Chapter 18
H is brother is the king.
Gently, he pinches my chin to stop my strange grinning.
My chest jumps on more laughter. “So that makes you...”
Nicostratus Aetherion.
My Prince Nicostratus. The one I met as a child, in the royal woods, down south in Hinsard.
The one who saved me.
He casts his gaze to the road carved into green hills, where he’d saved us from a fate at the border. “I got waylaid yesterday... it was dawn by the time I reached him. I told him about you”—Prince Nicostratus snaps his head towards me—“without divulging your identity.”
I nod and nod.
He smiles, but the brackets around his mouth are thin, tired. “I wouldn’t want to cause you any more trouble.”
Trouble.
Branded redcloaks, dead. A dying Silvius. The blood River left behind...
Clouds roll overhead, casting us in shadow. Again, I snicker.
“I told him you were...” His voice is soft, and I wonder if he’s ever suspected I’m also the boy he saved in the woods. “I don’t often ask for favours; he sensed my urgency. He didn’t ask questions, just promised he’d keep the one I cared for safe. So he defied our uncle and commanded the decree. I don’t want to know what that cost him.”
He’s Prince Nicostratus .
His brother—the person he’s gushed about in his letters, who he loves wholeheartedly, who he would do anything for—is the king.
The cause of so much pain in my world. I chuckle and chuckle until my eyes are stinging from squinting.
“Prince Nicostratus...”
“I like the way you say my name.”
“Nicostratus.” I’m familiar with the taste of his name on my tongue and say it again in my head. Nicostratus, Nicostratus, Nicostratus.
A smile. “You gave me a chance to live.” He pauses. “I hid my name—”
“For my safety?”
“Yes.”
“Did River—”
“He knew. I asked him, I asked all my men to...”
“Pretend.”
He picks up my hand. I let him squeeze my fingers, but I can’t squeeze back. I can only watch with strange fascination, not feeling any of the pressure but seeing how my fingertips turn white.
“Are you angry?” he asks.
Another abrupt laugh. “Actually we’ve met before.”
Nicostratus frowns at the canal where we first met River.
“I was nine. I was in the royal woods. Trespassing, I guess you’d say. We spent the night in the violet oak tree. It was freezing cold.”
His frown deepens.
He’s forgotten . I look away, hollering with laughter.
A hand touches my forearm. “It’s not that it wouldn’t have been memorable. I had an accident and lost a lot of childhood memories.”
“What happened?” I say, dabbing my watering eyes.
“A story for another time.” He looks away. “I like the idea we’ve met before.”
“I thought you might be a criminal. The good kind, who steals from the rich and gives to the poor.”
“I might as well be a criminal,” Nicostratus says. “I’m hunted like one.”
“You were... hunted last night?”
“Someone must’ve been spying on me during my mother’s last days. I was too distracted to notice.”
Has he even had the chance to cry for her?
Or is he like me?
“My beads caused all of this,” he says. “The pattern is supposed to match the palace, but they changed it after my mother died. Set a trap, expecting my return. My brother sent word, but it never reached me. I ended up fighting in the royal belt most of the night before sneaking into his quarters.”
“All that—” I blow out a bewildered breath “—and you still came for us? Did Skriniaris Evander tell you?”
“Evander?” Nicostratus frowns. “No. I had an aklo keeping me informed.”
I scan the forest behind us. “Do you have aklos with you now?”
“No. But I must return soon.”
I poke his arm. “Always coming and going.” Like Maskios. Always leaving too quickly. I push the thought with rough urgency to the back of my mind.
“Forgive me,” he says.
My brow quirks. “Withholding forgiveness from a prince... am I even allowed?”
Light gleams in Nicostratus’s eyes. “Finally, some good comes of this birthright.”
We share a smile, and Nicostratus points towards Frederica’s estate in the distance. “Go again to my aunt’s—”
I sit straighter. “She’s your aunt ?”
“Her estate is special; a gift from her father, my grandfather, after she spent years as a hostage in Iskaldir. She has the right to govern her own hundred acres. The king cannot impose laws there. Even the high duke doesn’t dare interfere.”
