Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
I haul her into an embrace, the soft scent of her perfume comforting, like home. “Forgive me,” I murmur. “You’re beautiful, Auntie. Truly. You and Prins Lief . . .” My throat tightens. “You have something tender, something special. Something that’s grown deep over so many years. You’ve found a way to get past your hurdles and now . . . now you can finally be together. You have a chance at a beautiful future.”
She strokes my hair softly, and I close my eyes before I glance his way again.
“In the end, it was a simple.” She starts to whisper in my ear, but a horn blows, and Prins Lief is carted around the hall on a bejewelled chair, his presence commanding all attention. The sound of green stone runes clattering as they’re tossed into the air has me pulling away from my aunt. Has me turning, not to the prins, but to the frenzy.
To Casimiria, and to Nicostratus gliding through the banquet hall doors like he’d briefly left. Perhaps to clear a path for our escape?
They catch my eye. It’s time.
After a hasty pecked kiss to my aunt’s cheek, I slip away into the rush for the blessed runes and out the other side towards the door. Nicostratus meets me there with Casimiria close beside him, and a bag slung over his shoulder. He doesn’t speak, simply takes hold of my wrist and pulls me swiftly along.
We’re passing through the first set of doors, Nicostratus commanding us to act drunk, when eager shrieks for blessed runes turn into horrified shrieks and Prins Lief’s wretched cry.
Casimiria looks over her shoulder and halts, and I follow her gaze over a hundred masks towards the podium where the king is bent over, hacking out a cough.
I hear the frightened whispers and grow cold. “Blood. He’s coughing up blood.”
Casimiria sucks in a sharp breath.
Between violent coughs, King Yngvarr desperately demands his healer.
Me.
I hear the fright and anger in his voice. Blood isn’t expected. This has not happened before. Shouldn’t he be healing? Recovering? Why has his illness progressed to this?
Why, if he has Lindrhalda’s touch healing him?
“Haldr!” the king commands his stormblades as Nicostratus pulls Casimiria and me away from the banquet. “Bring him to me.”
Casimiria pulls free on a strained, “I can’t,” and plunges back into the hall, pushing through the crowd to get to the king.
Nicostratus curses under his breath, his body wavering in some decision, to chase after her or to hurry on. He chooses to hurry on, yanking me with him, but I resist, pulling against him as my stomach tightens in knots. The king is realising the truth: I’m not who I claim to be. He’ll never be healed.
I should run, I should run very far. What I’ve done is unforgiveable. What I’ve done will cost me my life.
But I can’t run.
My stomach is too heavy. I don’t deserve to run.
And if I do run, stormblades will chase me. I’ll implicate Nicostratus. If he’s caught aiding me, he’ll never get to his soldiers on time. If they’re not there to help Quin . . .
Nicostratus needs to leave now, and the only way he can go unhindered is without me. With a plummeting stomach, I push him away. “Get his men there on time. Go.”
Nicostratus tries to snag my sleeve again and grips air in a closed fist. Frustration flashes across his face, but he too can foresee the future. He too realises I’m a liability. He too chooses to leave without me.
I watch him dash into the shadows and turn to the approaching stormblades, who stop their questioning stares at the flicker of movement behind me and focus.
They escort me to the king.
Each step is dizzying. This is it. I’m found out. My aunt cries as I’m dragged forward, and Prins Lief hauls her back from lurching towards me; from giving herself up too. He drags his wife from the room, and for this at least I’m grateful. He’ll look after her.
I’m shoved to my knees before the podium. Except for a fleeting moment where his eyes close, Quin remains impassive as the king thumps his blood-splattered table.
The crowd holds its breath close behind me, and Casimira shakingly tries to dab the blood dribbling down King Yngvarr’s chin.
He pushes her hand away. “You deceived me. You promised I was blessed by Lindrhalda’s touch.”
The crowd gasps and their thickening sense of disappointment and despair is choking. It’s hard to breathe. The guests had only rushed after those runes believing them blessed by the goddess. Believing they’d give them hope during a time they need hope the most.
Green runes flash in the corner of my eye as they’re dropped, clattering to the floor.
I’m supposed to mend hearts, not shatter them.
King Yngvarr coughs blood and staggers to his feet. He rounds his table and comes down the steps. A brilliant gleam hits his sword as he slides it from its sheath and levels it on me.