Chapter 13
E xtravagantly dressed men flash their soldads and are ushered inside by stationed guards, and the guards usher me in too. It’s that easy.
What power.
But I swore by the spiritual power of the luminarium not to get my family in trouble...
I don’t even believe in the Arcane Sovereign.
I’ll do this carefully. Use an alias.
The aroma of polished oak and perfumed scholars hits me at once, and I gawp at the imposing elegance of the hall. Carved wooden beams support high-vaulted ceilings, flickering lamplight exaggerating their shadows and angles. There are two levels—the lower packed with scholars vying for a good spot around the stage, and curved balconies above filling with well-dressed spectators.
If I’d arrived earlier, I’d have been able to see the action from the floor.
I head up the staircase, hoping for a better view, but guards stop me. My soldad isn’t sufficient for this level. I try to catch a glimpse of the stage from the stairs, but the angle doesn’t allow it.
Disappointing.
I take a step down and stop at the sight of a familiar figure ascending.
A mantle of blue velvet, beautifully embroidered with metals and deep colours, wraps his shoulders and hangs to the tops of his shiny boots. His cane, carved with coiling wyverns, makes a smacking statement at each step. His hand tightens on the wood as he looks up, and his mouth lifts in a tight curve.
“Quin the haughty merchant,” I say.
He raises a hand, stopping the aklo three steps behind him from rushing forward to block my approach.
I bounce down a few steps. “At a poetry convention? You seem more the debate type.”
Quin’s dark gaze sharpens. “You’re mistaken.”
“Enjoy poetry, then?”
“The last of the month is politics. No poetry.” His lips curl faintly, but his tone is tight. “So if you’re here, it’s by mistake.”
“Or miracle.”
Quin arches a brow, and despite himself, his lips curve. A bell chimes through the hall. “That’s the unveiling of the first topic.” He winces and rises a step. When he reaches mine, he continues upward.
I twist around. “Mind if I join? The view down there is terrible.”
His aklo moves to intercept, but Quin stops him again. He pauses, looking at me. “Wouldn’t that make us seem friendly? Wouldn’t that mean you’d have ‘a lot to explain’?”
“Ah.” Quin snaps his way up the staircase and I chase after him, flashing a grin. “We might not be particularly fond of one another, but we’re both mannered men. We can be civil.”
Quin’s brow arches slightly, politeness barely masking his dismissal as he continues up the stairs.
“Worried my perspectives might prove sharper than your own?” I say, following.
He stops abruptly, forcing me to halt. His gaze locks onto mine. “If your mind was half as sharp as your tongue, I might be.”
He continues and I chase after him, laughing, until he finally relents. Guards part for us; Quin’s aklo stations himself outside the curtains leading to a small balcony. There’s a bench, but the view is better standing at the curved balustrade.
I eye him, noting how he’s favouring his leg. “I’m curious—”
“Remain curious,” he interrupts, tone clipped as he leans harder against the balustrade.
His grip on the railing tightens, just enough to betray the pain he’s trying to mask.
I step closer, lowering my voice. “I’m a healer. Let me...”
He turns his dark unreadable gaze on me. “Stop meddling.”
“But Quin, that’s what I’m good at.” I grin.
He exhales sharply, but there’s a soft edge to it. “If I let you read my pulse, will you stop pestering me?”
“Probably not.”
Exasperation wars with amusement. “Then there’s no point.”
“Except for feeling better.”
He laughs bitterly.
I know when to back off—I give up a step and gesture to the stage below, read from the scroll hanging above it. “Lovelights are the highest joy of the people.”
Someone in the lower crowd calls out, “Too easy. Of course they are. Why else is the lovelight festival our national holiday?”
The lovelight festival. The mark of mid-winter, and the most beautiful and heart-wrenching time of the year. Young lovers skate over canals and kiss on bridges, and the city twinkles with love—innocent, pure, unreciprocated, forbidden. Light blazes brilliantly from the heart and dances around the loved one before settling deep into their chest.
Beautiful, witnessing hearts and minds that have acknowledged their true love. Heartbreaking, when those lovers are not gifted lights in return.
“Pay attention, now,” Quin says. “The young man ascending the stage is a keen mind. His focus is on healing, like you.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s the son of Apex-vitalian Chiron. Florentius.”
