Chapter 8
F aint creaks echo as I lift the trapdoor; my hands shake and my pulse races as I peer inside. Slats of wood and squares framed by dust.
I crouch, feeling in the shadows as if the books I’d been hiding there might reappear with wishful thinking. I put them back; I always put them back. What...
My mind races. If the luminists found them, I’m dead. If Father found them, I’m even deader. Either way, my dream of becoming a vitalian ends here.
“Cael!” Akilah barges in with a bang of the door against the wall. “Quick,” she says. “Your father—”
The trapdoor slams shut at my feet.
Does he know? “What kind of mood is he in?”
Akilah grimaces. “The kind where we all get very busy with our chores.”
My heart sinks lower.
The air is heavy with the scent of rain. The manor, once grand, is fringed with decay; faded murals whisper stories of a prouder past as we rush through the courtyards, our footsteps slapping against wet cobblestone. In the timeworn front yard, Father waits, his grim gaze shadowing over me.
“Follow, son.”
Akilah gulps and leaves me with “Good luck,” an unconvinced whisper.
My pulse quickens. Each step into Father’s study feels heavier than the last.
He knows.
He sits behind his parchment-cluttered desk, and I haul a lungful of ink and mustiness deep into my lungs.
“It’s time to discuss your marriage, Cael.”
I snap my head up. Not the conversation I was expecting.
But it’s worse.
“I’m too young.”
“Our king married at twenty-one. If he can, so can you.”
“Our king has a royal bloodline to protect. It’s understandable—”
“We have an entire household to protect! I let you put this off until Megaera came of age. She’s eighteen now. You’ll do the marriage rites immediately.”
Anxious heat thickens in my chest. I keep my voice firm. Steady. “I don’t love her.”
Father slams his fist on his desk, making the inkpot jump and loose papers shiver. “Love? What would you know of love? Love is a luxury.”
He’s not wrong. What do I know of love? My entire romantic experience... an accidental campout with someone so far above me he might as well be a star, when we were barely out of childhood. And a series of chance encounters with an infuriating man who never showed me his real face. The vanishing man. The man who left me behind over and over until finally, he never came back at all. What would I know. But still— “Should I pretend to be happy the rest of our lives?”
“Pretend hard enough, and you might believe it.”
I rock back on my heels; my voice cracks. “I need the real thing. I want it.”
Father points to a polished box on the edge of his desk. “Half of her dowry is gone to pay our taxes. That’s what we want. What we need.”
“You did what ? How much?”
“One hundred pieces.”
One hundred!
“Or we’d have lost our home. The home your great-grandfather was gifted by King Timotheos Aetherion. We would have finally ruined the prestige of my grandfather.”
Great-grandfather, who Grandfather loved dearly and who shared his knowledge and his conviction. His belief—a belief I inherited—that a par-linea could wield vitalian power just as ably as a linea. The glory of his days still glimmers in these now-crumbling walls.
“Where would we go?” Father continues. “Your older brothers, their wives, your nieces—this is their home too. Can you see them cast out on the street? Squeezed into one room at the poorest end of town? No patient would come there for treatment...”
Not just the ruin of Great-grandfather’s prestige—the ruin of the family.
My father’s words hit me like a bone-splicing spell aimed at my chest. A marriage to Megaera would save my family, their home, their pride.
But...
I glance at the walls, the fading murals, and imagine them bare. Imagine my nieces huddled in some mouldy alley. I see the faces of the vagrants I’ve treated, their desperation a mirror of what my family’s might become.
But...
Marriage.
It would shackle me. The real me.
Father moves to a small, cloth-draped table and pulls off the dark fabric that covers it. A dozen vitalian spellbooks are stacked underneath. The books I’d hidden under my floorboards.
I suck in a breath. “How... How did you—”
“One of the aklos saw you treating that woman under the bridge last night. You’re lucky it wasn’t a luminist.” He leans closer, his voice firm. “Do you have any idea what they’d do if they found you with these? Behead you, Cael.” His voice falters, and for a fleeting moment, I see something in his eyes. Fear. “Publicly. I don’t ever want to see that again.”
Again? I shake off the confusion and step forwards. “I’m careful—”
“Keeping you here is a curse of its own. Sooner or later, we won’t just be contending with financial ruin.”