“Frederica... is queen of her own kingdom?”
“She’d never call herself that. She uses the gift to help those in need. The displaced often come to her for protection until they can get proper documentation to live in the wider kingdom. She saves lives. My brother and I help when we can, and many others offer financial support.”
Like Quin the arrogant merchant?
A spluttering cackle has me doubling over.
Nicostratus pats my back. “You’re considered blessed if you give to Frederica.”
I shove Quin’s image to the back of my mind and sit up.
“Go to her estate in case you’re pursued,” he says. “They won’t easily search for you there.”
I nod, and Nicostratus captures my chin with a crooked smile that should make my heart ram against my ribs, but I can’t feel it.
He reads the numb fear in my eyes. He softly drags his fingers off and rises to his feet. “Will you be alright?”
“Of course! I am already. I’m fine.”
He hesitates, but is soon gone; the moment he’s disappeared, I rush to the hut and wake Akilah. “You won’t believe it,” I say. She grumbles and I prod her again. “Silvius. He isn’t an eparch. He’s the royal boy from the woods.”
She launches into a sitting position, disbelief and curiosity in her eyes.
And I... laugh.
* * *
River’s name has been etched onto a wooden tablet and placed on a small hill, overlooking Frederica’s hundred acres and the snaking silver canal. Every morning, Akilah hauls me there and squints at me, waiting for something, while we sit on moist earth under the first rays of dawn. We leave for breakfast on her sigh, and after, I busy myself helping around Frederica’s estate.
There’s not a minute where I’m not using my hands to wash dishes, or clothes, or carry buckets of bath water. And after another long day, I return to our chamber. Akilah is asleep, exhausted, snoring lightly. I lie down for rest too, but like all the nights, I can’t find any. I toss and turn and chuckle.
Taking some candles and a flame-maker, I trudge out into the night and up the small hill to the tree, to the epitaph.
I set the two candles down. One of them tips over and rolls into my knees. I put it up again, only to knock over the other. On gritted teeth, I plant that up the right way. I uncap the flame-maker and blow into it until a flame flickers. Cradling a hand around the flame, I move it towards the candles.
The flame goes out in a stirring breeze.
I try again.
The flame fires over the wick, but it doesn’t catch.
Another breeze blows it out.
I dig into the dirt, making a shelf with my hands. There, now the candles will be protected.
The flame-maker doesn’t start and I blow.
I blow and blow and blow into it, yelling at the stupid thing to work. Quin would have said something sharp, clipped— Control and discipline, Cael. My throat tightens on the rawest laugh. “I just want light. I just want some light.”
I hurl the flame-maker against the tree beyond, take a candle, and throw that too. The other I bash against the hill, my eyes stinging.
A tiny little flame. Is even that so much to ask?
My shoulders shudder and a hot sob rushes through me. The candle under my hand continues to break apart.
My cheeks are damp where I swipe at them with waxy hands.
It’s not fair.
There should have been a first clammy kiss on a cold night overlooking a moonlit canal. Gifting of sparkling lovelights on a rickety boat. Exchanging rings in a luminarium as guests danced. Bestowing a crying infant their given name. Carrying children around a courtyard pretending to be a donkey. Striking a cane on naughty wrists and trying not to cry. Giving long-saved silver pieces and sending new adults off into the world. Welcoming the next generation with a feast during blueberry season, losing half the food to magpies. Grieving the loss of close friends, wearing black robes for months. Singing a final song when all hearing is lost.
That’s what his life should have been.
Not his humming stopped before his voice had deepened.
I bow over his epitaph, resting my forehead against the wood.
Tears fall over his name all night.
* * *
Akilah finds me as I traipse down the hill. She glances at the dirt and wax mess behind me and touches my arm.
“Let’s go home.” When I don’t speak, she fills in the quiet. “Likely that redcloak didn’t want to get in trouble. I don’t think anyone is looking for us. Let’s go back.”
