Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
“Are you calling me one of the best?”
A scoff.
“You’ve learned from your father your whole life,” I say as he casts his frown towards the row of small buildings where the final exam will take place. “I want a chance to learn from him.”
We’re each assigned a room, and given the rules: the patient’s spelled ailment is a genuine threat to life, and the red vial is a default cure and a last resort. If I use it to cure or to copy, I’ll be disqualified.
As the gold door opens, I brace myself. The stakes are high.
I set a pot of water to boil and prepare various teas, hoping to cover all possible ailments. My patient enters, and—
Tea sprays out of my mouth in an impressive arc over the room. “What are you doing here?”
The mist of tea dissipates and Quin stamps his cane across the space through gloomy shadows. His boots are cut from cloth of gold, and the same garnet cloak that cushioned us on the rooftops is draped over his shoulders. Undeniably aristocratic at a glance. No commoner actor-patient as for the first examinations.
He slows to a stop before me and stares down his nose. “You’ve become an official mage. You’ve proven yourself. Now quit.”
“Excuse me?”
His lips part, but before he can reply, his face contorts, eyes slamming shut. He doubles over with a gasp of pain, clutching his right side. He hisses against it.
I steer him into a seat. “This is an examination—the spell you took to weasel your way in here is causing real symptoms. What did you do with my original patient?”
“Bribe,” he says through clenched teeth.
I drop to my knees and take his pulse, sliding fingers under his sleeve, feeling the ripple of muscle in his very cold arm. His pulse is slowing, growing sludgy like . . . like he’s been submerged in ice. His liver is damaged, blood vessels burst. The spell he consumed is mimicking a stab wound, leaking a poison that’s freezing him.
A wound like that from an icicle dagger. Not any icicle dagger, one with spores from the breaths of frost-bats, a rare breed living only in the Chrysargos mountains. The pain must be incredible. I snap, “Why did you take his place?”
He unclenches his eyes and hooks my gaze, teeth gritted. “Quit.”
I yank off his boot and trigger the acupoints to help against the pain. “Do you have your flutette?”
His eyes snap to mine and hold, and then he steers his gaze away and grunts, “Why would I always carry it on me?”
I shake my head.
He shifts, and the scent of his pain overpowers my frustration. I take his pulse again.
I’ve only read about icicle dagger poisoning, and only in ancient texts. It’s an ailment that hasn’t infected anyone for centuries. If only my Poison Halting Miracle could target poisons based on animal spores. I squint into my memories, seeing the heavy book in my hands, the ragged paper and worn ink . . .
Alas. This needs the excretion of snowy silkworms. Which are also extinct.
What herbs could mimic their effect?
Quin’s heart rate drops again. I quickly skate my fingers off him.
First mend the wound. The spores may be deadly, but they take much longer to infuse into the blood—they simply aren’t a priority.
“Don’t cure me yourself.”
I ignore him, call a stitching spell, and surge it into his wounded side. He throws his head back with a sharp hiss. His laboured breathing evens out and he pulls himself stubbornly upright, fighting the cold seeping deep into his bones. Blue lips move as I call a warming spell to my fingertips. “Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too dangerous in the palace.”
“Turned into my mother, have you?”
“Listen to her.”
I urge my spell towards him and he blocks it with a shift of his fingers. I glare at him, and try once more. He glares back at me as he blocks it again.
“You said I have no chance.”
“Of course you have a chance.”
“Then why did you—”
“You’re competitive.” He thwarts another of my attempts. “You’re bent on annoying me. Proving me wrong.”
“Then let me prove you wrong!”
“Can’t. Not now I know who you . . .” He rips his narrowed gaze away.
I take a calming breath. He’s one of the few in the royal city who is on Prince Nicostratus’s side. He’s concerned.
“Isn’t it better I get into the palace, where his uncle can see his every move, than risk him sneaking out to me and causing suspicion?”
His jaw clenches, his words slowing as the cold in him deepens. “If anyone finds out . . . Even if they think you’re just friends . . . You are an enemy.”
“How threatening can a par-linea be?” I sneak-attack him with a spell, but even half-frozen he’s too quick, reflecting it back my way. I duck and it blasts into the shelf, shattering a dozen jars.