I shake my head vehemently.
“You think I want to force you into marriage?” Father’s voice drops, the anger cracking. “It’s the only way to save this family. I cannot keep watching you chasing a dream that will kill you.”
“So you’re selling me,” I say, my voice shaking.
He sighs, running a hand over his face. “I’m trying to save you, Cael. From yourself. From the luminists. From... everything. You’ll have a comfortable life there.”
My throat stings.
Would I? I think about Megaera and that big house with its fiercely formal garden and high walls. I think about how many mornings I’d have to fake a smile.
I don’t want to ruin my family, but I can’t marry her. I dream of choosing for myself, and giving my lovelight freely. “Please.”
“I’ve spoken with the Temenos family. Megaera is willing to do the rites immediately. This evening.”
I stagger backwards, a mounting urgency quickening my breath. “Father, please, don’t. I can’t. I’d sooner you strike me from the family tree.”
Father crosses the room towards me with a sigh. “One day you’ll understand.”
I shake my head again. “What about what I want?”
“Cael...”
I whip around to the door, and sharp pain ripples across my back. My body stiffens under the spell, my knees buckle, and I collapse. Frozen, helpless, I can only scream in my head. At my father’s command, his aklos move forward. Father hesitates a moment, something flickering in his eyes, but he sharpens his posture. “Lock him in. Send someone to dress him.”
No! Stop! But my lips won’t move. I can only watch him, helpless, as I’m carried away.
Father stands in the doorway with a grimace of regret. “Sorry, Cael. It must be done.”
* * *
A half-dozen aklos flood into the chamber that’s become my prison, a flurry of movement out the corner of my eye. They’re carrying trays of bright garments and jewelled fastenings for my hair; I wish to leap from the bed where I lie and escape, but it takes all my effort just to move my little finger.
The aklos strip and redress me. A deep violet robe lined with floral silk, embroidered boots that buckle up over my stiff calves, and twenty-one bejewelled braids amongst my loose hair. Wedding attire.
When the last of them has gone, my muscles unlock in a sharp rush; I throw myself onto wobbly feet and race for the door. Too late. They’ve already bolted it. I drop my head against the wood and swallow a thick lump of frustration.
I know the family needs me, know my father is only desperate, but...
A sound from behind startles me and I whirl around to Akilah crawling out from under a clothed table. She flashes me a toothy grin. “Snuck in with the aklos. Here.”
She holds out a flask of herbal tea and after a sniff, I haul her into a hug. “You saved it.”
“You were working on it last night; I feared it might be the start of a medius spell. Aklos are searching your room, on your father’s orders.”
“Why is it so hard to help people?” I sigh and shake the stupid long sleeves of my wedding robe. “Why is it so hard to help myself?” I cast my eye around for other clothing but the aklos have taken everything.
I need to go, before Megaera arrives and I’m escorted—marched—to the luminarium.
I fly over to the other side of the room and check the windows. Locked. Locked. I bang my palms over the next one. Locked.
“I also brought this.” Akilah pulls a sharp knife from the folds of her skirts. “For your inevitable attempt at escape.”
She knows me too well. She would—she might be my akla, but she’s more like a sister to me. “I suppose a key would be asking too much?”
“They had to return it to your father.”
I laugh hollowly. “Of course.” I hold the knife in the murky light coming through the shutters. “This’ll have to do.”
I slide the blade around the edges of the window, feeling the resistance of a sealing spell. Father only ever uses legal simplex spells, which means with enough pressure...
Sweat drips down my temple as I work, each scrape of the blade a race against time. Akilah watches me, her voice light but probing. “You’re not just running from the wedding, are you? You’re running for him.”
Her words strike harder than Father’s attack earlier, and I freeze.
“He’s no one,” I mutter, focusing on the window.
Akilah steps closer. “You’ve been holding on to that no one for years, Cael. If he were truly no one, you’d stay. For your family.”
I shove the window with a grunt. “I don’t even know his name let alone his real face. He called himself Calix Solin; I called him Maskios; neither was real. I don’t know his name, I don’t know what he looks like, he disappeared from my life years ago. He’s nothing more than a shadow. An annoying shadow.”
“And yet, you’re willing to risk everything for that shadow,” she says softly.
