hoping for a better view, but guards stop me. My soldad isn’t sufficient for this level. I try to catch a glimpse of the stage from the stairs, but the angle doesn’t allow it.
Disappointing.
I take a step down and stop at the sight of a familiar figure ascending.
A mantle of blue velvet, beautifully embroidered with metals and deep colours, wraps his shoulders and hangs to the tops of his shiny boots. His cane, carved with coiling wyverns, makes a smacking statement at each step. His hand tightens on the wood as he looks up, and his mouth lifts in a tight curve.
“Quin the haughty merchant,” I say.
He raises a hand, stopping the aklo three steps behind him from rushing forward to block my approach.
I bounce down a few steps. “At a poetry convention? You seem more the debate type.”
Quin’s dark gaze sharpens. “You’re mistaken.”
“Enjoy poetry, then?”
“The last of the month is politics. No poetry.” His lips curl faintly, but his tone is tight. “So if you’re here, it’s by mistake.”
“Or miracle.”
Quin arches a brow, and despite himself, his lips curve. A bell chimes through the hall. “That’s the unveiling of the first topic.” He winces and rises a step. When he reaches mine, he continues upward.
I twist around. “Mind if I join? The view down there is terrible.”
His aklo moves to intercept, but Quin stops him again. He pauses, looking at me. “Wouldn’t that make us seem friendly? Wouldn’t that mean you’d have ‘a lot to explain’?”
“Ah.” Quin snaps his way up the staircase and I chase after him, flashing a grin. “We might not be particularly fond of one another, but we’re both mannered men. We can be civil.”
Quin’s brow arches slightly, politeness barely masking his dismissal as he continues up the stairs.
“Worried my perspectives might prove sharper than your own?” I say, following.
He stops abruptly, forcing me to halt. His gaze locks onto mine. “If your mind was half as sharp as your tongue, I might be.”
He continues and I chase after him, laughing, until he finally relents. Guards part for us; Quin’s aklo stations himself outside the curtains leading to a small balcony. There’s a bench, but the view is better standing at the curved balustrade.
I eye him, noting how he’s favouring his leg. “I’m curious—”
“Remain curious,” he interrupts, tone clipped as he leans harder against the balustrade.
His grip on the railing tightens, just enough to betray the pain he’s trying to mask.
I step closer, lowering my voice. “I’m a healer. Let me . . .”
He turns his dark unreadable gaze on me. “Stop meddling.”
“But Quin, that’s what I’m good at.” I grin.
He exhales sharply, but there’s a soft edge to it. “If I let you read my pulse, will you stop pestering me?”
“Probably not.”
Exasperation wars with amusement. “Then there’s no point.”
“Except for feeling better.”
He laughs bitterly.
I know when to back off—I give up a step and gesture to the stage below, read from the scroll hanging above it. “Lovelights are the highest joy of the people.”
Someone in the lower crowd calls out, “Too easy. Of course they are. Why else is the lovelight festival our national holiday?”
The lovelight festival. The mark of mid-winter, and the most beautiful and heart-wrenching time of the year. Young lovers skate over canals and kiss on bridges, and the city twinkles with love—innocent, pure, unreciprocated, forbidden. Light blazes brilliantly from the heart and dances around the loved one before settling deep into their chest.
Beautiful, witnessing hearts and minds that have acknowledged their true love. Heartbreaking, when those lovers are not gifted lights in return.