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 bump into Petros in the streets not far from the residence. He looks surprised, and straightens the uniform that he’s presumably had enough of and wants to take off. He smiles widely, and I try and fail to do the same. “Nicostratus sent others out to find you.”
He sees I’m not quite as lively as usual and turns on his heel to escort me back. Nicostratus, who is pacing the courtyard, rushes over the moment I step inside the gates. “I was worried.” He holds my arms and inspects me. “All in one piece. Good.”
Petros bids us good night, and Nicostratus urges him to enjoy his night off, thanking him for getting me here safely. Dinner is waiting inside for us. I force meat into my mouth while Nicostratus keeps the conversation going, and try not to think about rejecting those pleas for help. I swallow hard. Smile.
“You’re kind,” I murmur. “Consistent.”
He blinks, and a smile unfurls. Yes. I like that smile.
It leans towards me, close, closer. “Would you like—”
I push to my feet with a wince. “Sorry, I need to call it a night. Headache.”
“Do you need a vitalian? I can call one.”
My chest aches. I shake my head, and go to my room.
The next three days, I claim I’m sick and stay in bed, staring enviously at scenes of healing on the walls around me. I refuse anything but a few spoons of soup, but on the fourth day, afraid Nicostratus truly will call for a healer, I drag on clothes and walk aimlessly around the cloud-covered city.
At the canal, a dozen boats are drifting towards Thinking Hall. Eparch Valerius strides swiftly from the road to the dock, straightening his clothes, tucking away soiled cuffs, readying himself to greet some of the kingdom’s future great vitalians.
Those soldad-carrying scholars pile out at the dock and follow the eparch towards the hall, a smaller version of the one in the capital—the same ornate structure; the same promise of knowledge.
The edges of my own soldad are cutting into my palm where I’m squeezing it. A sob threatens to escape and I swallow it down painfully. Long grass snatches at my ankles as I near the edge of the canal. I hold my arm out, soldad hanging over the surface of the water.
I shut my eyes and will myself to release it. I can’t use it anymore. Why carry the weight of my lost dream? Drop it.
Drop it.
I squeeze tighter.
Drop it!
My pulse is hard and fast, echoing through the soldad like it’s a beating heart.
A heart that’s broken. Drop.
I grit my teeth. My fingers refuse to obey; I use my other hand to pry them open, one by one, until the badge shifts, and then falls—
I don’t hear the splash. Frown.
I snap my eyes open, and my breath stutters. In a small rowboat sits Quin, his stern eyes fixed on me, my soldad caught in his outstretched hand.
“Getting rid of everything I gave you?”
“What are you doing here?” I choke out.
His eyes narrow.
I shrug, laugh hollowly. “My light’s gone out.”
A sudden wind lashes around me—my hair flies, my cloak flaps, and I stand through it, head downcast, uncaring.
“Enough,” he says.
I slowly raise my head and look at him, and away again.
The winds twist and spin, propelling me off my feet and plunging me onto the seat across from him. The boat rocks and water splashes us, and then gusts are thrusting us along the canal.
He doesn’t stop until we’re at the outskirts of the city, where groups of refugees from the south are huddled, drinking handfuls of water, nursing and tending to their exhausted loved ones. My chest grows heavy; there are surface injuries and sprained ankles everywhere.
“More and more of my people are being displaced by the volatile situation at the border. They come inland, hoping for a life with more security.” He looks at me. “These are people that have truly lost everything and must start over.”
My throat is thick.
“Out of the boat.”
I climb out and follow him through throngs of quietly suffering families, young to old. In a makeshift pavilion, aklos and aklas and a group of nobles are cooking porridge, doling out blankets.
“Who are they?” I ask.
“My supporters,” he says quietly. In his constable guise, Quin heads into the pavilion; they greet him as a constable, albeit with a knowing twinkle in their eyes. “I have things to discuss with them. I’ll need a couple of hours,” he says, and leaves me with the aklos and aklas.
Hungry people crowd the pavilion, eager for food. Two flustered aklos are trying to maintain order and serve—I take a ladle in each hand and tell them to organise people into a peaceful line.
“He took two bowls!”
“One is for my nannan. She twisted her foot, can’t get up.”
“You’re just scamming for more!”