The latch finally pops with a sharp click, and cold air rushes in. I glance at Akilah, her steady gaze brimming with the unspoken.
“I’ll find a way to help my family,” I whisper. “But I need—” My voice falters. “I need more than this.”
She nods. “Go.”
I pull Akilah into a tight hug and slip through the shutters. The night air bites at my skin as I creep along in the shadows; halfway to the gate I round a corner and slam—
Into my bride.
I lurch back in horror, my stomach twisting at the sight of her. Her silk skirts are a cascade of rich golds, embroidered with white vines that are spelled to glow. Jewelled chains dangle from her belt and sleeves, jingling with her movements. And her braided hair gleams with tiny golden clasps and a delicate, pearl-encrusted veil. She’s very pretty—a noble bride—and I should be more than grateful she’s chosen me.
But.
Her dark eyes widen, and the sharp edge of her surprise quickly gives way to something harsher. Behind her, her aklas stand stiffly, their hands on the hips of their matching white robes. “What are you doing?” Her voice is low, but panic flashes in her eyes. “It’s bad luck to see me before I’ve presented myself to your family to collect you.”
“Megaera... this—” I shake my head, over and over. “It can’t happen.”
Her voice rises, cutting through the quiet night. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t love me either,” I say, my voice trembling.
Her mouth tightens and anger flickers across her face. “Do you think this is my choice? Do you think I want to marry a man who has no interest in me? There are other reasons for marriage!”
I stagger back from her, my chest heaving. “Not for me. I’m sorry.”
“Cael—” she starts, but her words twist and sharpen. “Stop him!”
Her people surge forward.
I spin and bolt for the gate, but a small army of steps claps over the cobblestones behind me. A hand grips my robe, yanking me backward with enough force to expel the air from me. I twist violently, and the heavy fabric of my sleeve tears free as I stumble forward.
Another aklo lunges, his fingers digging into my shoulder. Pain lances through me as I yank back with everything I have.
“Let go!” I snap.
He tightens his grip and I slam my heel against his shin until his grunt of pain gives me just enough slack to wrench free.
A third aklo blocks my path, his arms outstretched. I duck low and slither beneath him, the cobblestones scraping my ribs. The evening air stings as I scramble to my feet and sprint harder.
Behind me, Megaera’s voice cuts through the chaos.
Father’s yell follows hers, thunderous and commanding.
The narrow streets of the city close in around me as I dart through twisting alleys. The aklos’ footsteps pound against the road behind me, but I take every narrow turn, every sharp corner, until the sounds grow fainter.
Finally, I burst free of the city and into the woods, my chest heaving, body trembling. The sounds of the chase fade as I slip through shadows until I’m finally alone, panting, in the middle of the forest.
I laugh bitterly.
I’ve escaped my wedding, but with nothing but embroidered boots, jewelled braids, and... and the flask Akilah saved for me.
I might not get far with this, but it’ll be far enough. I can heal in exchange for food and shelter. I can start a new life. Maybe I’ll stumble into him again on my travels, not that I’ll try to find him. Certainly not that I’d care if I don’t. Calix Solin, Maskios, liar ... Akilah is wrong. I didn’t run from marriage for him . For a person that makes me feel red inside.
I slam a palm over rough bark and on the lingering sting, I slump through the woods towards an unknown future.
As for the one I left behind... I slam my eyes shut on the kind faces I’ve just abandoned. Akilah; my soft-hearted mother; my beautiful little niece Lucetta, who I so often carry on my shoulders. Just last night, we’d watched the stars, her bouncing up and down, gleefully pointing to the shiniest ones...
I swallow. At least... At least they won’t have to worry about me getting them into trouble anymore.
A sudden ferocious gust of wind slams into me, scattering pine needles like daggers. The sharp stench of burning magic—wet wood and scorched thimbleweed—floods the air.
I gag as I scour the woods. Vespertines? Crusaders? Water wyverns?
No, not that... I sniff the air. My heart sinks. Not wild magic. Sentinian.
Deadly.
I run away from a storm of cries and snapping branches nearby, but the forest seems to shudder with the force of it. I scramble up an embankment, clawing at roots for balance and suddenly, the chaos halts. The wind dies and the air settles into an eerie stillness.
But through the quiet comes a cry.
“Someone’s hurt,” I murmur, my feet rooting to the spot.
