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)
Those children might have less than ten.
Stalls shift in the distance.
I haul Florentius onto my back, fight aching muscles, and drag him to the palace.
Crowds of masked aklos and aklas are gathered in a room filled with delicate table settings, tea cups and pots and plates. Most hover at the back, but some braver ones dare to watch the battle from the windows. Mothers are crying in relief, embracing their rescued sons and daughters.
I drag Florentius to the middle of a richly patterned carpet.
One mother’s relief turns to a frightened cry. “She’s not opening her eyes.”
“They’ve been poisoned,” I say, peeling off the top layer of my mask.
“Where are the mages?” she cries.
I stare at Florentius. “He and I are it.”
Another mother screams; she rushes forward with a small boy in her arms.
The rest are soon carried forward too.
Veronica checks their pulses. “Weak, but steady.”
I slam my eyes shut. This layer of my mask is capsulised angelica root and carefully prepared mustiva. Supposed to save a dozen. But the potency of this poison . . .
I can treat two, or . . .
I manipulate the layer back to its spiritual form, absorbing the herbs, stacking them into the antidote. I hover my palm over Florentius’s chest—
“My baby’s only seven years old. Please, you must help her.”
“Treat the young ones first. You must. You must.” Pleading cries become cries of outrage as magic seeps through my palms, aimed at Florentius—
An aklo tackles me from the side, pinning me to the floor, eyes alight with anger and injustice. “That man is a vitalian. He would do anything to save others. He’d want you to save those children.”
I struggle against his determined weight.
“Help the children first.”
“I can’t,” I say quietly. “I only have enough medicine for two children, or him.”
He stiffens. “Only two?”
Veronica grabs the back of the aklo’s robe and drags him off me. I haul in air, coughing, and scramble back to Florentius’s side. He hasn’t depleted himself of the antidote. “Saving him will give all your children a fighting chance.”
I force the spell into him, thick and fast. My body screams with the effort, shaking, sweating. Must be done.
I slap his face, and his eyes ping open.
I cry as I haul him into a hug. Then I thrust him back. “Five need antidotes. I’m depleted.”
He blinks, momentarily disorientated, then catches sight of the children and their distraught mothers. He spins into elegant action.
I pace a wall of teapots, cups, and saucers. If there are any more . . . I dare a glance outside. The tea room looks out onto a raging battle; I grip the ledge, scouring for Quin and his cane—there, near the fountain.
I squint.
The man clutching the cane wears a wooden mask. His shoulders are broad, but his magic shield doesn’t have the right aura . . . A decoy.
Bait.
Two figures, back-to-back, dominate the centre of the fighting. One has his hood drawn up as he slashes a magic whip through two wyverns with perfectly timed grace. The other favours one leg, gusts swirling around him to keep him balanced. His mask is river-pearl, the mask I gave him.
Synchronously, the brothers leap into the air, shocks of gold and purple magic all around them. Wings explode into rain.
A shield stutters, the protective umbrella crumpling. Wyvern water sprays over half the redcloak formation below.
My stomach balls tightly as men race their comrades toward the palace.
“We’ve got a half-dozen poisoned coming!” I call to Florentius as Veronica flies to the doors and protects the men on their way inside.
Florentius grunts. “I’ve only enough for the children.”
I slam my eyes shut. Think. Think!
Teacups rattle at a thunderous explosion outside. I snap my gaze to the cups, the pots, the jars of tea . . .
I yank open corked jars and sniff, one after the other. Come on, come on. It has to be here. Veronica always kept some—
Thornwort!
I whimper relief into the jar and ground particles fly into my mouth. The bitterness is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. I race to Florentius.
He cringes at the raw taste but chews, swallows. “Thornwort?”
“It’ll give us time, delay the poison for a few hours.”
“Needling?”
“Yes.”
“That technique is ancient.”
“That technique is all we have right now.”
The infected sag against the wall in a line.
Aklos and aklas murmur, fear in their voices. “So few fighting.”
“What if they fail?”
“Those wyverns will get in.”
“Why can’t the king stop them?”
“Maybe he’s not royal blood at all.”
“He’ll be the death of us all.”
Each murmur twists my stomach. I whirl towards them, squeezing the jar of thornwort. “Quiet.”
They jerk their heads up.
“The king is out there,” I jerk a finger towards the courtyards, “risking his life to protect you.”
Veronica glances at me, surprised by my outburst. She crosses the room, about to speak when a young child comes running in; harried aklas chase after him, calling him back.