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)
I flatten my lips. “I’m not sure he knows what he’s saying. This topic has hidden layers.”
I look from where the words stand, seemingly harmless, to Quin’s earnest expression.
“When wyverns go wild, they should be hunted.” I feel the words in my mouth, along with some bile. “The topic pretends to be about literal wyverns but actually refers to the ‘wild’ or out-of-control—vespertines, or crusaders—those who are pushing back against the ruling class. The topic suggests they ought to be sought out and killed.” I suck in a tight breath. “It also has a none-too-subtle implication that the king is not doing his duty to control his ‘wyverns,’ the subjects under his rule. You have to be brave to stand on the stage today. You have to pray your words don’t reach the wrong ears.”
Quin drums his fingers on the balustrade. “How would you answer—what are you doing?”
I’m hiding. I’ve whipped up Quin’s cloak to shield myself and peek over the edge at him, giving a wan chuckle before I sneak behind him and drop the cloak. “That luminist,” I whisper at his neck, where I’m hopefully well hidden, “next to the one in the peacock-feathered hat.”
“You know him?”
“From our local luminary. If he sees me here, I’ll get into all kinds of trouble.”
“And clinging to me won’t get you in trouble?”
“I’ll take your punishment over his any day.”
“You have no clue what you’re saying,” Quin mutters. “Tell me how you’d answer this topic.”
I sneak a peek over his shoulder and hurriedly tuck my face against his nape. “Find the cause.”
“Cause?”
I tap his head. “If you have chronic headaches, I can give you spells to relieve the pain, but the headaches will keep coming back unless you address the source—like lack of sleep, overwork, unhealthy diet. When wyverns go wild, you can keep hunting them, but their wildness will never go away unless you understand the reason for it.”
“He’s gone. Quit breathing down my neck.” He hauls me out from behind him. “Why do you think wyverns go wild?”
“Why does a cornered animal fight back?”
Quin is quiet.
Is he unaware of the realities?
I glance toward his probable gold-thread undergarments and sigh. “Most folk lack access to vitalians,” I explain, “and par-linea, who might help them, are guillotined for trying. Vespertines and crusaders fight against this unfairness. Vespertines often steal to relieve poverty. Crusaders use violence to destroy magic veins to get rid of the hierarchies that come with magic.”
Quin snaps his head towards me; the fierceness in his eyes is cold. “You think their violence is justified?”
“I’m a healer; I don’t like any violence. But . . .”
“But what?” he barks.
“But I feel the frustration. Par-linea are seen as scars, weaknesses. We’re seen as watering down our kingdom’s limited pool of magic. But we have magic. We could use it. Only we’re not allowed. Why? For the sake of discouraging linea from diluting their blood. When my great-grandfather did, when he fell for someone who wasn’t also linea, he was shunned by his entire family. Why? What is there to be afraid of?”
“Our kingdom’s demise,” Quin says bluntly. “We’re a small realm, surrounded by bigger ones. Magic is a commodity that other kingdoms pay huge amounts for; that’s important revenue. And magic defends our land—other kingdoms are hesitant to attack us for fear of what we could do to them.”
I look at him. “Is it worth defending a kingdom where only the ruling class really gets to live?”
His lips purse, and he says nothing. The shadows of the balcony deepen around him as if I’ve struck a nerve, but he holds his chin up defiantly. For all his manners, Quin’s views are as rigid as the noble class he comes from. But there’s a fiery passion in him too, one that I can’t quite read. Is he someone I can trust? Or another obstacle in my path?
I lean my forearms against the balustrade and shake my head. “When the last king died, I’d hoped his son might make a step towards change—have the courage to listen to the people, establish fairer laws—but . . .”
“But what?” Quin speaks between clenched teeth, and I wonder at what part of the conversation I’d begun to offend him. The assumption he wore gold-threaded undergarments? The implication that he didn’t understand common woes? That he’s a pampered boy who grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth? “You could be beheaded for such words.”
“That’s why I’m not volunteering to stand on that stage.”
“You said it to me.”
I raise a brow.
“Then it’s a good thing,” I say, leaning in to whisper, “that you’re such a mannered man, who’d never sell out an inconsequential par-linea.”
He spares me no pleasant goodbyes, just an intense look that sends a shiver rolling through me. A shiver that steels my resolve and makes his next words sound both haunting and hopeful. “There’s nothing inconsequential about you.”