Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
My stomach churns. “It’s better to be prepared,” I say firmly.
Florentius narrows his eyes at me. “I’d rather not see the apothecary blown up by sloppy spellwork. I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”
As he strides away, I murmur, “Thanks for breakfast.”
Pots and kettles hiss and whistle on the stove behind me, filling the air with steam and bitter scents. The table in front of me—large enough to lay a body on—is cluttered with teacups, half drained, the rest waiting their turn. I’m bent over the victim’s clothes when Makarios and Mikros arrive.
“You look like you’ve found something,” Makarios says, his sharp gaze narrowing on my hands.
Mikros points to a tray beside me. “Are those glowing shards . . . scales?”
“Yes. And this—” I hold up a cuff stained with dried blood. “No visible cuts on the skin, though.” I frown, turning the cuff over. “It doesn’t add up.”
Setting the clothing aside, I move to the herbs steeping on the stove. “We’ll come back to it. For now, the spell. I’ve prepared forty-five herbs—only fifteen more to brew.”
My tongue is numb from the bitter teas, but energy pulses thickly through my veins. I channel it to craft the outer layers of the spell, including a protective barrier for myself. Once it’s ready, I absorb it into my palms and take another sip of tea to steady myself. The final stage looms: combining the herbs into their purest compounds.
This part is tricky. Mikros wipes sweat from his brow as he mutters, “Please don’t blow up, don’t blow up.”
“Become the scales,” Makarios intones. “Feel their weight.”
I close my eyes, trying. “After a month of this, you’d think I’d have found my inner scales by now.”
“How have you crafted spells before this?” Mikros asks, sceptical.
“Intuition. What feels right.” I shrug, frustration tightening my chest. My grandfather taught me complex-medius cures, but I’ve never tackled anything this intricate. If he’d lived longer, maybe he’d have shown me how to master these combinations. Or maybe . . . maybe it’s because we’re only par-linea.
The thought gnaws at me. Are scales something only pure linea can have?
I grit my teeth. No. There’s always another way. Weigh outside the box. Quin’s voice echoes in my head, his words pulling me from the spiral. If you’re not good enough, get better.
I stare at my gloved hands, each holding a swirling orb of condensed energy. Outside the box . . .
I twist my wrists, calling up water bubbles beneath each orb. One sinks rapidly, the other bobs to the surface.
“Buoyancy,” I murmur, stacking the orbs accordingly. When I look up, Makarios and Mikros are staring, slack-jawed.
“If you can’t feel it, measure it,” I explain, pouring the last teas into cups. Smugness creeps into my tone—until I take a sip of caelumthorn and hiss as the heat sears my lips.
Makarios and Mikros burst into laughter. Fair.
The sting of the burn draws my gaze to my sleeve, and a thought strikes faster than a spell. I snatch up the victim’s clothes, inspecting the bloodstain. “He took one bite of fish before his wife stole the rest, right? What if he burned his mouth in his haste and dabbed it—like I just did?”
I whirl to face the others. “Can you verify something for me?”
They exchange wary looks. “Why do I get the feeling you want us to check the body?”
“I want you to check the body.”
“We’d have to sneak into the ice cellars,” Makarios says.
Mikros lights up. “I know how to do that.”
“Check his mouth and tongue.”
They nod. “We’ll be back soon.”
They aren’t back soon. I’ve prepared all layers of the blood-curing spell except for the spiritual source of the infection, which I only have one shot at inserting into the spell. If I forge ahead with my assumption and I’m wrong, I’ll have to start over completely.
No time for that. I may not be able to help Nicostratus and Quin fight the wyverns, but I can help keep the aklos and aklas safe. Give them a chance to heal if they’re hurt.
I need to solve this fast. Makarios and Mikros will be back with confirmation in time. They have to be.
Hours pass. It’s almost dawn when I acknowledge they won’t be returning before the gala. I worry myself to sleep over parcels of dried herbs.
“Wake up.”
The sharp call has me bolting upright, my blurry gaze slowly sharpening on pristine robes. Florentius, as promised.
I yawn, stretching my limbs overhead. “Bringing me breakfast again?”
He ignores me. “Call up the spell. I’ll proof it, then I have to go.”
“What’s the hurry?”
His expression is grim, and my senses prickle.
I plant myself before him, making the barrier shimmer in warning. “What is it?”
“All gold-sash mages were called to the high duke’s quarters this morning.”
“The high duke is sick?”
“A dozen of his guests fell ill during the night.”
Cold steals over me. All mages qualified to administer spells to royalty conveniently busied.