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)
“Surely there could be another way to appease them?”
A disbelieving laugh. “And what of my father? He’s never forgiven the cruelty of King Anastasius. To have his son in his grasp . . .”
“You could have sent him to the castle, but you’ve had him escorted here. You’re going to imprison him on temple grounds. One of the meditation cottages, I’d guess. Simple, but humane. You won’t stop there. You’ll have his wounds tended to.”
“What are you implying?”
“You’re hedging your bets.” I drop to my knees and fist my chest over my heart. “Let me be his healer.”
“The one with Lindrhalda’s touch, healing our enemy?”
“If power does change in Lumin, you not only had King Constantinos healed, you did so using the best healer of your kingdom. This could be considered a great act of respect—”
“And if power doesn’t change?”
“Then emphasise suspecting the healer of the goddess was a fake. To treat the king with a fake is also humiliating. Say you wanted the captive healthy enough that he better feels how powerless he is. Say you wanted to flaunt everything he’s lost before him. Make him suffer in spirit first.”
Prins Lief draws a dagger and points the tip into my belt. “Are you saying you’d even let yourself be disembowelled, as long as it saves your king from physical harm?”
I lift my veil and look him directly in the eye.
He laughs and sheathes his dagger. “I’m not the benevolent prince you seem to mistake me for. I care about overall outcomes. I keep your secret not because you intrigue me on a personal level but because I see a future for Iskaldir’s medicinal advancement. Lumin spells translated into alchemy. I keep you so you’ll betray your kingdom’s vitalian secrets.”
“How to heal should never be secret. I’ll give you everything willingly.”
“What will your king think of that?”
“He’ll wish he’d thought of it first. Especially if it can broker peace.”
This time his laughter echoes around the stone gods. “Rise.”
When I’m on my feet, he presses a signet chain into my hands. “Use this to enter and exit at your will.” He slowly loosens his grip on the signet with a low, rumbled warning. “You won’t get far if you’re dreaming of his escape.”
Escape is on my mind, but it’s not my priority.
After I rob my aunt’s herbarium of a myriad of supplies—most of which I made alongside her—I hoof back to the temple.
I flash the prince’s signet, pass dense rows of stormblades and enter the meditation grove. Night blooms scent the air, along with pine and the last remnants of melting ice; it should be peaceful under the dappled moonlight filtering through the canopy of trees, but each of my pounding steps is weighed down by the scrutinising stares of the guards, and the fear of what I’ll find when I reach him.
Oil lamps lead the way. I run past a half-dozen meditation cottages, none his. I know from the lack of guards on their porches, and the fact the line of stormblades continues deeper into the grove.
The final porch has two guards, illuminated by hanging lanterns either side of the doorway. Dim light seeps from the shuttered windows.
Again I flash the signet and they uncross their spears, allowing me to pass.
I come to an abrupt stop outside the door.
If fate should ever have us meet again . . . should I avoid you? Pretend I don’t know you?
I recall the pain of his silence.
I shouldn’t be here.
My fist tightens around my bag. This is different. This isn’t casually encountering him somewhere where he’s safe and living well. This doesn’t count.
He doesn’t have to know.
I rummage through my bag, pulling out white fingerless gloves, and, fate—my voice altering tonic. I down the liquid and make sure my curacowl is secured. Hauling in a steadying breath, I let myself inside.
It’s a simple room, split into three main parts. A cooking area with a small stove and wooden worktop, table and chairs. A meditation space with one large cushion on the floor that would overlook the garden if the door was left open. And a sleeping area—a simple bed alongside a window, with a small chest at its foot.
An oil lamp hangs on a nearby hook, layering the room in a soft glow and making the gold-chased carvings in the wooden beams shine. I blink. Where is—
Movement from behind the privy partition has my focus sharpening. There’s a hiss, followed by a ripped and bloodied cloak and shirt being tossed atop the screen. Boots topple into view and skid as Quin stumbles towards the bed.
Fright has me gasping, and Quin, who’s caught himself against the side of the bed, stiffens. His bare back is a canvas of deep, painful lashes, bloody and swollen. One still has grit carpeted into it. My teeth clench. He’s hurt this badly on the outside . . . what’s the state inside of him?