Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
“I’m no healer.” The southerner turns his attention to the stage, and it’s obvious the conversation is over.
I sink back on my seat, slightly disappointed but unfazed. I’m not here today to make such contacts anyway.
Applause meets the end of a scholar’s monologue, and he leaves the raised platform to be replaced by masked Vitalian Dimos. I grip the edges of the bench as he invites those seated in this hall to help him with a medicinal puzzle.
Whispers start. From my corner, I have a good view of their profiles and eager expressions, and I scan the sea of scholars with a silent prayer. My gaze freezes on the familiar face of Commander Thalassios, out of his uniform and perched in the opposing shadowy corner. His eyes are narrowed on Dimos, and he shakes his head grimly when the elements of the poison are revealed.
I expected to see people I recognise here—like Eparch Valerius on a middle bench close to the stage, surrounded by wealthy vitalians he invited and will get donations from later; even the vitalian from yesterday in the speciality apothecary I’m not surprised to see.
But a redcloak commander? What is his purpose?
Is he here alone, or . . . I search for Eparchess Juliana’s robes, and my stomach tightens.
There, in the front facing away from me. A female figure with white hood drawn low.
Vitalian Dimos quickly has the crowds rapt, and at the plea to help identify the missing catalyst for the antidote, Eparch Valerius rises. “Fellow vitalians, believe this not to be mere curiosity. This puzzle is of utmost importance. Before we began today’s session, I was made aware that the refugees seeking help here may have ingested this poison. Please, I beseech you all to solve this. Save our guests.”
Valerius climbs onto the stage to support Vitalian Dimos, offering a monetary prize for the key ingredient. He suggests ranunculaceae to get the ball rolling, and it isn’t a terrible idea. He’s clearly dabbled in medicines and understands compound reactions. Could buttercup or hellebore extract work?
Scholars chime in with various uncertainties. Clematis, in the same family, has been known to backfire when paired with snake venoms, causing stiffness and sudden death. The risk even of trial is much too high.
Everyone is riveted, except for Petros who keeps nodding off, and after an hour of heated discussion, Eparch Valerius raises his hands to quiet the concerned ruckus. “This topic needs further dissection. Let’s part briefly for lunch, and those with relevant experience return to my private residence in two hours.” He gestures to Eparchess Juliana. “Would you be so kind as to prepare ahead for us?”
Juliana rises and—
Not Eparchess Juliana.
Sparkles, in a similar cloak.
Invited to Thinking Hall by Eparch Valerius to entertain his vitalians? Keep them happy in the hopes of larger donations? Or another reason entirely?
She curtsies and leaves first, the commander close behind her. A quarter of the scholars follow, along with Eparch Valerius and lastly Vitalian Dimos, who catches my eye and nods that he has this under control.
A flash of envy sluices down my middle. I wish I could tag along, be in those chambers as the vitalians piece together the last of the antidote. It takes effort to return the nod.
I catch the southerner eyeing me, and wave a hand for him to return to frowning at the remaining crowd.
Those not specialised or interested in poisons and antidotes remain, and a pale, gaunt-looking vitalian takes the stage. “Recently we’ve been plagued with commoners asking if they too can learn healing skills, and outsiders asking if they can enter into our Medicus Contest. All because that par-linea was granted permission to sit the exams and enter the palace.”
That par-linea.
He’s talking about me.
“How do we position ourselves against the barrage of requests?”
I clamp my hands down on the seat and tense as scholar after scholar stands to spout their thoughts.
“Par and non-linea should not be meddling in the art of healing! They’re born inferior, judged perhaps on their past lives—they have not been given the right. They should accept their place in society, live a good life. Perhaps in their next one they’ll be rewarded.”
“Past lives? While I don’t agree with your reasoning, I do with the premise. Par and non-linea should not dabble in these arts. It’s too risky, too easy to make mistakes. Those mistakes will cost lives. Our kingdom is built on a reputation for having the highest quality healing in the world. We should not risk what we are respected for.”
Two more scholars stand, agreeing with this, babbling on about the need to preserve our cultural heritage.
“Let them join in the contest, and they’ll be after more.”
“As they should be,” I mutter under my tongue, eliciting the southerner’s narrowed glance.
“It’s a slippery slope,” someone cries. “We’ll soon be overrun with healers that barely heal patients and extort them for unreasonable sums. Crime would rise significantly.”