Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
If you’re so calm, what do we do?
“Cael, here.”
I absently follow Quin’s firm instruction, a teacup dangling from my crooked finger. He takes it from me, sets it down, and searches my frowning face.
He extends his arm.
I blink down, and—
I drop to my knees with a guilty gasp. There’s a long cut on his palm. I touch the skin beside it softly. No matter how little magic flows through my meridians, I should’ve healed this right away. Instead, he’s put up with the sting of exposed nerves for hours.
I pull magic to the tip of my finger, barely visible, the slightest glow, and begin a slow trace over the long gash.
“Stop.”
I pause over split skin and the warm throbbing of his palm under my finger. “I have to—”
“I’m fine,” he says softly. He shifts his hand slightly, and my fingers twitch. So he . . . had been trying to distract me.
He lifts his injured hand and tips up my chin. He holds my gaze firmly, but his words are careful, teacherly. “If you panic, what will they do?”
They. Voices are trailing into the office as the townspeople gather. Sundown.
Shouts. Pleading. The air is thickening with fear and uncertainty and a need for someone to hear them.
My heart pounds. “I’m a single healer. A par-linea with a broken inner scale and an unorthodox foundation. There are dozens sick, more every hour. The herbs needed to cure them are all gone. How can I—”
Quin pulls me in by the robe and I lurch forward. His eyes meet mine squarely as he tugs at my belt and lifts my soldad. It dangles from his pinched fingers between us. “You’ve come this far. None of the journey was easy. What makes you think the rest will be?”
The crowds outside swell with a cry that echoes in my chest.
Quin presses the cool wooden badge into my hand and curls my fingers around it with quiet faith. “I have promises to make.”
I squeeze the soldad. “What can you promise?”
“Whatever keeps them hopeful.”
“An act, then.”
“It’s what I’m good at.”
Clutching his cane, he rises from the chair and snaps his way through the office to the speaker’s ledge. I drift to the shadows by the double doors, open to the view of his cloaked back. His knuckles are white where they clutch the head of his cane. His only nervous tell. The rest of him is all confidence—the strong set of his shoulders, the glorious flicker of his cloak in a breeze. He commands attention.
The noise below dampens to whispers.
Quin unclasps his cloak with deliberate slowness that has the crowd holding their breath. The heavy fabric falls away, revealing the embroidered riverpearl wyvern gleaming on his tunic. Only the king and his heir may wear it.
Gasps leap from the crowd and I feel the air shift sharply. My heart lurches with it. He’s unmasking himself. Offering himself as a shield for his people.
The redcloaks will learn he’s here.
Skirts and cloaks swish as the troubled townspeople bow.
Quin calls, “I hear your cries. This outbreak brings much confusion and fear. We need to stand together, show our resilience, our patience, our kindness. Become united in helping one another, to protect your town, your families, and your neighbours.
“Maps have been posted in the town square to show where this disease has infiltrated your water and food supplies. Anyone who has consumed water or food from these areas in the last three days, please go to the luminarium. We have a vitalian and healers who will work hard to treat you. If you have any medicinal herbs left in your homes, please bring them to us here. Wait your turn with tolerance. Anyone abusing our healers will find themselves among the last to receive treatment.
“I can’t promise everyone will make it through this. But as your king, I can promise to be with you until the end. I will eat only after all of you have eaten. I will listen to your cries and will answer them. I will wait until you have all received treatment before receiving my own.” He raises his slashed hand as proof and the crowd gasps. “Trust in me, and I will help return your freedom.”
A strangled silence, and then a single cheer that starts a chorus. Hope rises with their voices.
Something is digging into my hand. I glance down to find I’m gripping my clasp so hard the edges are cutting through my gloves.
Quin makes his way back inside while I stare gape-mouthed at him from the shadows. He pauses, keeping his eyes ahead. “It’s your turn.”
To keep the people calm.
To act.
I’m thrown back to that island. There, too, the people were trapped with no medicinal herbs. There, too, a single vitalian had to help the sick and dying, and the people needed help assuaging their fears.