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 yanked to my feet, my heart pounding, and—
Yelps and shouts come from our ship.
A Skeldar bounces down the plank in a hurry. “Lindrhalda’s touch saved me!”
“Commander!” a stormblade gasps. “Your face. And his, look!”
Around me, men shout in awe and relief, dropping their weapons—and my sore arms.
Lykos and Zenon entangle themselves in a joyous, relieved hug.
Megaera gazes at me, her eyes shimmering with respect.
Cheers ripple from the Skeldars, echoing across the surrounding boats.
The commanding stormblade mutters and then laughs, a sound of bitter relief.
A chant begins, “Praise Lindrhalda’s mercy! Praise Lindrhalda’s mercy!”
And I sag to my knees, finally allowing myself to shake.
I’m pulled up, yanked triumphantly onto shoulders, and amidst blonde hair and leather vests, I’m steered onto a bridging board, up a ladder—
And over the side of the ship to a lantern-lit deck—
This is not the ship I snuck onto with my companions.
The ship’s sides are studded with hand-painted Skeldar shields, bearing emblems of their gods. The sailors here are dressed in finer wool tunics. Somewhere close someone is playing the flute, and wafting up from below is the rich aroma of cooked chicken.
Stormblades hustle me to the bow of the ship and drop me to the deck, where I catch myself on all fours.
I’m pushing myself up when two boots come into view.
I stare at my foggy breath bouncing off the deck as I wait for permission to rise.
Laughter. “Do you prefer conversations staring at feet?”
I hurriedly stand and let out a most undignified splutter. “It’s you!”
To be fair, he looks equally taken aback, seeing me up close—but he holds his response in better check. “Ah. The one who dared to speak up in Hinsard’s famous Thinking Hall.”
In Hinsard, he’d tried to fit in, wearing our fabrics and taking off his adornments. Here, he wears a cloak lined with fur, three studs of gold pierce his right ear, and an intricate golden chain extends around his head like a crown.
“You were trying to find healers to fight this supposed outbreak?” I say, rapidly putting things together.
“Vitalians are too proud, too vain. There’s no working with them.”
“Dangerous, to go yourself. You might’ve been captured; taken hostage.”
“Risks must be taken.”
“Others could have gone in your stead.”
“We are unlike you. We lead our men; we don’t hide behind them.” He pauses, analyses me with a long scrolling look from face to feet and back again. “Lindrhalda’s touch? You, too, have quite some nerve.”
I’m quiet.
He folds his arms. “What do you mean, ‘supposed’ outbreak?”
I tell him the truth of the poxies, and why we pretended our way through it.
Prins Lief barely bats an eye. “Your captain is right. This must be kept quiet. But rest assured, I’ll have the weed eradicated. We shouldn’t protect anything that masks itself.”
His words sit uncomfortably. I frown. “It only mimics the look of common strawberry so that it doesn’t get destroyed.”
“That might be a good thing for the plant, but what about anyone coming in contact with it?”
“If prepared properly, the roots can save lives.”
“What are you saying?”
“The answer isn’t simply to burn them all to the ground. Those coming close to it need to sharpen their eyes and understand what’s beneath the surface.”
“Are we still talking about the plant?”
“Don’t burn them. Educate. Have the thistle prove its worth.”
He grimaces, but lets this lie. “You’ll have to bear the role of the one with Lindrhalda’s touch.”
I stiffen. The ruse had been necessary in the moment, but it’s not a role I wish to live.
Dread is a terrible clawed fist in my belly. “Expectations from you will soar. You might have saved your life for now, but every procedure hereafter will be a throw of the dice of fate. Should you fail . . .”
If I’m discovered a fraud, they’d make a public show of it to warn anyone off trying anything like it again.
I drop to my knees on the deck. “Please. Take me to Ragn and let me disappear.”
“I’m rather curious how far you’ll go as a healer.”
“I have much to learn. I came here to find my mother’s systra and further my healing knowledge.”
“Who is your mother’s systra?”
“Asta Nightshade.”
“Of course you’d be related to her.” A heavy, pained laugh. “Your aunt has thrice refused to become my . . . personal physician. She prefers to heal those outside the castle.”
I hide a small sigh of relief. ‘The ones the world looks past are the ones most in need of saving,’ she’d written to Mother. I like that she stands with this philosophy rather than bowing to a prince.