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)
The judge pales.
“Are you sure one must always pay for his wrongs?” Quin asks, silkily soft.
The judge stammers. “I . . . that is . . . Who would dare—”
Quin hauls him close, so close the judge must see the face in the shadows of that hood.
The judge gasps. “Your m—”
“Do you admit your wrong?”
“I admit my wrong! I admit my wrong!”
Quin lets the judge go, and he sprawls over the ground. “I can turn a blind eye to this, if . . .”
The judge scrambles onto his knees, whirling round urgently and ordering his aklo to release the boy. The crowds disperse as the judge slinks away, and regular marketing soon resumes. I help the shaking boy to his feet and hand him the package of verdeflora, which he hugs tightly to his chest as he bows over and over.
I put out a hand to stop him. “What’s your name?”
“I . . . Aklo.”
I shake my head kindly. “If you have another name, you can tell us.”
“Mama calls me Niki.”
Quin calls out for Niki to be helped home.
The scarred aklo emerges from the shadows, and I startle. “How—”
“He knows to find me here if I don’t return to King’s Island.”
Right. Of course the king would have such contingencies in place.
At Quin’s request, the boy tells him where he lives and starts off with Aklo. We’re to follow shortly.
I palm the back of my clammy neck. “You should probably vacate this seller’s stall.”
Quin pushes off with his good foot, and suddenly I’m in his arms and we’re rising in the air and through the academy window. He drops me and I catch myself on my feet as he falls gracefully into an elegant armchair.
He sits quietly, his hood pulled back to reveal the strict, smooth lines of his face. His eyes seem especially dark, but not cold and determined as they’d been in the queen’s courtyard; dark and warm, with a strange intensity. As if he finds the world amazing and wants to study every inch of it.
My pulse still hasn’t recovered from the altercation with the judge; it skips madly in my veins. I release a shivery breath towards the view of the market. “With how often you go gallivanting, I’m surprised that’s the first time you’ve been recognised.”
“I’ve not released any public portraits. Nor is my injury known outside of the royal city. He is the capital’s high judge. I’ve had dealings with him.” He pauses. “You’re versed in Goffridus.”
“Only the basics. I was reading his views on health of the mind, body and soul.”
“Cael?”
It takes me a few beats to look at him.
“Come closer.”
I hesitate and cross the few feet between us.
“Kneel.”
The floor is cold under my knees but Quin is a solid block of warmth before me, very close.
My head is tipped up, his tipped down to study my face. There’s the gentlest amazement in his expression. He produces a pouch, one I recognise: he bought it from the jewellery stall. From it, he draws out a beautifully carved clasp. Silver, and formed in the shape of an aether petal—just like in the pictures of Saint Kyrillos, the only person in the history of our kingdom to have reached the seventh level. He used the aether petal to save the life of his beloved.
I stare at the delicate grooves in the silver. An imitation of the saint’s clasp. Surely, it couldn’t be . . .
I’m robbed of voice.
Quin reaches for the fraying knot of my cloak, his fingers brushing my throat as he undoes it. Carefully, he arranges the cloak over my shoulders and attaches the clasp. Again, his skin whispers over mine, and our gazes hook. My breath falters at this softness, and as if realising he’s let his mask slip, he pulls back decisively. “It was annoying me.”
Tension whooshes out of me, and I hear myself chuckle. “Maybe my boots can annoy you next.”
Quin flicks my forehead away from him and I scramble to my feet. “Order up black cumin, milk thistle, and mint tea. Let’s help this boy’s mother.”
Quin is quiet and reflective at my side as we follow the boy’s directions to the outskirts of the city. As the wealth of the inner capital fades, the solemn lines on his face deepen. Wind rattles through huts slapped together from wood and straw, and hacking coughs come through thin walls. Threadbare clothes are pegged to sagging, criss-crossing lines, and groups of thinly clad children kick at a clump of dead grass in place of a ball.
We spot Quin’s scarred aklo outside a small hut, whittling a stick of wood. Behind them, an elderly, hunch-backed man tends a pot boiling over a fire of sticks. A rich nutty scent hits the back of my nose; I steer myself to the pot and crouch beside the man.