Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59723 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
“The high duke wants to take back what he thinks should be his.”
“He spent years trying to regain his position, only to have it confirmed time and time again that he’s not fit to be king; he’s short-sighted, stupid.” Skriniaris Evander sighs. “The high duke is after the throne, but I believe more than that, he wants to prove his father and brother wrong. To prove he’s capable. Smart. Worthy of their love.”
I frown, struggling with a swirl of sympathy.
“It doesn’t help that the only friend the duke had, the only one who gave him any sense of love and worth, was killed by crusaders along with his entire family.”
I let out an anguished breath.
“Do you pity him?” Skriniaris Evander asks softly.
I cast my gaze to the pavilions outside.
“Good. That’s good. No one is born bad in this world.”
“But it can’t forgive his ruthless actions. He’s killed many innocent people.”
“Indeed. But it’s also a lesson in the importance of nurturing—of kindness; of compassion.”
I look at Skriniaris Evander. “Why do I feel there’s more to those words?”
“There is. You have a responsibility to help nurture Constantinos into the king he needs to be for the people.”
“I—I’m a struggling scholar!”
“He is a struggling king.”
“He already has plenty of confidence.”
Skriniaris Evander leans in. “He’s a very good actor.”
“Shouldn’t . . . shouldn’t this be something his brother should do? Or his wife?”
“His wife was a political choice, made by his father. His brother, equally, was determined by birth. They will both impact his growth, but you are different. You may have a more profound effect on him than anyone.” He emphasises each word. “He chose you.”
I rock back in my chair; hard wood scrapes along the floor and Taffy jumps off my lap, startled. “I-I think you misunderstand the depth of our relationship.”
Kind eyes crinkle softly at the edges. “I don’t think I do.”
I rearrange grandfather’s books on my back and fluff my cloak for air. It’s been strangely hot since I left the library.
Wrong. Skriniaris Evander is wrong. Quin didn’t choose me—we kept tripping over one another, and have simply learned to live with it.
I shake off the strange conversation and hurry along the cobbled streets of the inner capital. Brazen birds pick at crumbs left on outdoor tables, and a family of mice skitters along the gutter, shooed away by a broom-wielding matron preparing for the lunch crowd.
A young boy of eight or nine rushes past me, grazing my side, his eyes focused ahead, arms cradling a package close to his chest. He zooms around the corner, towards the market. In the distance behind me, heavy, wheezing shouts.
A middle-aged, white-aproned man pauses to puff then bursts once more into a jog.
I’m not keen to interfere without knowing the full story, but I’m able to watch the show since the speedy boy is headed in the same direction. He zigzags through throngs of marketgoers, leaps over a cart of potatoes, and trips over a distinguished-looking man, knocking them both into an ink stand.
People gather in a circle around the pair as they rise from the debris, ink all over them. The stall owner looks on aghast, speechless, as the man orders his aklo to hold the boy while he examines the stains on his elegantly embroidered robe in dismay.
The boy struggles for his freedom, but the aklo is well-practiced and restrains him easily.
I edge into the circle surrounding the scene and halt when I see the man’s face. It’s the judge who sentenced Akilah. The judge who presided so rigidly over the execution that took River’s life. I’ll never forget that face.
“Please, lemme go. Lemme go,” the boy pleads, the package he hugged now dangling from string looped around his finger.
The judge sharpens his gaze on the boy’s dirty face, his patched clothing. “This garment is worth more than a dozen of your lives, runt.”
The boy’s eyes open wide, panic settling into them. “Please, I have to go.”
“You’re not leaving until I’m adequately compensated.”
“I have no—”
“Thief! Hold that boy!” The aproned, now wheezing man barrels through the onlookers into the circle.
“Who are you?” the judge asks sharply.
“I’m from the dispensary two streets back. That boy stole a package of verdeflora.”
“A thief too.” The judge turns to the writhing, crying boy and snatches the package from him, tossing it to the apothecary.
The boy whimpers. “Please. My mama’s sick. She don’t get this—”
“One less beggar.”
My stomach balls into a tight knot. It’s hard to breathe. I recall it all. The judicial courtyard. The desperation. Being at the mercy of this man; the cruel reality that he doesn’t care about fairness.
“Hold on,” the judge says, a tight smile tipping his thin lips. “How could someone like you afford a mage to administer these herbs?” He barks a delighted laugh. “Quite a bit of law-breaking going on today.”