Keep running. What if the aklos catch up and drag me back? To the luminarium, to finish the rites?
The cry echoes again, sharp and anguished. Dying . I squeeze my hand into a fist. I can’t ignore this.
I slide down the embankment, heart pounding as I follow the trail of destruction and emerge from the shadows of the pines. I find myself in a grassy clearing littered with a dozen bodies. None have the telltale purple robes of crusaders or the dark cloaks of vespertines. These are redcloaks, soldiers from the royal army. What happened here?
I steel my stomach and scurry to the nearest one. Frantically, as I check for signs of life, I pull at my flask and tip the contents down my throat. Dead. Pierced by larch needles at the seven deadly acupoints. I move to the next body, and the next. All dead.
Where—
A blast of spiritual power slams into my back, throwing me into the middle of the clearing. I catch myself hard on hands and knees.
“Who are you?”
Fighting the power rippling in my gut, I spit and raise my hands.
I turn just in time to see the man’s palm thrust forward. A gust of wind lifts me off my feet, slamming me against a tree trunk. Bark digs into my back and wind rushes into my face, plastering my shirt to my chest; even my boots seem to strangle my ankles with the force of it. I need to stay focused. I can’t let him kill me.
“Don’t move,” I choke out, noticing the dark veins spidering up his neck. “You’ve been poisoned.”
“Did my uncle send you?”
My eyes water; I force myself to keep them open. My knowledge of sentinian spells is scant—barely enough to conjure a measly shield, certainly not enough to hold back this man—but the force of the wind is faltering. He’s weakening.
Blood streaks his pale robe, the embroidered belt out of place in this chaos. He’s an eparch, rich by the looks. Perhaps ambushed? Or, an assassin who made quick work of his enemies.
His arm shakes. Dark eyes pierce me with suspicion.
I slip a few inches down the tree and choke out, “I can help you.”
His eyes narrow, untrusting. “They look like normal redcloaks. They’re dead. You’d help me?”
“Healers don’t see enemy colours.”
He wheezes. “You’re a vitalian?”
Technically, I’m not allowed to call myself that. But if it will lower his guard...
I nod.
Clasping his chest with a cry, he falls to his knees, the loose lengths and twisted braids of his hair partly veiling his pained expression. The wind ceases abruptly, and I drop onto knotted tree roots.
My knees and palms sting. I struggle to catch my breath, but there’s no time to rest. This man will die in front of me if I don’t hurry. I have to do this right.
Summoning essences of thornwort and swiftleaf, I direct them into a swirling mist of blue light, thickening it like water. Scrambling toward him, I press the spell into his wound.
His face twists with pain, his hand twitching upward.
“I’ve done this before,” I assure him, though my pulse ticks sharply with doubt.
Blood dribbles from his lips. “I don’t trust anyone.”
“You’re dying. What choice do you have?”
He laughs hollowly and collapses, clutching his chest with a ragged intake of air.
I straddle his hips, pinning his convulsing body down. Five larch needles. I settle them into the swirling blue. With my free hand, I part his robes and bare his chest.
He gasps, his body jerking with the poison, eyes widened on mine.
“This will hurt.”
I force the five needles in.
* * *
The instant the last needle sinks into him, the cries of pain cease. His body goes limp under me, head lolling with each shallow breath. Sunset casts an eerie glow over his sharp jaw, giving him an almost ethereal look. “If it’s any consolation,” I murmur, “if you end up a corpse, you’ll be a beautiful one.”
The faintest smirk tugs at his lips before he collapses again. “C-can’t feel...”
“I’ve paralysed you, to slow the spread of the poison. We’ve three hours, unless the Arcane Sovereign himself intervenes.”
The eparch groans. “He’s never around when I need him.”
I scan the clearing with a rapid heartbeat. We’re just two men, one incapacitated, where no carriage could come and with no horses in sight, and nowhere to go.
Unless I go home. I still have some of Grandfather’s books hidden there; I have a chance to save this man .
But back home... I shudder. “I’ll get you to an apothecary.”
“Don’t. No one can know.”
I scan the bodies around us, and believe him. I stare at him warily.
“May as well kill me now, if you’re planning to leave me anyplace official.”
