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)
“Consider it yours.”
Olyn whispers at my ear, “Do you know how to play?”
“Theoretically,” I whisper back.
“What does that mean?”
“I’ve never won before.”
“Cael!”
I shake my head and calm her. “I was playing against the best.”
Olyn looks from me to the board, uneasy. My stomach flips too . . . but it’s more important to secure a way out of town that avoids the influx of redcloaks after Quin the moment the gates open.
I try to call up a sobering spell, but I’ve drunk too much and my magic fizzles. I ask Olyn to hit my guardian’s point, vital channel, and scapular acupoints. It isn’t as effective as magic, but it should make me less dizzy.
She hits those points and then jabs my wing’s arc. My mind instantly sharpens.
“What was—”
“Seen a lot of drunk men. I learned this technique from a southern healer. Adding the wing’s arc acupoint increases internal strength. It, ah, doesn’t last very long. A few minutes. Enough to get a man back to their home.”
I ask if I can try it on her and she lets me. “Much better,” she says, and gestures to the board. “Hopefully this gives you an advantage.”
Bastion snorts, and the game begins.
Very soon, it also ends.
I stare at the board, lost at how slyly Bastion won. He taps his cheek with a smirk. “Never bet against a vespertine.”
I lurch to my feet and blink hard several times.
Bastion hums. “Something you want to say?”
I puff out all my air. “You must be formidable sober.”
The sound of hooves over stone has us looking across the courtyard. Coming towards us is a donkey pulling a wagon, manned by an aklo I’ve never seen.
They come to a stop before us and the aklo jumps down. Over the braying of the donkey, he says, “My master told me to send him here. He’ll collect the wagon tomorrow.” With that he whisks away, and we all peer into the wagon. Quin is lying asleep on heaped straw, one hand tucked behind his hair—recently dyed dark again and layered with many bejewelled braids—the other, clutching something against his waist. The sharp tang of alcohol surrounds him, and Bastion laughs. “Can’t even hold his liquor.”
I climb onto the wagon and check for any sign of foul play. When I’m certain he’s fine, I cover him with my cloak and leave him to sleep.
“You owe me a kiss,” Bastion says, waggling his brows.
Olyn whacks him. “Despicable.”
I grimace and tell him to close his eyes. “No peeking.”
His smile widens, but he does as I ask.
I glance at Olyn, pressing a ‘quiet’ finger to my mouth, and pull gently at loose reins. I position the heavily breathing donkey and hold out a bit of straw.
The donkey’s lips stretch for it, tongue smacking briefly against Bastion’s cheek—
Bastion’s smile drops and his eyes ping open to a sudden braying in his face.
Olyn and I laugh as he lurches away from the animal.
“You wanted a kiss on the cheek,” I say. “You never specified who must give it to you.”
Bastion wags his finger, lips pinched, eyes flashing; a little furious, a lot impressed. He smacks the chess pieces back into their starting positions. “If I win, I want you to give me a proper kiss on the mouth.”
More clearly worded this time.
“Dare you play against me again?”
I swallow. “I’m not your match.”
Quin’s voice rises from the wagon, low and unhurried, and cuts cleanly through ours. “He’s not. But I am.”
Bastion narrows his eyes, but Quin approaches the table with calm confidence. He glances briefly at Bastion’s smirk, and faint amusement deepens the dimple at the corner of his mouth. He sits with a billow of his robe beside me.
Olyn’s eyes ping around the three of us as she seats herself nervously next to Bastion. “Maybe you should—”
He scoffs and stares hard at Quin. “Same stakes. I win,” a finger points at me, “he kisses me.”
Quin straightens the pieces on his side of the board. “Agreed.”
“Quin—”
Quin’s gaze penetrates mine and he presses something into my hand. The cool, hard shape of my golden feather. I squeeze it in surprise.
The donkey and the cart. It all makes sense. “How—”
He leans in, words brushing the shell of my ear. “I keep my promises.”
The next morning we say our goodbyes and leave the magistrate’s office on foot, hoods pulled low.
Redcloaks are checking everyone at the gates and all throughout the town; we’re stopped at the canal, the soldier frowning at hunched, cane-holding Quin.
The soldier yelps. “You’re the old man on the boat! They came, like you said. The spirits, they came.” He steps closer to us and clasps his hands together. He wants Quin to do his reading. “Please, please.”
My heart races. Every moment we linger draws attention; gives him time to recall my face and put the pieces of that act together.