Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
I recall my abhorrence when I discovered how Lucius had done that. I recall how despicable I’d thought it, to lie to those prisoners.
This is how powerless and frightened he’d felt when he chose to do that. This was what he was confronted with.
I squeeze my clasp harder until my own pulse throbs through it.
In a side chamber lined with shelves of scrolls, I capsulise spells at a large desk cluttered with emptied teapots. Light from sconces flickers around me as the air shifts with sparkling simplex magic. The capsules are pretty, but only as strong as a cup of calming tea.
After an hour I’ve produced a few hundred, in varying colours; one of Bastion’s men helps me separate them into portable, labelled boxes.
While he finishes sorting, I fling open doors looking for Quin. My chest has been a series of hectic thumps since his speech. My breath keeps stalling, and my stomach keeps swooping.
He’s seated at the head magistrate’s chair in the main office. He has removed his kingly attire and appears to be perusing lists of stores.
I halt before his desk, breathing tightly.
Quin’s gaze lifts from the stock list, calm and unreadable.
“What about your safety?” My voice is sharper than I intend, the words edged with fear I can’t hide.
He leans back in his impressive dark wood chair. “The gates are sealed. How would word get out? Even if the redcloaks discover my whereabouts, they won’t storm town, risking infection, for me. As far as they would know, I’m imprisoned here like everyone else.”
This is . . . somewhat relieving. “When the time comes for the gates to open?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
Two of Bastion’s men enter carrying the boxes of spells I prepared, asking where they should be sent. Quin’s gaze flickers over the glittering mounds of capsules, and gives them directions. When the men have left again, he eyes me. “Why the different shapes and sizes?”
“Details are reassuring to a patient. They feel they’re being uniquely treated.”
“Will you tell them this is the cure?”
“I’ll tell them the cure is coming. These spells will slow the progress of the infection.”
“Make them believe there’s time.”
“If they believe it, they’ll relax, and relaxation will certainly hinder the progression of symptoms.”
Bastion strides into the room. “There’s a long line outside the luminarium.”
“I’ll go now,” I say.
“Wait.” I pause on my way out. “Take Bastion with you.”
“I can get there on my own.”
“In case the crowd gets too wild.”
Bastion pats the whip at his side. His voice is rumbly, flirtatious. “We can share a horse—”
“Go via the canal,” Quin says bluntly. “I sent the capsules to a longboat, along with blankets and bread.”
Bastion hooks my arm and draws me in close as we leave the room, Quin staring after us. “My sister is there; she wants to thank you for saving her.”
I free my arm. “Do you like your head where it is? Stop trying to wind up the king.”
He smirks.
His joking demeanour has disappeared by the time we reach the luminarium. He shivers in a frail breeze as our boat glides to a stop. The moon is a crescent far above, casting ghostly light over the domed hall and the clusters of people waiting outside it.
A sombre melody drifts towards us, someone pouring their heart into a flute. It complements the moans, like they’re a supporting part of the piece.
This should be a place for hope, beauty, and brightness, not the weight of worry and despair.
People have come with lanterns; their light guides the way to the darker luminarium. Every face I pass has the telltale signs of sickness: flushed cheeks from burgeoning fevers; dark patches of skin; nail marks where they’ve been itching. I pass the farmer who has my golden feather. He scratches wildly at his arms, frowning at me like he’s trying to place who I am. Near him, a pocket of men are being tended by Bastion’s sister—
Someone lunges at me from my other side, clasping my cloak, growling at me to wait my turn. Bastion knocks his hand away and begins to force a direct path to the doors. He lifts his whip, and I yank his arm back down. “I’m a healer,” I say. “I’m here to aid you.”
I open one of the boxes, and at the sight of my sparkling capsules, they gasp and make way for me.
There are more pallets than before. Bathed in candlelight, pallid faces flicker with relief as I walk by.
“Cael!” Olyn picks herself up from where she was kneeling by a patient. She rushes over, nervous, but also like I’m a ray of light.
I explain which capsules are for which symptoms, and we make rounds—inside and outside the luminarium—delivering them.
A family of four have been earlier moved to nearby cottage. They have patches of blueish scales forming, and their condition is worsening rapidly. My stomach sinks as I look them over. They’ll make it through the night. But can they hold out another?