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)
“This isn’t you. You’re full of bark.” I gnash my teeth near his cheek. “Bite.”
I breathe heavily, waiting. He doesn’t respond. I pinch the flutette hard and turn it around, the end part brushing against his lips, the mouthpiece between mine. The first note shudders in the short space between our faces. I close my eyes, letting the melody take shape. A song of dreams, one to keep us tethered when everything feels lost. A tender, fragile thing. The notes drift between Quin and me, curling around us like a shield.
Wake up.
The last note vibrates between my lips and his and lingers.
After a long while staring down at his face, searching for any sign, I tuck the flutette back into his shirt. I take his pulse. It seems stronger. Perhaps it’s my wishful thinking.
I keep my fingers pressed to his wrist, my wrist pressed onto his open palm, and tell him stories to accompany his dreams.
The first night passes without a stir. The second night is no different.
I take strands of his hair and pull hard as I plait in one, two, a dozen thin braids. The jewelled fastenings come out of their pouch and I clip them on. “You owe me stories. So many. I expect you to lose your voice talking. Oh, what kind of stories? Your childhood, what was it like? What mischief did you get up to? Was there light amongst the dark? How was it you ended up wishing for real change for your people? Right from the first time we met, you told me not to care about the law when a life was in the balance. How did you become such an open-minded thinker? Was it your mother’s influence? She’s certainly the rebellious kind.
“Tell me your story?”
He doesn’t stir, and I threaten to tug the jewelled fastenings free. “I’ll make you come undone before me. An unimportant par-linea, and I will not hesitate to disrespect you!”
I want to yank them all free, make him lunge at me and demand I, for once, treat him like the king he is. I want him to snap his teeth at me and threaten to make me pay. I want him to take revenge on my own hair.
Just so long as he wakes.
My fingers pinch on a gold fastening, my rapid pulse echoing in it. Tighter, tighter—
I let go, cursing.
I can’t do it.
The room groans at an onslaught of wind. And it doesn’t taste of Quin at all.
An energised shout outside has my stomach flipping. I hurry out to Bastion and his men joyfully welcoming Gappius, back from Pylaios.
I’m giddy as I move towards them. “Did you find—”
A broad smile crosses Bastion’s face, and Gappius lifts a satchel.
I lunge towards him, arms opening, an elated cry rising up my throat, and Bastion leaps in front of him as my arms close.
He snatches me tightly with a laugh.
I have enough magic for a shield to punch him back a few steps; he laughs harder as I slip free and grab the lifesaving sack. The weight is comforting. I hold it close to my chest and peer inside. Not only ignisleaf and dragonfire moss—he’s smuggled in oldeaf, moonbloom, and aetherleaf too.
I leave them in my dust as I race down the road, through the trees, and across the lively bonfire-lit field to the luminarium. Olyn is a swish of robes as she hurries to meet me and takes in my instructions for preparing the herbs.
I grab some ignisleaf and bite into it before I pass her the sack. Bitter juices run into my mouth and I swallow them down, working swiftly to channel its properties for the critical spell.
These are the people who’ve waited, watching others healed while wondering if their turn would ever come. People who’ve endured the acrid scent of sickness and sweat, unbearable pain, relentless itching, unshakable worry—now, at last, they’re being healed.
I can’t move fast enough. It’s taking so long.
I scald my tongue over and over as I hurry to down the teas Olyn’s prepared. I must heal them.
So I can heal him.
Olyn sags onto the emptying central platform, where the glowing tithiscar should have stood on a pedestal. She was the real protection here.
I channel the spell into the last patient, forcing it hurriedly into the young man’s body. “You are an excellent healer, Olyn.”
She watches the light glowing from me into him. “Sometimes I wish I had spiritual meridians.”
I sigh. I understand. Magic has an edge like nothing else.
“But then, if we relied only on vitalians, most people would succumb to their ailments.”
I suppose, in this case, she’s not wrong.
“I’m happy I’m skilled with needles,” she says. “Maybe more can learn this, as a crude skill.” She looks down at her male disguise. “Would also be great if anyone could be allowed to learn.”