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)
Someone nudges me. “You won’t catch one standing like that.”
I suppress a laugh. The last thing I need is a love rune.
Dodging flailing arms and fervent whispers, I finally break free of the crowd. The temple’s pink-hued reflection deepens as twilight settles, urging me onward. I pick up my pace, darting through wider streets and narrow lanes until I reach the bridge—and come to an abrupt halt.
A crowd has gathered; the sharp clang of metal fills the air as two men swing and dodge, muscles straining under the lantern light.
“It’s been fifteen minutes already,” someone mutters. The crowd collectively inhales as a blade misses by a hair.
By Iskaldir etiquette, they’ve another fifteen to tie—or until one of them dies.
The town bell chimes. No time.
I spot the light guardian at the edge of the bridge, deftly swinging a lantern to light the others. Before he pulls the flame into place above the duel, I scuttle over.
“One moment!”
The guardian startles as I grab his arm.
“You want this bridge clear for the other lanterns?” I ask.
“That’d help, but how d’you plan to stop ‘em?”
I rummage in my bag, pull out a dark waxy pill, and drop it into the lantern’s flame. “Lift it above their heads—quickly.”
He obeys, and plumes of smoke billow from the lantern, drifting down toward the grunting, cursing combatants.
“What is this?” the guardian shrieks.
“Harmless,” I assure him. “Just a nap. Watch.”
The fighters’ movements slow, their swings growing sluggish before they collapse into snores.
Laughter ripples through the crowd, and I don’t wait. Leaping over the outstretched feet of the unconscious men, I sprint toward the temple doors.
The ceremonial grounds before the temple are lined with stormblades, their gleaming hilts catching the dimming light. I make the sign Prins Lief taught me, and the guards open the heavy doors into the main hall.
The vast space is dominated by towering statues along the walls and small shrines scattered at their bases. At its centre is a stone pit holding an eternal fire, and Prins Lief, his hands outstretched to the warmth as he speaks to a woman wearing a curacowl identical to mine.
She turns as I approach, her veil lifted to the brim of her hat. Her face, so like my mother’s, strikes a painful chord of longing in my chest.
I move closer, passing the stormblades flanking the fire. Prins Lief’s voice is cool. “You’re late.”
I bow my head. “Apologies, your highness.”
He gestures sharply. “What is that on your curacowl?”
I touch the brim and pluck off a small runestone, realising where it must have come from. “A wedding celebration. It must have fallen on me in the square.”
He curls a finger.
I hesitate before handing the stone over. At least he seems to have forgotten my tardiness.
Prins Lief inspects the rune, then barks a laugh. “There’ll be a disappointed wedding crowd tonight.”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing. On the contrary, this blessing is unique—one per ceremony. It’s highly sought after.” His eyes flicker toward my aunt, a wistful look crossing his face. She doesn’t notice; her gaze is fixed warmly on me.
When she finally turns back, he tosses the rune to her as though it’s an afterthought.
She examines it briefly before smiling at me. “I see.”
I gesture to the rune. “Should I return it?”
“Runes are glimpses of the gods’ will,” Prins Lief replies, his tone cryptic. “You can’t cast those away.”
“How convenient,” I mutter.
“Asta will explain later,” he says, his voice softening as he speaks her name. Clearing his throat, he straightens. “More pressing, I’ve been inundated with requests to reveal the healer with Lindrhalda’s touch. News of your work has spread, and my father has asked to meet you.”
I stiffen. “I don’t have Lindr—”
“Your aunt has been catching me up on your progress. She calls you gifted.”
“Gifted cannot be compared to the powers of a goddess.”
“I’ve put things off by declaring your whereabouts unknown, but that only buys us the time my father gives me to find you.” Prins Lief looks to my aunt. “I cannot give you longer. Will he be close enough to live up to the title?”
“His understanding of herbal properties and how they interact with one another is the most extensive I’ve seen in Iskaldir. Far broader than my own.”
Wait, wait. This is all putting the cart before the horse. Better if there was no cart at all. “What happens if you never find the one with Lindrhalda’s touch?”
“The king must find some answer to satisfy the public. If we don’t find an actual saint, we’ll have to find any old healer, claim him a fraud, and have him disembowelled.”
So the cart has to stay. “Can I pin my hopes on you finding an actual saint?”
Prins Lief grimaces. “How skilled is he?”
My aunt deliberates. “He came here with vast knowledge, but no practical skills to harness it. That was the only limiting factor of his potential. I’ve since shown him the secrets of distillation, fermentation, infusion and decoction, and elixirs and tinctures. We’ve yet to look at seasonal harvests for potency, or practice with spirit flame.”