My stomach feels heavy, filled with sludgy guilt. We can go back. River can’t.
“If we leave now, we could be there in time for the examination this afternoon.”
I stiffen. “I can’t.”
“Skriniaris Evander could unseal you—”
“I can’t .”
Akilah grabs my hands and looks me in the eye.
I shake my head emphatically.
“Cael, stop. What happened is not your fault.”
I laugh hollowly; it stings. “I killed two men. I almost killed you.”
I pull free; she chases my hands and clutches them tighter. “Skriniaris Evander said the adverse effect with ippifras shouldn’t have been enough to kill him. You made one small mistake.”
“That had massive consequences!”
“Cael... please. Healing is everything to you.”
I close my eyes and breathe out deeply. “Maybe they’re right. I don’t have enough magic. Only pure linea have enough.”
“Stop it. No matter how little you have of it, you wield your magic well.”
“If I had more... If my magic were better... Maybe then I could be a proper healer. But—”
The ground trembles and leaves shush around our ankles—a soft warning before...
A sudden savage shaking has us clutching one another, trying to keep our balance. We can barely stay upright as the world shifts and snaps in all directions.
Dust puffs from brick walls and canal water slaps angrily against the banks. Sheep bleat in wild panic, and in the distance, aklas and aklos rush into Frederica’s courtyard, shouting to be heard over the tremors.
It’s not the first time the ground has stirred, but this feels wrong. The sharpness of it, its violent persistence, and the rhythm. It’s... disjointed, like a sick pulse—or a frightened one.
A tree tips in the distance, toppling with a groan, and the one over us rains crimson leaves.
I press a hand to the earth, the quakes vibrating through my palm, through me. It can’t be magic, can it? No mage would do this—why would they harm the earth that they draw their power from?
And yet, dread writhes in my gut: this doesn’t feel natural.
When it all jerks to a sudden halt, Akilah and I rush towards the manor. The people of Frederica’s household are shaken, but otherwise unharmed. They check the integrity of the walls and when it’s deemed safe, we head inside.
Frederica is in crisis mode, sending aklas out for supplies and aklos to deliver urgent messages to the capital. Akilah and I trundle sacks of oats and potatoes in wheelbarrows from neighbouring farms to our storerooms. Collect canvas sheets and tenting poles. Shift well water to storage barrels set around the manor. All morning and afternoon, we work amidst lighter shakes of the earth.
In the early evening, while Akilah is taking a few minutes break slumped in exhaustion in the shade outdoors, I head to the dining-turned-disaster-planning room. Frederica looks up from a cluttered table.
“Anything else we can do?” I ask.
She sets down her wax seal. “The last time the earth shook like this, we had thousands come here for shelter. One can never fully prepare for that. We’ve stocked food. We have canvas for tents.”
She lifts an envelope and looks at me over the top of it. Her gaze strays behind me and snaps to mine again. “Now we need voluntary vitalians.”
I step back with a loud snick of my boot heels against her wood floors. “I—I can help gather herbs and concoct teas for the volunteers. I can clean buckets, wipe blood. Keep the sick company.”
“Can you tend the wounded?”
My breathing quickens. What if more die because I overlook something? What if Akilah or my little nieces are the ones made to face the consequences with me?
I shake my head and rock back another step.
An unfamiliar aklo rushes past me and bows his head to Frederica. “The dam has cracked—landslides are blocking all roads into Castorvra. The people there are trapped.”
“Water will fill the entire valley,” Frederica murmurs fearfully. “What routes can be used?”
“The cliff path I took is still wide enough for a horse, but the ground is unstable. The canals are our best chance, but we need more boats. And...”
“And?”
Aklo bows his head again. “Some are wounded. They can’t be moved until their injuries are tended.”
I stumble another few backwards steps until I’m grabbed around the hip and a growling voice in my ear has all my senses prickling, “Where do you think you’re going?”
I whip around to Quin, still loosely holding my hip, staring down at me with intense disappointment.
“How long have you been here?” flies out of my mouth.