“Chiron? The Chiron who was made Apex before he reached thirty?” I straighten. I’ve read all the compilations he’s authored.
Quin looks at me. “He’ll place first in the next examinations.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m rarely wrong about people.” A fleeting expression I can’t quite identify... Dismay? Hope? Cynicism. How many people he must have met, to be so jaded so young.
I shuffle closer, staring down at the elegant young man onstage. “How well do you know Vitalian Chiron?” He’s one of fewer than a dozen to receive the sixth stamp on his soldad. The highest order of magic. Only one person in history ever advanced their magical ability further, and Vitalian Chiron had been the apprentice of that Apex himself. “What I wouldn’t do to learn from him,” I say wistfully, wondering if this is the feeling Skriniaris Evander sent me here to find.
“Become his apprentice?”
“And hold not just three marks of proficiency, but six .”
“You’d have to be invited into the royal city as a vitalian.” His tone sounds... incredulous. “And only the top scholar is offered a position in the palace.”
I sigh, but my hand is balling my cloak. “Dreams are free.”
“No. Dreams are motives, starting points for action.”
His words strike hard. This truth—this is why I came to Thinking Hall. Big ideas alone won’t change my world; I have to turn motive into action.
Below, the distinguished Florentius raises his hands, commanding the crowd’s attention.
He says two words, and on the high of discovering what I really want, I half throw myself over the balustrade to pay him more attention. “The hearth.”
Scholars start heckling— “commonplace” and “thought he’d say something profound.”
“The commonplace can be profound,” I say; Quin hums beside me.
Florentius continues over the din, “What’s more joyous than a full belly? The hearth provides a place to cook. What’s more joyous than warmth on a cold day? The hearth provides heat. What’s more joyous than the company of good friends? The hearth provides a source of comfort for people to bond around. What’s more joyous than protecting loved ones? The hearth’s tools can be weapons at hand. And what’s more joyous than good health? The hearth burns waste and potential disease. The hearth is life.”
I grab Quin’s sleeve, unable to take my eyes off the scholar. “You’ve got a good sense of people. He’s marvellous.”
I glance at Quin, who is staring at my hand on the fine fabric of his robe. I loosen my grip and pat the material smooth. “Nice this. Looks great on you.”
He raises a brow and returns his gaze to the stage below. “They’re moving on to the second topic.”
“That’s fast.”
“It’s a chance for scholars to align themselves politically. Find their crowd.”
The stage clears, and a second scroll drops: The merits of raising taxes.
This time, two scholars take the stage and engross the hall with a heated political debate that mostly focuses on funding the army.
Quin side-eyes me as I yawn. I cover my mouth and sneak closer. “You see where I stand. Most people can barely afford their hearths.”
“So dismissive. Consider that taxes offer relief in dire times. During war, they fund our protection; during drought, they purchase food from across borders; during plagues, they supply medicinal herbs and healers. If we leave each subject to their own devices, who will be hurt the most? Those that love their hearths.”
“Will that tax revenue really go to those who need it? Why doesn’t it go there now? There may be no war, drought or plague, but people need relief.”
“Pay attention,” Quin gestures to the solemn scholar on stage. “He advocates that the nobility pay more, corresponding to their wealth.”
“His words won’t be heard by those who need to hear them.”
“We’ll see.”
“I bet the proposed increase is a placation. Likely the rich would contribute more if each donated one pair of their undergarments.”
“Excuse me?”
I poke a finger at his waist, and hover it there. “Come on, I know there’s gold thread in there.”
His brow arches, his dark eyes shimmering dangerously, and I drop my teasing fingers.
Cheeks flushed, I quickly apologise.
“I’d believe you more if you stopped grinning.”
I bite down on my smile.
Quin huffs. “Stop looking at my pants.”
“I can’t help it. I’m imagining what’s under them.”
Quin’s hand comes up and smacks the back of my head.
My laughter ceases the moment the third scroll on stage drops.
When wyverns go wild, they should be hunted.
I hiss.
An eager scholar jumps on stage, spouting, “Wyverns are the symbol of the kingdom. Royal blood can control the dragonettes. If they go wild, the king has a responsibility to contain them. Hunting them to protect the people is his duty.”
I flatten my lips. “I’m not sure he knows what he’s saying. This topic has hidden layers.”
