Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
I’m caught by winds before I fall, and then Nicostratus is lifting me to my feet again. “What was that? Are you—” He hisses. His palm is on my forehead. He’ll feel the fever. He’ll know. “How long?” he demands. “How long have you known?”
Another shout. Bastion.
“I’ve got him,” Nicostratus bites out.
A steady female voice trails down the hall. Olyn’s. “It’s day two. Get him to his rooms. I’ll make a broth.”
As I expected, Nicostratus marches me straight to my chamber and paces beside my bed. “The letter,” I ask on a cough. “Can you get it to my father—”
Nicostratus snaps. “That’s all you’re concerned with?”
“It’s more important than one life.”
Magic leaks from him and he grits out, “A redcloak we met in the forest was one of Quin’s. He took the letter with him to the capital.”
I let out a long, relieved sigh, but it quickly turns into a cough.
Nicostratus bows his head. His voice trembles. And this is the real reason I couldn’t tell him I was sick. “The ruins, those farmers, that sneeze. You blocked it for me.”
When I don’t speak, he drops to his knees with a groan.
“I told you,” I say. “I owe you my life, and I would gladly give it for you. I can give you anything.” I meet his eyes. “Except for my heart.”
Silence.
His breath shudders, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. A storm brews in his expression—something raw, unreadable. He blinks hard. His voice breaks. “Give me instructions. I’ll write letters, copy scriptions, decoct them. I’ll do whatever you want.”
“Whatever?” I whisper.
His gaze hits mine with a shimmery, knowing depth. He closes his eyes and breathes in and out, slowly. Then he rises. A last lingering look. His mouth parts like he might say something—but he doesn’t. His cloak whips as he turns and walks away.
Ichalk my dromveske with trembling, fevered fingers, and collapse into swirling depths that bloom into violet as I land with a hard thud before the hollow in the oak. My spirit form shivers, my fingertips flickering—much like they did the last time I was in here. I almost didn’t make it then. How can I hold on tonight, with fevers wracking my bedridden body? With my lungs so tight I had to escape into the dromveske to have the feeling of breathing?
I must hold on.
To help his people.
To see him again.
To tell him . . .
I must.
I press into the hollow of the violet oak, breathing in bark and soil. The rune doors hum, shimmering in the earth. Every shared moment with Quin flickers behind my eyes. Butterflies flutter in my chest and my heart pounds harder, but no matter how I try to nourish my spirit, it continues to flicker.
My eyes flutter from open to shut to open again. The runes swim. Shift. Blur. I crawl toward them, but the world tips sideways. I hit the ground, rolling. The violet leaves waver above me. Flickering. Fading. I shut my eyes. Too long? Then, as if I’m hearing things: Quin’s voice calling down from the treetops, sharp, commanding. “Don’t sleep. Count the leaves.”
One, two, three . . . twelve, thirteen . . . Leaves shiver and my mind plays tricks on me as Quin’s face appears between the branches. “Keep counting.”
Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen—I say the numbers on a weak, disbelieving laugh. What next? Can I make him crouch at my side? Gather me into his arms?
. . . twenty, twenty-one.
Quin looms above me, silver hair catching the moonlight. His jaw—sharp, sculpted, unyielding. His dark eyes lock onto mine. “Stay with me,” he growls.
I reach out for him, but my hands flicker. I cannot feel him. I must say my words, must. This might be the last chance. “Quintus . . .” My voice croaks. “I am so much in—”
“Stop!” Quin barks as he tenderly collects me in his arms. “No.” The word is soft. A plea. Then, harder: “Don’t say it. Not like this.” His arms tighten around me. “You’re only allowed when you’ve recovered. When you’re healthy. Only then will I believe you.”
Quin . . .
“So you must recover.”
The urge to say the words is overwhelming, yet he dares refuse to listen? I murmur, breathing in his familiar woodsy scent, “I have to tell you, in case—”
He shakes me, his carefully guarded mask shattered—frantic, raw. His eyes shine, pleading. His voice grows hard, demanding. “Let the words burn! Let them be the fire you need to get better!”
Quin shifts me, guiding me gently to the base of the violet oak, his hands steady despite the storm in his eyes. He props me carefully against the bark, as if I might crumble.
“Are you really here?” My hand flickers, unsteady, reaching—afraid to touch only air.
Quin moves out of my reach, casting his gaze towards the runes, until I only make out his profile and the lump in his throat as it juts out with a hard swallow. “Am I really here or is this a figment of your imagination?” He looks at me tightly. “Wake up, and you’ll have your answer.”