Pain and fear are still etched into his face; his skin is pale and smooth under the blood and dirt. He looks young, maybe not much older than I am. Lines of strain crease his brow. A man who knows trouble. “What’s your name?”
A pause.
“Call me... Silvius.”
Right. “You’re putting me in a tough spot, Silvius. I’m supposed to be running away. Not running back.”
He murmurs an apology that twists into a pained moan.
He loses consciousness.
There’s no time for personal dilemma.
I haul him by his arms, puffing. “Do you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders or something?” I set him down again and cast a focused eye around the clearing. My gaze slides back to the soldiers... I grab some fallen branches and strip the dead—a couple of pairs of leggings, shirts, belts, cloaks.
It feels... strange. Disrespectful. I move quickly and efficiently, but gently, and let myself consider who these men might have been. Who might’ve been doing this—undressing their bodies—if they’d died another way. I’ve never been this close to a redcloak before. These all have the same hard, spare conditioning—strong and well-nourished but very lean. Scars, some barely healed; crusted grazes. Calloused hands. Their napes bear a wavy symbol. Strange. Strange enough that I check the others: they have it too. But perhaps all redcloaks do. The mark... it seems deliberate. Ceremonial. I shake off a prickling shiver. No time to play detective.
The scavenged clothing makes a sturdy stretcher and with two good rolls, the pretty eparch is lying prone atop it. I strap him in place with stolen belts, lift the two branches at one end and begin the long slog towards town.
By the time I emerge from the shadows of the trees, I’m exhausted, my palms burning, arms aching and a fine tremor vibrating through my limbs. I barely see the gangly figure running towards us in time. He’s looking over his shoulder; he doesn’t see us in his path. “Hoi!”
The boy’s head whips round and he skids to an abrupt stop. That’s when I see what he’s clutching: a bit of bread with a bite taken out. He hugs it close to his chest, and I understand.
The swish of leaves in the distance is followed by pounding footsteps.
“I g-gotta hide,” the boy says.
I’m dragging a body through the royal woods.
We share a look of unspoken understanding, and I point to a particularly dense bush. “The leaves stink, so they won’t look there too hard.”
He starts towards it and stops, coming back to help me lift the stretcher behind the putrid-smelling foliage. We tuck ourselves deep into the leaves and keep still.
A scant few seconds later, three luminists plough through the woods, their robes glowing white. When their glow is gone, I stare at the boy.
“Three? Just for a bun?”
He pulls a small box from his belt. Not any old box. It’s made of violet-oak wood, and it’s glowing. A tithiscar—a repository for pure magic. Valuable indeed. “My family’s sick,” he murmurs, clutching the bread roll tighter. “We can’t afford the vitalians’ fees. I thought... maybe I could trade this.”
It seems we all have dilemmas and tough choices to make. I pat his hand, take the box, and fish into Silvius’s robes for the little sack of coins I found earlier. “Take this.”
A gasping laugh comes from Silvius. So he’s conscious again.
His laugh shudders into a groan and I check his pulse; it’s growing sluggish.
I look at the boy, pleading silently.
Without a word, he takes the other end of the stretcher and together we move back out onto the path and faster through the narrow streets. But near the canal, close to home, I hear Silvius’s raw breaths—the sound of one’s last.
I halt us. No time. I squeeze my fist, summoning a spell I’m not allowed to use. But if I don’t, we won’t make it home.
The spell thrums in my palm, raw power that can give him the time we need—or ruin me. I can almost hear my father’s voice: One medius spell, and the luminists will hunt you to your grave. But what kind of healer lets a man die?
The spell pours out of me in waves of glowing blue, until a distant voice shouts. The boy yelps, but I grit my teeth and finish the spell. We have to go.
We haul Silvius, running, but soon the luminists are on our tails.
The boy lowers his end of the stretcher with a wobbly grin. “Watch this. I can help him without magic.”
Then he moves out into the light of the moon, waving his pilfered bun. He runs off with a goading laugh, and the luminists give chase.
I stare after the boy a second. Maybe we’ll meet again someday. I’ll repay him properly then.
I clutch the stretcher and labour onwards. Towards the crumbling Amuletos vitaliary, where I can find what I need to save this eparch.
But as I near, my feet drag, Silvius’s weight nothing compared to the weight in my chest.
Returning means facing my family. My father...
And his fury.