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 is this?” The freckled cheeks of a man in his thirties appear from behind the curtain. He freezes for a moment but quickly gathers his wits; he sends his driver out of earshot before he turns back to us. “Who sent you?”
Quin speaks, “We were sent on a mission, but we’ve been hunted since we left the palace.”
“Why come to me?”
“The men who attacked us mentioned you were next.”
He gulps and eyes us, frowning. “Show me your beads.”
I pull mine from my waist and toss them to him for inspection. “Do you know any vitalian magic? This man needs tending.”
We put on a show getting Quin off the horse and hobbling to the wide shelf along the side of the carriage to perch, Quin clutching his bloodied arm.
Petros sucks in a breath, his movements turning frantic. “Hunted?”
Quin delivers a flat stare and Petros’s face drains of colour. “N-no, he wouldn’t,” he stutters, “Not after all I’ve done for him. No.”
“You’re no longer of use,” Quin says, embellishing with a nice hiss of pain between his lips.
I grab my handkerchief to bind the slash on his arm, bitterly ignoring the urge to summon a spell.
Quin grabs the cuff of Petros’s sleeve, pulling him closer. “Do you have anything—documents, letters, proof of his involvement?”
Petros panics. “I burned everything, as he ordered.”
I feel Quin’s disappointment in the sagging of his frame. He turns those feelings into a gasp of pain, clutching his leg this time. “Everything?”
“How do I prove that to him? Who’s involved, their families—” Petros snaps his head up, a flash of relief in his eyes. “They’re only in my head, nowhere else—”
“Then,” Quin says. “You are also evidence.”
“No.” A trembling whisper. “This can’t be. He promised.”
“They attacked us, killed one of our horses, wounded me. They’ll be back to finish the job.”
“W-what do we—”
“We have to run. Hide.”
“Right. Alright, alright.”
“The others involved, their families . . .”
Petros shakes his head, gaze widening in terror.
“We have to warn them,” Quin says.
“T-this—this can’t be happening.”
Quin grips Petros’s shirt and hauls him close. “There’s no time, we have to give them a chance. Come with us.”
“Come with . . . no, no, I don’t know how to fight. If they . . .”
“Then give us a list—turn back and hide. We’ll help the others.”
A shifting shadow catches in the corner of my eye; I whip my head around. The driver? I was sure he’d gone in the other direction.
I push off the carriage and sidle cautiously round to check the craggy rocks bordering this stretch of road.
“Y-yes. Yes,” Petros’s croaky voice carries. “Help the others—”
“Names. Where?”
Where did that driver go? Wait, what’s . . .
A flicker of movement from the rocks facing Petros and Quin. I race around the carriage. Men in red, masked. Two men in red. Bows, with glinting arrows notched, taking aim . . .
“In the south. There are five.”
“Names.”
Fear lances through me, quick and sharp.
They release their arrows; I cry out and magic surges out of me. I force it away and it spirals before the distracted king—
The arrow meant for Quin thunks into a nest of thorny flowers.
But the second arrow whizzes past and spears into Petros’s throat. The sharp crack of it punches the air. Blood splatters the carriage wall, its metallic tang mingling with the dust my inadequate shield stirred up. Quin is grasping Petros as he gurgles and goes limp.
A haunting silence follows. I stumble. My shield flips and booms out, uncontrolled, hurling the arrow it caught towards the redcloaks, who are . . . who are nocking new arrows—
Panic jolts my chest, and I squeeze my fist—
Quin steps forward with a roar, pebbles lifting from the ground at his command and shooting towards the masked men. I stand frozen, caught between fear and awe as Quin’s fury shapes the winds around us and enemy bows fly from hands and smash against the rock. The masked men scramble away, into the shadows.
Madly, Quin returns to clutching Petros’s shoulders. He looks my way, desperation pinching the corners of his eyes, his lips. “Save him.”
The man is gone. No living mage in this world could revive him. I shuffle toward them, trying to calm my rampant pulse. Telling myself that at least the king is safe.
“Save him!”
I drop to my knees, shaking my head.
“You must, you . . .”
“Quin . . .”
“Try! How will I ever—If I don’t— . . . Why are you not trying?”
His passionate plea is so strong, maybe he believes it can bring back the dead.
“He’s gone.”
Quin grips my arms, the blood from his hands seeping into my cloak in a way that makes me realise why the military wear red. I lift my head and look into his pained, frustrated eyes. I say it again. “He’s gone.”
He knows. He doesn’t want to accept.