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)
He snags it, barely, his arm stretched over the edge and his fingers just curled around the hem. The material protests, tears, and Chaos’s limp body drops a foot further over the cliff. “No!” Quin cries angrily. “I don’t allow it.”
His face strains as he reaches with his other hand and snags Chaos’s arm. The weight and his own precarious position drag Quin forward and the ground shudders again, a smaller quake, but enough to have them both falling another foot. Quin’s whole chest is over the edge now, only his hips and legs—one always in pain—to keep them tethered to the earth. His good leg has hooked around a solid protruding rock; he uses that as leverage as he heaves.
I shout at him to drop me and save himself, grab him and try to pull him to safety, but the memory carries on and I sob as Quin struggles.
As he is pelted by falling stones.
As he cries out in pain.
As his exhausted body weakens.
As he refuses to let go.
He digs his fingers into Chaos’s arm, the muscles in his own bulging against his shirt. His jaw is clenched tight and pearls of sweat dribble down his temple, the fragile rock threatening to crumble under him at each small shift.
He doesn’t give up. First in small arcs that grow into bigger ones—rocking them ever closer to the edge, loosening the rock under him more and more—he swings Chaos until he has enough height and then he unhooks his leg from the one rock holding him . . .
Quin flings Chaos onto the path, thrusting himself around with the force until he’s sitting with his back to the deathly drop—his back almost over the deathly drop. My breath is stuck in my throat and doesn’t release until he’s moving forward, away from the crumbling edge.
He cries out as his leg gives him grief, but he grits his teeth and drags himself to Chaos’s side. A trembling palm pushes blonde locks aside and cups Chaos’s cheek—and lightly claps against him. “Caelus!”
He presses his ear urgently to Chaos’s chest. A shuddering breath leaves him and he grinds their foreheads together. “Wake. You must wake.”
Quin sits up and whistles for his horse. Using the rocky wall, he staggers to his feet, dragging Chaos with him. Using all his strength, balancing on his good leg, he slings Chaos over the horse’s shoulders and swings up behind him.
The path down is broken and perilous, covered in loose rock; they don’t get far before a massive slip bars the way entirely. Quin’s sigh is long and heavy. “We’ll have to go over the mountain.”
He turns and carefully steers his horse up the winding path, one hour, two, more . . . until the clear sky is turning peach, making the clouds below glitter with deep pinks. “We’ll have to camp soon,” Quin murmurs. “It should be around here somewhere.”
‘It’ turns out to be an abandoned luminarium, one of the small ones often found in remote places like this, so travellers can stop along their journey to pay respect to the Arcane Sovereign. Quin carries me inside and lies me next to the curving muraled wall, away from the hole in the domed roof that looks up to deepening purple skies—and the cold that comes with them.
I move about the space, trailing my hand over every intricately recalled detail. It’s not much bigger than my childhood bedchamber, perhaps six travellers could squeeze in here at one time. Fewer, if there ever had been a violet oak here. Now under the open centre of the dome there’s a pit where someone before us made a fire.
I glance at Quin, who has found an old luminist robe and rolled it to make a pillow under my head. He looks over, and for a second his eyes spark; I think he can see me, but then I see he’s looking at the firepit.
Twenty minutes later, he’s scrabbled together enough wood to make a crackling fire and unearthed some jars of liquor buried outside.
He’s sniffing the contents of one of these jars when Chaos stirs. Immediately, Quin freezes and I catch the suspended rise and fall of his chest. He’s holding his breath. He doesn’t turn around but I can feel how aware he is of every subtle move Chaos makes, each stirring sound.
At Chaos’s croaky voice, Quin slams his eyes shut and releases his breath.
“Where . . .” Chaos is blinking, taking in the murals, turning his head to the fire and the figure crouched before it. “Maskios? What happened?”
“You were knocked out. The path was blocked; we had to ride into the mountains.”
“We’re in the mountains?”
“I thought we could take the trail down the other side. But now that we have to camp, we may as well leave the way we came. Once my meridians reopen tomorrow, I’ll clear the road.”