Chapter Nine
My stomach revolted as the salty taste of Drunk-Man’s Elixir hit my tongue, my hands shaking as I drained every drop of the putrid remedy.
Body sinking to the floor, I pulled my knees to my chest, waiting for the effects to kick in.
For the pounding of my head and the nausea that held tight to my cramped muscles to ease.
While it was most effective in the throes of being intoxicated, it worked well enough for the hangovers that followed.
A knock sounded upon the door, my eyes darting desperately to Rena who slept soundly, her curls in disarray as one foot hung from her bed.
Nine Hells.
Standing, legs shaking with the effort, my head splitting from the pain that ricocheted with each knock, I threw open the door.
I really needed to stop drinking firemead.
My gaze travelled down to a young Luanthian boy that stood on the other side.
He was dressed in brown pants and a brown tunic, black thread running through the material.
Pale blonde hair stood stark against his darker skin and his lips tightened with vague annoyance that quickly vanished as he stood straighter.
"Apprentice Syra Sommers," his voice cracking slightly on my name, "a message for you."
With a smile that I feared was more of a grimace, I took the letter from his outstretched hand and gestured for him to wait a minute.
Instantly recognizing the writing on the outside of the letter as Bran's and even knowing Bran, without doubt, had already tipped the boy for delivering the message, I couldn't help swiping up a silver coin from my nightstand and tossing it to him.
The smile that lit his face was warm enough to briefly chase away the nausea that plagued me.
"Thanks kid," I called out as he gave me a nod and began to take his leave.
Whoever his parents were must have rather good connections. To have the boy apprentice to be a page for the barracks was a far better calling than the manual labor or front lines army fodder that many Luanthian boys' fates fell to.
Door clicking shut, I immediately made way for my potions bag. Shuffling through the vials, I located another Drunk-Man’s Elixir and placed it on Rena's nightstand for when she awoke.
Tearing the letter open, my eyes ran over the scrawling.
Institution library, twelve o'clock.
Apprentice robes swished around my ankles as I stepped through the massive wooden doors of the Institute.
Despite having been in this building various times over the years, it always left me breathless.
A formidable structure of grey stone with countless large windows that flooded the space with brilliant light, it looked like something from the pages of a storybook.
The first level opened up into a beautiful library, filled with so many books that I never knew where to look first. Large shelves from floor to ceiling covered every wall, ladders moving and trailing between the stacks as people and workers looked for various tomes.
Shorter shelves sat in neat rows so far back, I couldn't see where they ended.
Tables were scattered throughout the library as well, people sitting at them hunched over open pages or scribbling down notes.
Even as a child I had loved the library within the Institute, a sanctuary of academics and wonder in a city of cruelty and persecution. It was filled with idealists and dreamers in a world that valued physical strength and magical aptitude above all else.
I walked between the towering shelves, my fingers brushing along the spines of books that awaited my greedy eyes, but moved on with my heart sinking. I wished I could sit in one of the plush chairs, a stack of books on a table beside me, and get lost for a day or two in the inked worlds.
I knew Bran would be waiting for me at the back of the library, where it was more secluded and quiet. He always knew what I needed, knew me better than perhaps I even knew myself.
He greeted me with a hug when I finally found him, leaning against a table in the far shadows, a book open in his large hands.
War and the Mind by Nicholas Merchei. A book of how strategy and cunning far outweighed the strength of swords in war and battle. How a competent mind could turn the tides of history. For what was a sword without an equally sharp mind to wield it?
His shoulders lifted with nonchalance, noticing what held my attention. “Suggested reading from my battle instructor."
"Wise man," my smile teasing as I tapped the book. “Never thought l'd see the day you read something willingly."
His eyes rolled as he pulled out a chair to sit. “If it helps me improve and rise up in rank after recruitment, who am I to argue?" He glanced over at me carefully then. “What did you want to talk about? Did your first trial go well?”
"I passed," I responded as my restless fingers tapped a rhythm upon the table. “But that's not what l wanted to speak with you about. Before you say anything, just listen, okay?”
I took a deep breath before beginning the absurd recounting.
I reminded him of the shady men who had shown up in the shop asking about The Fever before launching into the rest. How Prince Kairen and Roan Delmar had saved me that night in the streets of the Old Quarter, the offer they had proposed, and how I had practically volunteered him for the quest without speaking to him first.
I recited the prophecy they had told me, seeing as I had it committed to memory. It hadn’t even been intentional, mostly just a result of the words plaguing my mind since I had first read them.
He sat back and listened the whole time, his face betraying nothing and when I finished, he still hadn't spoken a word. He merely stared at me as I wrung my hands.
"If you say no, they will obviously find someone else that fits that fifth role," I added, my words a rush of anxiety. "I'm sorry for volunteering you, I wasn't thinking, Bran. I just could not fathom the idea of going on this kind of journey without a single person I trust to have my back—"
He held up a palm to cut off my rambling, a deep sigh leaving his lips as he scrubbed the other hand over his face.
"You're telling me that you’ve somehow managed to attract both a Solerian Prince and the Kinslayer’s attention, and now they want you to go on a months-long quest to cure The Fever because they believe you are part of a prophecy?"
The bewilderment in his tone nearly had me smiling, but I held it back as I nodded my head solemnly, hands clasped around the edge of the table. A perfect reflection of a reverent apology.
Another sigh left him as he asked, "When do we leave?"
My eyes widened. “What?"
Bran narrowed his gaze at me, his voice so low no one within the vicinity would be able to hear except us. “If you think I'm letting you go on a quest with a Solerian Prince and a man known for burning his own family at the stake by yourself, then you really don't know me at all, Sy."
"I haven't said yes yet, Bran. I wanted to speak with you first." I had almost been hoping he'd refuse so I too could have an excuse to turn down the offer.
"But you will." He insisted. "Don’t look at me like that, I've known you for over a decade now. If there's a chance for adventure and to help cure whatever this illness is, you won't say no."
“You don’t think it's madness?” I certainly did.
“I mean there is a prophecy, have any of our oh-so-great Master Healers or Potion Masters ever had one?”
Picking at my nail beds, my head laid upon the wooden table as defeat sung through me, I muttered, “Are we really doing this?”
“A prince has asked for you to join, can we really say no?”
It was settled then.