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)
“You have a responsibility to lead by example. If more crew get sick, even if I have the knowledge and ability to heal them, I may not have enough resources to.”
He processes this with a firm press of his lips, then pulls a kerchief from his cloak.
“You don’t have to come in,” I say.
“You won’t change my mind about that.”
We enter the brig. Hakon is slumped over the table, snoring. As we round the table, the dreaded sight of pus-filled boils meets us.
“Lindrhalda have mercy!”
“I thought you didn’t believe.”
“I do if it’s the only chance of a miracle.”
I take out a square of silk, laying it over Hakon’s wrist. He stirs, then continues snoring as I press my fingers to his pulse—
That doesn’t make sense.
I press deeper. Check again.
The phantom sensation of his skin beneath my fingers grips me now. My breath shortens. The memory hits like a punch to the gut: Vitalian Dimos, prone and bloodied on the canal in Hinsard. I’d checked his pulse too—weak and weakening. I’d wanted save him, but without magic, he’d died under my hands.
I shake off my fear. I must concentrate.
There’s no weakening of this man’s pulse. I frown.
“What is it?”
“His pulse is steady, strong. Fit.” I move the silk to his forehead and press my palm against him. “No sign of fever.”
“What does that mean?”
I search Hakon’s face again. The boils are real, but . . . I spy a small pouch under his cheek, used as a pillow. A wedge of embroidery catches my eye—a beautifully stitched rune, nestled in a patch of strawberries. But there’s a small hole in the fabric . . .
I suck in sharply and pluck the pouch free. Dried, crumbled flowers and rune-carved pebbles spill out of the knotted end.
Hakon lurches upright, dazed. His gaze sharpens on me and the pouch in my hand.
He lunges for it, but Kjartan grabs his arm and yanks it down.
At the sight of his captain, Hakon slams a fist to his heart in respect.
I take the knife from the captain’s belt and drag the tip through the dried flowers.
“It’s a dromveske. The runes inside catch pleasant memories,” Kjartan says. “An Iskaldir tradition—a gift between lovers.”
I sniff the end of the knife. As I thought. Strawberry thistle . . . and another weed. A reaction to this mimics sinister disease.
I laugh bitterly and slide the knife back into the captain’s sheath.
“When did you get this?” I ask Hakon. “Where?”
“My girl. During the farewell a month ago.”
A month ago. “Did anyone else get one?”
Kjartan speaks, “The farewell festival is at the start of the season, before we take to the sea. For those leaving their loved ones on extended journeys. There would’ve been many setting out; most probably got dromveskes.”
“Are they handmade by the giver, or—”
“She bought it for me, at a stall in Portael.”
“How is this relevant?” Kjartan asks.
I pull off my kerchief. “This isn’t the poxies.” I gesture to the spilled flowers. “It’s thistleweed. It looks very similar to strawberry vine. Contact with the skin causes harmless boils.”
Hakon feels his face. “Boils?”
A lookalike symptom.
Like mine, Kjartan’s expression pinches. “How long will it take for the boils to disappear?”
If we had bittertree balm and magic, this could be cured immediately. With neither, I can only grind up some frostbloom in oil. “By tonight.”
The captain curses and slams a hand against the wall.
“At least it’s not the poxies. Send a message and—”
He hauls me away from Hakon into the hall outside the brig and throws me against the wall. “Ignorant fool,” he snarls under his breath. “Why would they believe us?”
“If they gave us time, they’d see for themselves.”
“They won’t give us time.”
“Why not?”
He lowers his voice further. “This may be worse than if it were the poxies.”
I start to protest, but he shuts me up with a scowl.
“If all this resulted from dromveskes, they’ve taken innocent lives for nothing.” Kjartan slams his palm against the wall beside my head. “They’ll cover this up. For the sake of peace.”
“What peace?”
Serious eyes bore into mine. “A mistake of this magnitude? Their authority will be undermined. Those grieving their loved ones are holding themselves together, believing their children’s deaths were meaningful. Sacrifices to protect the people of Iskaldir. But a bad batch of dromveskes? They’ll rise up.”
I swallow hard. I understand. They would rather burn our ship, all ships, until that batch of bad dromveskes disappears. Then they can claim the poxies have been eradicated. Praise to those who sacrificed their lives.
“They’re coming.”
“Worse,” Megaera says, stepping out of the shadows where she must have hidden to listen in. “They’re already here.”
“Don’t tell anyone it’s not what it looks like,” Kjartan warns, sending Megaera off with a flick of his hand. When she’s gone, he leans in close, whispering his plan in my ear. It’s risky, and I know that best, but it’s our only chance.