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)
“What about silver sashes?” It comes out a rasp. That’s why . . .
“Ordered to various parts of the royal city. There’s never been so many medical emergencies at once. It’s unprecedented.”
More like contrived.
“Are you telling me there are no mages attending the gala?”
“I’m being pulled away too,” Florentius says.
“Of course.” He’s Chiron’s son. His skills are superior. A possible threat to the high duke’s plan.
“I said I needed to grab some books, but I only have a minute. Show me your spell.”
I call it to my palm, expanding each layer for him to analyse. “Better than expected,” he says. “Inserting the spiritual source of the infection will be the hardest part. You mustn’t release it until it reaches the correct layer. It will hurt. Keep your fingers steady.”
At the sounds of heavy footsteps downstairs, I grab some spell books and slide them to Florentius.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” he says in hushed, serious tones, “but something is.”
I stare vacantly through the shimmering spell as he goes. The high duke will try to depose the king today; if he can’t kill him outright, he’ll make the kingdom’s subjects question why Quin struggled to control the wyverns. He’ll make them cry out: imposter!
Aklos and aklas, redcloaks, Nicostratus, Quin. Anyone—all could be hurt.
With no mage nearby.
I kick at the barrier like my panic and frustration could be enough to tear through it.
I need to be there.
I grab the victim’s garments and soak the bloody cuff in a basin of water. Hope my theory about the source of the infection is correct—
In the distance, tasting tinny with terror, a chorus of bloodcurdling screams. My heart seizes as fear slices through me.
Hurry, I must hurry.
I funnel energy into the water basin, sifting sightlessly for signs of life seeping out from the victim’s bloodied sleeve. The hum of pestis turns my magic dark purple.
My hands shake as more screams pierce the walls of the apothecary. I slam my eyes shut, breathing deeply. Concentrate.
One chance to inject this into the curative. No room for rushing and ruining.
I open my left hand and summon the spell. The layered sphere hovers, pulsing with glowing light. I spread my fingers, expanding the stacked spell. My other hand draws out a needle of pestis.
Steady, steady. This has to pierce five layers before I can release.
The first layer is as tough as cowhide, and my nape pearls with sweat. My fingers must stay perfectly steady. The second layer. A rush of water trying to push the needle wayward. I double down on my grip and plunge into the third layer, hot and burning up through the magical thread. My gloves bear the brunt of the heat. The fourth layer. Ice. My needle chips through it, rhythmic pulsing attempting to shake my fingers.
Breathe in, breathe out.
My jaw clenches, teeth chattering with effort.
There. Release!
Dark purple magic floods into the retaining layer, and I sweep my hands around the stacked spell, pushing it into a small ball.
The barrier shimmers as I near it. With a determined yell, I force the spell against the archway. The impact throws me back several steps.
I regain my balance and brace through it, hands held up, keeping my spell in place. Layer by layer, the barrier absorbs my spell. Bright colours beam from the archway, dark, to light, to dazzling as a hole pierces through it. And the barrier shrinks.
My arms and legs sag from the effort, but I pull myself upright. No mages at the gala. Need to get there.
I scoop up the mask I worked on during the night and leave my green sash coiled on the floor. Downstairs, through the apothecary, and into the rancid miasma of death outside.
The sky above the queen’s residence is a fireworks display. Magical shields smash against screeching wyverns, shattering them into water. The water reassembles as it falls, and they attack viciously again.
I grip the pouch at my belt with a shaky hand and skid down grass to the canal. A service rowboat bobs, butting up against—
My stomach turns.
I dash into the frigid water and grab the small female body, dragging her to the bank. I heave her onto her back and baulk. The pink bow at the side of her head. The young akla from King’s Island. I check her pulse. Can’t find it. Her body isn’t shredded on the inside. Wyvern poison. But it shouldn’t have worked this fast. How?
I thrum magic into her chest, hard slams to her heart.
She doesn’t wake.
This young lady, following the same tragic fate as her brother. I close her eyes and glance up from her body. My insides plummet. Half a dozen more drift lifelessly down the canal.
Wet and dripping and frightened, I leap into the boat and check them—
Dead, dead, dead.
A whisper of life. Another whisper.
I stumble out of the boat with a splash and heave two aklos onto the queen’s side of the canal. The clashing of shields and wyverns is louder here; the scent of metallic magics and blood punches into my nose. Colours flash in the sky above.