“Long enough.” His hands move quickly, blurring with speed. He tugs me by the cloak, pulling me towards him until our noses almost collide. As I suck in a shocked breath that tastes of his familiar mystical scent, his fingers jab my forehead, then my chest three times, each one a dose of power that swells inside as it breaks my sealed magic open. Fizzing heat cascades through my veins and I buckle under the force of it. My hand instinctively reaches for balance—
Quin pulls his cane back a few inches and I crumple to the floor.
I glower up at him.
He glowers back, then looks past me to Frederica.
“I came as soon as I got your message. I have men and supplies. I’ve sent boats in for the villagers, but to give them time to get out I must get to the dam. We’ll have to go over the pass. We’ll ride out immediately.”
Frederica gasps. “Going yourself is too risky—”
Quin’s gaze flashes to me. “If you can help others, you have a responsibility to do so.”
I shut my eyes, swallowing.
Quin barks orders to his aklo and tells Frederica to prepare a saddlebag of herbs and water, to be brought to the stables. He hauls me upwards by my elbow and I follow him, jaw tight; when Akilah tries to intersect, Quin tells her to be at Frederica’s side, help however she can. He’ll return me soon.
Her worried gaze seeks mine and I nod; she watches us go, tracking our progress as Quin silently leads the way.
Two horses—one black, one white—await us. Aklo tightens the girths and leaves at Quin’s order.
Quin eyes me, his frown judgmental. I look away. “You shouldn’t have wasted magic on me.”
“How else will you heal the injured?”
“I can’t. ” Heat prickles behind my eyelids. “I caused two deaths! One hadn’t lived his life yet.”
Quin’s jaw quirks. His lips flatten as he stares towards the horses.
“What if it happens again?” I say quietly.
He lifts his chin. “It will happen again. People will die, Cael. It’s inevitable.”
“It was my fault . My negligence.”
His head whips towards me. “And what do you call this but the grossest of negligence?”
“There are other vitalians.”
“Hours behind us! On the horse, Cael.”
My hands won’t stop shaking.
The air whips around Quin, strong and steady, and magical currents lift his body gracefully into the air. He flips his hands, controlling the wind, and lowers himself onto the black horse, its pelt as dark and gleaming as his eyes and hair. His voice: “On the horse!”
I grab the reins of the white horse, step into the stirrup and throw myself into the saddle. He looks at me with an approving nod; after checking the saddlebag, he rides out into the open fields and southeast. He doesn’t bother to check if I follow.
The pass rises steeply into barren hills, the road narrowing further with each step until it becomes a thin ledge clinging to the mountainside. Far below, a canal slices through the cliffs, its waters dotted with boats hastily fleeing down its length.
Dirt and debris scuttle down the cliff face. I tighten my hands on the reins and my horse skips around skittering stones in a dance, but after a glance at Quin I remember myself and relax my grip. His back is straight, his breathing even and calm; he moves with his mount as it steps serenely along the ledge. My horse calms, taking its example from Quin’s, bravely ignoring the abyss that descends alongside us. I push down my fear and straighten my back.
Sliding dirt spills onto the path and we hurry our horses through it. Quin glances back as the landslide continues. We’re on a one-way journey. The only way out now is via the canal.
After a hairpin turn, the path broadens. Quin steers his steed alongside mine.
“You have a tendency to pull the reins too hard around tight turns.”
“Tendency. How many times have you seen me turn my horse?”
His lips curve faintly. “Enough to notice.”
I snort, throwing back, “You’re reminding me of someone else I once knew. He also thought himself the king of horsemanship.”
“Was he?” Quin’s gaze flickers toward me with spark.
I huff. Maskios, king? “I was on top of him! I’ll always be on top of him.”
A dark laugh rumbles out of him, low and knowing. My words don’t fool him, and somehow, that makes my cheeks flush.
“I grew up playing drakopagon,” I snap, trying to claw back dignity.
“Is that so?” There’s no surprise in his voice at all, almost like he’s bored. It grates.
“Just focus on the path before one of us tumbles into the abyss.”
