Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
This has dozens of scholars on their feet chiming for the ‘good of the people’. “No magic, no healing.”
The gaunt man on stage calms the crowds, gesturing them to sit. “We have a consensus. The common class has its place in society, and that place is not within Thinking Halls. To educate the masses is to dilute the sanctity of magic, weakening it and thus us as a kingdom. We must, therefore, protect it at all costs and strictly deny commoner access to education, and refuse healers from other countries trying to take part in our Medicus Contest.”
The words ring through the hall with stomach-dropping finality. The applause is deafening and each clap feels like a punch. My stomach aches, along with my throat. I feel smaller in the vast hall than when I first entered. Even the air has grown colder around me.
A part of me wants to slink out and take this ball of unworthiness with me, but another part is screaming.
It’s not only me they’re talking about.
They’re judging the vast majority of the population. They are accusing people of heinous crimes that have no base in fact, only fear. They’re attacking those who have no voice to stand up for themselves.
My jaw clenches and I stand, each breath tight, fighting against the invisible chains they’ve been forging around me with their preconceived notions of par and non-linea capabilities.
“Education is air that is meant for all to breathe, not only those deemed worthy by your biased judgments.”
There’s a collective swish as scholars turn and stare.
The gaunt man on stage smiles sickly. “And who are you?”
I ball my hands at my sides, and the southerner beside me rises too. “We are those with dissenting opinions.”
“Do you have magic? Do you have a right to be here?”
I step forward. “I have every right to be here. Even if I don’t have magic.”
The crowd gasps, and a few shout that we’ve insinuated ourselves into this sacred hall and should be cast out immediately before we taint it.
The Skeldar snarls and declares our kingdom its own worst enemy. “. . . kill more of yourselves than any unrest at your borders.”
He strides past me to leave, and when I take another step to fight against the crowd, comes back and drags me along with him. “Don’t waste your breath.”
But I do. I yell back, “You’re all afraid. You’re afraid you aren’t good enough. Afraid there will be others that surpass you with less.”
The words feel like Quin’s, sharp edged and unyielding. But they feel good in my mouth. Because it’s the truth.
The hall erupts into outraged shouts.
The Skeldar continues to haul me alongside him.
We leave the hall with warning shouts at our backs: not to think we can be healers; that we’ll only cause death if we try. “Sooner or later you’ll see.”
My stomach roils, and I glance at the Skeldar’s hold. The sun is strong outside, shining on red and golden trees along the canal and glinting brightly off the shock of blonde before me. “They’ll be the ones who should wait and see,” the Skeldar says. And, without another word let alone explanation, he lets go and leaves.
I leave too, an ickiness to my step. Born inferior? Should accept our place?
I rub my temples and make my way down stone steps to the canal. Nestled between bobbing boats sits Quin’s borrowed dinghy. The bright sun from before is blocked by the stone wall casting a cool shadow over half of the water, and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust to both the shadows and the glare.
I step into the boat and it bobs sharply, pushing water around the other boats. A flash of fluttering fabric catches my eye a few vessels down. I look over to wood and spilled blood, and a crumpled figure lying face down in the boat.
I leap from dinghy to dinghy to get to him, pulse racing. The man is moaning and blood seeps from his skull. I throw my hands on impulse—nothing but air wakes over my hands, and the drop in my stomach feels like losing my magic all over again.
I choke back a curse, ripping at my cloak and pressing the fabric against the man’s wound to staunch the bleeding. “Hold on, hold on,” I say, mind racing how to treat him.
Quin’s words from days before echo faintly in the back of my mind: “You can save without magic.” But he’s wrong. I can’t. I’m not enough anymore.
Get him to Thinking Hall. To the vitalians.
But moving him, even lifting my hand off his head, will kill him.
I yell out for help, my voice deep and urgent, but no one responds. A gash this deep, bleeding out this fast— “Hold on, hold on,” I demand.
But I’m trembling now. I’m stuck here. Useless. No equipment, no one to help.