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)
Quin turns. Shadow and light flicker over his face, his mask failing to cover his desperation. My eyes meet his and he holds them and holds them, then pulls away, continuing through the tunnel.
I gulp in fresh air as we emerge.
A line of aklas pause to bow as they pass us, and at a few of their looks my way, I realise I’m still wearing the red cloak. And that red cloak might match the colour of my face. “Surprisingly hot in there,” I murmur, following as Quin moves towards the house ahead.
I press the backs of my fingers to my flushed cheeks and drop them when Quin turns around. “You should go”—he winces. “Leave that cloak with me.”
I take off the cloak and lay it over a low stone wall, but I can’t go yet. I encourage Quin to sit, leaning the cane next to him, and we play a game for the flutette—I try to get into the humid spaces under his shirt while he tries to bat me away. I win and he eventually gives in and plays, the thick aura of pain around him dulling with each note until it’s faded completely.
Satisfied, I step back and bid him a good evening.
“Wait.” Quin clears his throat. “Your reward.”
“Haven’t I already had it?”
Quin looks softly out towards lushly growing pearl hearts. “I think you’ve earned another one. Again.”
For a moment I’m caught on the view of his profile, serious and sad. “Ah . . . right. I think that deserves some . . . chicken.”
His head swings back. “Chicken?”
“I want to eat roast chicken. I’d like a few of them, to share with the other scholars.”
“You could ask for anything.”
“I’m asking for chicken.”
Quin blinks, baffled. “I’ll . . . have my cooks send some.”
I nod and my gaze sweeps over the pearl hearts.
When I glance back, expecting Quin to be watching me, he’s disappeared.
As I row towards the scholar quarters, a flicker of movement startles me; a hooded figure, leaping from the bank. His hood falls back, and the fright that had lurched wildly in my chest . . . doesn’t completely disappear. “Nicostratus.”
He lands on light feet. “I was worried.”
I speak rapidly. “I had a spontaneous trip into the capital. Quin—Constantinos—the king—will tell you all about it.”
He blinks and inclines his head. “I’m glad you made it back. Officials are headed towards King’s Island now. I was on my way to stall them when I saw you, I had to check . . .”
Despite my assurances, he looks me up and down, gently cataloguing any changes.
“In fact, I need to thank you. Your shield training saved us.”
Relieved, he takes my hand. “Only a fraction of the population can use magic to fight, so you’ll be better off knowing how to use a sword.”
I squeeze his hand and wriggle free from his hold. “I don’t want to harm. It goes against my instinct as a healer.”
“But what if—”
“I can shield now. Or use my own defences.”
Nicostratus looks intrigued.
“Sleeping spells.”
“That works?”
“Well, it won’t if you’re expecting it.”
Nicostratus laughs and leans breath-catchingly close. “Alright, alright. But I’ll teach you how to disarm an opponent at least.”
“Well, you’re very good at disarming me.”
Raindrops fall from the sky and we turn our heads up at the sudden thickening downpour. We hurriedly row under the canopy of a weeping willow.
“Veronica tells me you’re a natural at drakopagon.”
“Reluctantly,” I say. “She used to force me to side with her against her brothers.”
“I was hoping, for me, you’d be our third player? The summer game—the one in the royal belt.”
I raise a brow and he laughs. “You, the queen and me, against the mysterious black knight.”
“Black knight?”
Nicostratus inches forward and whispers, “The king, but keep that quiet. He goes to great lengths not to reveal his identity on the field. I’m not even sure Veronica knows it’s him.” I shake my head in utter disbelief.
“Is it alright you told me?” I whisper back.
“I’ll tell you everything.”
A smile pulls at my lips, but only briefly. “Why doesn’t he play openly?”
“Our uncle always sends one or two of his own men to play, and Constantinos spent the last years pretending to be sick, so . . .”
A drop of rain sneaks through the leaves and falls on my cloak. Nicostratus’s gaze follows it. “New clasp?”
My stomach leaps unexpectedly and I pinch the edge of the engraved silver where the raindrop landed. A high-pitched laugh trips out of me. “Oh this. I got this from . . . from your brother. When we were in the capital. My makeshift solutions were vexing him.”
Surprise flashes across Nicostratus’s face. He leans in to inspect the clasp, the smallest crease forming between his brows. “It’s . . . exquisite.”
“Is it? I haven’t really—” I swallow “—noticed.”
His frown flickers with a deepening shadow, and then voices have us glancing towards a nearing longboat of bored-faced officials.