His dark chuckle stirs something sharp and uneasy inside me. “I’m clever enough not to fall, Cael. The question is, are you?”
His words dig deeper than they should, unsettling my confidence. The cold wind tugs at my cloak, and I remember how easily he’d seen through me before—the way he tested me at the academy, uncovered my lies, forced me to face truths I wasn’t ready to face.
The memories slip in unbidden: the little girl’s wide eyes, the herbs I’d tossed aside, her body limp by the river. A life wasted, a soul I sabotaged.
Quin’s voice cuts through, soft but pointed. “I was harsh, earlier. You’ve lost someone dear to you.”
My hands ball around the reins.
He speaks again, voice gravelly, as if the words weigh on him too. “Other people’s someones are waiting desperately for our help. Scared children, dying ones.”
Futures shrinking by the second.
I can’t stop the ache in my throat, the flush of shame crawling up my neck. How could I have refused? How could I ever pray to my forefathers again?
The wind howls as we ride on in silent contemplation.
The village appears, nestled in a deep valley surrounded by rock and forest, as we round a tight bend. A large dam perches on the quarry walls above it like a giant bird bath, a zagging crack down its middle. If— when —it breaks, water will drown everything, all that might remain visible the peaks of the tallest houses.
A chain of fleeing villagers scrabbles towards the canal. So many. And dozens still trapped, needing magic before they can be moved. My heart hammers hard and I spur my horse forward.
Quin curses and reaches out, grabbing my reins to slow me. “Not so fast. Unstable ground. You’ll get yourself killed.”
I lift frustrated eyes to his and look away again. “I hesitated to come here.”
He releases my reins gently, the brush of leather ticklish over my hand. He sits, regal in his saddle, and nods, something akin to trust in his gaze. “You’re here now.” He throws me the saddlebag and I catch it against my chest. Then he twitches his reins and moves off towards the dam looming above the village, his horse picking its way through the rubble.
Water seeps from the crack, darkening the white rock. One more tremor, and it will burst. I force down the fear and fork off the path, descending through shady vegetation to the last vestiges of life in the village.
I hear the moans and whimpers of the wounded long before they come into view, lying on stretchers in an overgrown schoolyard. I tie my horse to a branch and focus.
An elderly teacher moves between the dozen patients and their most loyal family members, handing out bowls of soup, clutching their hands, promising everything will be all right. I approach him. “Caelus Amuletos. Volunteer... vitalian.”
He clutches my arms in relief. “Thank the heavens. The luminist was the first to flee. No one else here has magic. I can only bandage wounds and soothe their fear.”
“You stopped the worst of the bleeding, kept them calm. That’s good. Take me to the most severe cases.”
The teacher leads me first to a youth close to River’s age, found trapped under a stone wall, his body protecting the young woman now holding his unresponsive hand. His bones are crushed in many places, and he’s bleeding internally. His sweetheart’s tears fall onto grazed skin.
I use spells to quell the bleeding, but knitting bone together takes layered spelling, time we don’t have. I can magically bind the bone—a temporary measure—but even this requires an abundance of magic.
I glance at the other patients. I’ll be drained after healing three. Unless... I swallow, and meet the girl’s wide, scared eyes. “He needs a lot more magic than I have.”
She cries. “I don’t have any.”
“You do,” I say softly. I feel sad for asking this of her, for rushing one of the biggest decisions of her life, but it’s the only chance the young man has. “Have you... given him your lovelight?”
She shakes her head. “Is it... can it save him?”
“It’s pure magic. It can mend bones, repair organs, stitch skin.”
Her breath hitches. “My lovelight kiss would save him?”
“Yes.” Perhaps it couldn’t cure poisons or mend magic meridians, but it could heal just about anything else. Even if a person were on the brink of death.
“And then it’s gone forever?”
I bow my head. “Yes.”
“He’ll never see it?”
“It will stay inside him; he’ll feel it if he wants to.”
She looks hopeful. “Are you sure?”
I hesitate, and shake my head. “It’s only what I’ve heard.”
