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)
“Then I . . . I shall be going,” I say. Tell me what you’re thinking.
“Wait.”
My breath snags and I halt.
“Don’t let me ask about him,” Quin murmurs, his gaze fixed on the garden beyond the shutters.
My breath catches against the fragile fabric between us. I want to scream that I’m right here, but I bite my tongue until it hurts. “Why? Who is he to you?”
“My past.”
Of course. That’s what we agreed. I chose this too.
My past.
I try to voice the two little words on my way out; in the middle of the bridge overlooking massive shelves of ice; while pushing my way through a drunken crowd in the square; at the table as Megaera, Zenon, and Lykos order dinner.
If I can just voice it, if I can grab the echo and spit it out of my mind, it’ll keep me grounded, fortify me, like a bubbling shield. I’ll come and go before Quin and anything he says or does will bounce off me. I’ll be unaffected. I’ll be able to do what I promised. Heal him, save him, let him go.
I just . . . need to get it out.
The words stay locked in my painfully tight throat.
“Cael? What do you want?”
I wave a hand for whatever and Zenon suggests extra fish for the table. Half a dozen plates get shuttled to our private room and it should be delightful, a treat—on the prince’s tab—but . . . I can barely squeeze a few forkfuls into my mouth.
It takes a long time to swallow and when I manage, I choke at the sounds of a drunken patron. “I, Gudmund Thriceborn, hacked off the captive king’s braids!”
Once again, I’m moving outside the private room to the balustrade, shoving my curacowl on. Downstairs, this blonde brute Gudmund staggers onto the stage. He has the build of a stormblade—off duty by his simple attire—but his face doesn’t carry the Skeldar allure. His skin is bumpy and broken on one cheek and ear and it stretches down his neck under his shirt.
He burps and brandishes a small pouch.
I squeeze the railing. Gudmund pries open the pouch and pulls out a braided string of dark hair . . . pinched with a jewel at the end.
I’d recognise those fastenings anywhere.
“Gold pieces, I want gold!”
Someone downstairs snickers.
Gudmund swings Quin’s braid. “Spit on it, throw it in spirit flame, and the gods will bless you.”
Patrons turn back to their meals, none interested in parting with their money. I return to my table, to three sets of questioning eyes. “How much do we have between us?”
“You’re not thinking of buying those?” Megaera says in disbelief.
“How much?”
She shrugs. “You could ask Prins Lief to double his monthly stipend for you.”
I need those braids now. I look at Lykos, who has his arms folded over his puffed chest. “You’re out of your mind. He’s pure linea.”
Zenon scowls along with him.
I’m alone.
I take what I have and descend from the upper level to the packed floor below. Gudmund is leaning against a pillar, the pouch swinging from his crooked finger while he hiccups.
“I’m interested,” I say, and he turns wonkily and holds out his hand for the gold.
I take his wrist instead, lead him around the storyteller’s table and make him sit. “You’re a strong young man. Do you have family?”
“Look at my face. You think I have family? Where’s the gold?”
“I’ll cure your skin disease if you give me the braids in return.”
He pokes my veil and laughs. “No Iskaldir healer can. The only way is to go to Lumin. Pay a vitalian.”
With my knowledge of plants, vitalian spells, and now alchemy, I can cure this in a mere few heartbeats. In fact—I do a quick inventory of what I have in my bag—I can clear his face without leaving the restaurant.
“I can heal you.”
He laughs. Patrons are starting to show interest; at the balustrade above, Megaera, Lykos, and Zenon have come to watch.
Gudmund points to his peeling skin. “Prove it.”
I lower the curtains around the storyteller’s stage for privacy, take out the necessary potions and creams and spend the next forty minutes meticulously treating him. When I’m done, I raise the curtains and let the curious onlookers decide for themselves if I’ve fulfilled my promise.
Megaera, Lykos, and Zenon push up sharply from where they were leaning against the railing. “Sure he has no magic?” Zenon asks, tugging Lykos’s sleeve.
Patrons below gasp and admire; murmurs of speculation . . .
My stomach tightens and I wave a hurried hand. “Just a little healing trick. Nothing special.” I twist to Gudmund and hold out my hand.
Gudmund huffs. “I asked for proof. I didn’t agree to giving you these braids.”
My companions are a collective hiss from the balustrade, and I can hear Megaera say, “How dare he?”
Her red cloak becomes hurried, swishing movement in the side of my eye.