I look from where the words stand, seemingly harmless, to Quin’s earnest expression.
“When wyverns go wild, they should be hunted.” I feel the words in my mouth, along with some bile. “The topic pretends to be about literal wyverns but actually refers to the ‘wild’ or out-of-control—vespertines, or crusaders—those who are pushing back against the ruling class. The topic suggests they ought to be sought out and killed.” I suck in a tight breath. “It also has a none-too-subtle implication that the king is not doing his duty to control his ‘wyverns,’ the subjects under his rule. You have to be brave to stand on the stage today. You have to pray your words don’t reach the wrong ears.”
Quin drums his fingers on the balustrade. “How would you answer—what are you doing?”
I’m hiding. I’ve whipped up Quin’s cloak to shield myself and peek over the edge at him, giving a wan chuckle before I sneak behind him and drop the cloak. “That luminist,” I whisper at his neck, where I’m hopefully well hidden, “next to the one in the peacock-feathered hat.”
“You know him?”
“From our local luminary. If he sees me here, I’ll get into all kinds of trouble.”
“And clinging to me won’t get you in trouble?”
“I’ll take your punishment over his any day.”
“You have no clue what you’re saying,” Quin mutters. “Tell me how you’d answer this topic.”
I sneak a peek over his shoulder and hurriedly tuck my face against his nape. “Find the cause.”
“Cause?”
I tap his head. “If you have chronic headaches, I can give you spells to relieve the pain, but the headaches will keep coming back unless you address the source—like lack of sleep, overwork, unhealthy diet. When wyverns go wild, you can keep hunting them, but their wildness will never go away unless you understand the reason for it.”
“He’s gone. Quit breathing down my neck.” He hauls me out from behind him. “Why do you think wyverns go wild?”
“Why does a cornered animal fight back?”
Quin is quiet.
Is he unaware of the realities?
I glance toward his probable gold-thread undergarments and sigh. “Most folk lack access to vitalians,” I explain, “and par-linea, who might help them, are guillotined for trying. Vespertines and crusaders fight against this unfairness. Vespertines often steal to relieve poverty. Crusaders use violence to destroy magic veins to get rid of the hierarchies that come with magic.”
Quin snaps his head towards me; the fierceness in his eyes is cold. “You think their violence is justified?”
“I’m a healer; I don’t like any violence. But...”
“But what?” he barks.
“But I feel the frustration. Par-linea are seen as scars, weaknesses. We’re seen as watering down our kingdom’s limited pool of magic. But we have magic. We could use it. Only we’re not allowed. Why? For the sake of discouraging linea from diluting their blood. When my great-grandfather did, when he fell for someone who wasn’t also linea, he was shunned by his entire family. Why? What is there to be afraid of?”
“Our kingdom’s demise,” Quin says bluntly. “We’re a small realm, surrounded by bigger ones. Magic is a commodity that other kingdoms pay huge amounts for; that’s important revenue. And magic defends our land—other kingdoms are hesitant to attack us for fear of what we could do to them.”
I look at him. “Is it worth defending a kingdom where only the ruling class really gets to live?”
His lips purse, and he says nothing. The shadows of the balcony deepen around him as if I’ve struck a nerve, but he holds his chin up defiantly. For all his manners, Quin’s views are as rigid as the noble class he comes from. But there’s a fiery passion in him too, one that I can’t quite read. Is he someone I can trust? Or another obstacle in my path?
I lean my forearms against the balustrade and shake my head. “When the last king died, I’d hoped his son might make a step towards change—have the courage to listen to the people, establish fairer laws—but...”
“But what?” Quin speaks between clenched teeth, and I wonder at what part of the conversation I’d begun to offend him. The assumption he wore gold-threaded undergarments? The implication that he didn’t understand common woes? That he’s a pampered boy who grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth? “You could be beheaded for such words.”
“That’s why I’m not volunteering to stand on that stage.”
“You said it to me.”
I raise a brow.
“Then it’s a good thing,” I say, leaning in to whisper, “that you’re such a mannered man, who’d never sell out an inconsequential par-linea.”
He spares me no pleasant goodbyes, just an intense look that sends a shiver rolling through me. A shiver that steels my resolve and makes his next words sound both haunting and hopeful. “There’s nothing inconsequential about you.”