She strokes the young man’s hand. “He twisted us around. I was the one meant to be crushed.” She meets my eye, lifts her chin. “Tell me what to do.”
“Your heart and mind have to be one.”
“And if only my heart wants this?”
“It won’t work.”
“What if my mind wants to but my heart—”
“It won’t work.”
“I was going to gift it to him during the festival.” She presses her lips to his fingertips. “My heart and mind are one.”
Tendrils of dazzling light unfurl out of her and wrap around her beloved’s arm, his chest, waist, legs, until he is cocooned in shimmering energy. “Can I hold his hand while you...?”
I nod, smiling, and call metallic magic to my palms. It’s blistering hot and scorches my skin, but it’s the best conduit. With this, I can pull and redirect the magic of her love.
It takes twenty minutes to channel and fuse the magic into his bones to repair them. He wakes up with a start, bolting upright, calling “Azula!”
I collapse, shaking, against a nearby tree and suck in deep breaths, willing the nausea to recede.
In the corner of my eye, vines of golden magic climb swiftly up the cliff face, tightening around rock. The scale of it is astounding; a dozen men could combine their magic and wouldn’t conjure half. Even the most pain-ridden patients turn their heads to behold it. “Who is it?” they ask. I know.
Quin.
Air ripples with the familiar currents of his magic, a deeply spicy, rich balsam with a soft lingering sweetness. Like determination, and rightness. Determination to do right.
It sinks into me like its own command and I push off the trunk, moving to the next patient.
Over the next hour I’m able to help three more. I’m drenched in sweat, my fingers numb and blistered.
I glance at the cliff. Golden vines unravel at the sides, and immediately new ones surge up the rock on another wave of spice. I taste the bitter scent of exhaustion and my heart hammers.
We have to move faster.
I direct the teacher to move those who can now be moved to the pier, and to make teas with Frederica’s herbs to tip into my mouth.
Another hour passes, five more patients seen. The golden vines are losing their glow; water stains have turned the white rock grey; more bitterness hits the back of my throat. He can’t hold on much longer.
No more time for intricate spells. I resort to pain relief on the last patients, and cruder techniques. Tight bandages, splints to support broken limbs. The vines are a dull, dying yellow as we haul the villagers to the last boat out.
I help a patient off my horse, carefully bring her onto the boat and settle her on a bench. “She’ll need to see a vitalian when you get out of here,” I tell her family.
An elderly man, the grandfather of the young man I saw first, cups my hand in both of his, settling a stone on my palm. “Take this. Our thanks.”
I glance down at a beautiful glimmering opal, and try to hand it back.
“It’s been passed down for generations. Full of magic.”
“That’s much too precious.”
“Please. For saving our Coralus.” He curls my fingers over the opal.
“Everyone on board?” the boatman calls.
I snap my head towards him. “One man is still coming.”
He looks to the hills, worried. “We might have to—”
I lurch across the deck. “We’re not leaving anyone behind.”
He stares blankly at me. “We can’t risk all these lives for one man.”
“Without that one man”—I jerk my hand towards the yellowed vines, sagging from fatigue only to be stubbornly pushed up again—“None of us would have survived.”
Around us the earth shudders. Trees shiver and the boat rocks viciously, banging against the side of the canal.
Patients cry out and steady themselves, and I do the same, slipping the opal into my cloak for safekeeping. The boatman signals his crew. “Go, now. Leave the animals.”
Aklos loose the ropes holding the boat to the pier, and I rush towards them. The vines on the cliff are unravelling faster than they’re being replaced. I shove my way through, the gap between the boat and the pier steadily growing.
“Jump,” the boatman calls, “and you’ll be another man we leave behind.”
I don’t care. I’ll find us a dinghy—anything that can float.
“Can one man be worth it?”
I jump, landing hard on the wooden pier. Quin might be difficult, proud, frustrating, but he came here and risked his life to save these villagers. He’s still here, giving us time to get away.
I haul myself up on aching legs, and leap back onto my horse.