Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
She keeps her chin high. “We’d better not fail then.”
Lykos’s large frame tenses, as if he’s holding himself back from whisking her away to safety. Megaera catches this, laughs lightly, and steps close to him. With a wicked smile, she leans in and brushes a kiss over his lips.
Kjartan’s voice cuts through the chill, a sharp command to move along. The carriages rattle closer, their wheels groaning on the uneven road as we leave Lykos and Zenon behind.
“For the duration of our stay,” Kjartan says, stepping ahead, “the king orders us to wear these masks.”
I’d been hoping to continue wearing my veil. I touch the soft feathered mask and am grateful to see Megaera holding hers against her face. It doesn’t cover the mouth but the feathers fan down one side of her jaw and the rest of the mask around her eyes does enough to conceal her nose. She’s difficult to recognise.
Captain Kjartan ties a feathered mask to his own face. “The king doesn’t want the allure to draw unwanted attention. And these are feathers from—”
I recognise them and understand. “From a Celestial Seraph,” I murmur. “The divine bird of the healing goddess.”
I’m only just used to the ticklish feel of the mask by the time our carriages clatter into Hinsard. Around us, soaked in the midday sun, the lavish city sprawls—the constabulary teeming with uniformed men; Prince Nicostratus’s glorious manor; the river that winds to Thinking Hall . . .
The familiar sights of Hinsard rush past, each landmark pulling at threads—the loss of magic, unravelling a murder mystery, the sting of Nicostratus’s heartbreak, the wild rhythm of my own heart.
Finding my soldad inside the giant violet oak.
The realisation it had been Quin all along . . .
The carriage halts.
We disembark and with stiff cordiality a dozen decorated redcloaks pass on a welcome message: the regent has agreed to King Yngvarr’s request, allowing us to take part in the Medicus Contest. Rooms are being readied for us close to the event, but first we are to formally sign in to the competition.
Throngs of people are gathered in the square on three sides, facing the city’s grand luminarium, cheering for teams of four and five as they ink their names into a book set atop a mosaic-covered stand.
A flash of a peacock robe ahead stops me short. My heart stumbles. I push forward, trying to coax the envoy to a quicker pace, but the stormblades close ranks with a sharp glare. The figures vanish into the crowd, leaving only murmurs rising like smoke around us.
Megaera’s lips set in a tight line; I urge her to ignore it and steer her through our parting stormblades as they flank a path to the book of registration.
Behind the podium, unseen from my earlier limited angles, is a man in deep violet robes. I almost trip over my feet. Skriniaris Evander! He’s here. He’s in Hinsard. He’s involved somehow in this. Perhaps, like in my first examinations, he’s one of the judges.
He looks over at us with a warm, welcoming smile. And I’m so grateful for it. When everything else feels daunting and everyone else is against me, his unjudgmental approval lifts my spirits. He takes Megaera and me in with a small bow, and hands us the crude ink set aside for non-linea. He smiles again, but I can see he hasn’t recognised me. Doesn’t even suspect.
That’s good. I need that to be the case.
But . . .
I wish I could talk to him again. Ask him for advice; have an ally on my side.
As I scrawl our names into the book, I hear the sneers and whispered insults coming from the crowd pressing around us.
I straighten my back against it. It’s not my pride on the line—it’s Quin’s life. “Thank you,” I say, handing back the quill. “Would you be kind enough to tell me if we’re able to access the libraries?”
“I’ll look into that for you.” Skriniaris Evander glances between us. “Are you sure you don’t have another member to join your team? Most teams have four. I’m afraid you’ll be at a disadvantage with only two.”
“We’re the only ones under the age limit. Unless we’re allowed to recruit a Lumin?”
“That wouldn’t violate the new decree,” he says. “‘Teams of two to five under twenty-five, regardless of background or blood’.” He pauses, his gaze steady. “But finding someone willing to join a Skeldar team . . . that’s another matter.”
He’s straightforward about this, and I approve. Most in Lumin are against our participation, wary of our being in their land and even involved in their contest. And of those that do not harbour fears or resentment, most will at least believe us sadly disadvantaged. Who would be willing to join a team that will surely suffer humiliating defeat in the first trial?