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)
He prods the fire. “I’ve seen you outside the gates of the scholar prefecture. My grandson wants to follow in your footsteps.”
Quin’s gaze cuts to us and then to the fire before he turns back to Aklo and Niki.
“I hope you are not an exception.” Tired eyes that have seen too much untimely death meet mine. “So many are willing to save lives—have the potential—and are yet unable. To be frank, we need to place greater importance on healers than on vitalians.”
“Vitalian spells are superior. If more par-linea could—”
A dismissive laugh. “We can’t rely on magic. I’ve prepared the verdeflora.”
My stomach tightens. I frown and quietly take the tea he’s prepared, scalding my tongue on a large gulp.
It’s damp and mouldy in the hut Niki and his mother share; the blankets covering her are coated in a film of moisture. Quin takes one look around and excuses himself, voice raspy. It takes me an hour but when I’m finally done, the mother’s condition has significantly improved.
“Air the house every day and hang the blankets outside,” I murmur. “Spend an hour each morning out in the sunshine.”
Niki throws himself onto the bed and hugs her tightly through doting kisses to his forehead.
When I leave the hut, the elderly man is still at the fire. “How did you know to drink black cumin and milk thistle before seeing her?”
He recognised the spell I used. “I noticed the yellowing around Niki’s eyes and suspected his mother would suffer similar malnutrition. The black cumin will help with that and the milk thistle will help the verdeflora heal her liver.”
He hums. “You knew we wouldn’t have any here.”
I look down.
Quin comes closer. “I’ll have seeds delivered to everyone in the neighbourhood.”
The hunched man glances at him, then back to the fire.
Gently, I palm Quin’s shoulder. “We should go.”
Frustrated, distraught eyes fly to mine. Quin’s jaw hardens stubbornly against the urge to speak. He snaps his cane, pivoting away. I sigh.
He keeps a harried pace, but he senses my approach.
“Why?” he barks.
“No one dares to hope anymore.”
“I thought it was the last thing to go.”
“It is.”
He looks away from me and dark shadows swallow his face. We’re quiet on our way to the canal. Once he’s seated in a rowboat, he orders his aklo away with instructions to deliver my grandfather’s books to my bedchamber, and prepare the tunnel.
“The tunnel?”
“You’ll see. Let’s go.”
Once more, my body becomes Quin’s crutch as we haul ourselves up the bank to Petros’s residence. He feels heavier today, as if the weight of the kingdom rests painfully on shoulders not quite big enough.
A dozen aklos and aklas are busy offloading luggage from carts when we pass through the iron gates. The drunken porter from the evening before spots us and hurries over.
“Has he arrived?” Quin asks.
The porter shakes his head. “The servants came ahead to get the house in order. The master’s an hour behind.”
“By which route?”
“The main roads are washed out. They’re coming via the badlands.”
Quin shifts subtly. He’s thinking, making quick plans. “Get us the cloaks you took from the soldiers and lend us a horse. One will do.”
“One?” I ask when the porter races off. Quin nods. He pulls a small dagger from inside his cloak, unsheathes it, and despite my sudden cry, slashes the back of his forearm.
“Our next act,” he says, clasping his other hand over the cut and smearing the blood over his bad leg. “I got hit in an attack. You were lucky, but lost your horse.”
Almost automatically, my hands vibrate with magic and the need to heal him.
Quin’s gaze flickers to me and away again. “It’s nothing but a scratch.”
“But you—you’re . . . I should’ve—”
“You’re not allowed to get hurt,” he says.
“Even if it’s just a scratch?”
“That’s an order.”
I grit my teeth. “I have an order, too. You won’t do this again.”
Quin’s eyes return to mine. “That’s not your call to make.”
“I’ll make it anyway.” I stare back, unflinching.
His lips twitch—a shadow of a smile. “Careful, Cael. You’re sounding awfully protective.”
My cheeks burn. “I’m a healer!”
Quin stares at me for a long-drawn moment before he hands me one of the passes I took from the redcloaks the day before. “Show this if you’re asked,” he says quietly. “No magic. Your talent will make him suspicious.”
We wrap red cloaks over our own, mount one of the less travel-worn horses, and ride.
The uneven road is flanked by giant sandstone rocks. Our horse’s hooves clomp and clatter over loose stone, crushing the prickly flowers growing in the cracks and kicking up dust as we go. A good stretch ahead, a simple carriage is making grooves through the rubble, moving slow, almost as if procrastinating. Perhaps its occupant suspects nothing good awaits him at home. We slow momentarily; the curtain twitches, the occupant peeking from the window. Quin digs his heels in again as the driver registers our uniforms. With a wince of pain detectable only by me snug behind him, he raises a hand, and the horses pull to a stop.