Chapter 51
I wake to a ruckus.
I spring to a sitting position and listen as I adjust to the strong rays of burnt orange light coming through the windows. Sundown.
Bastion and his men are filing into the room.
“We’ve traced the water to three farms,” Bastion says. “We managed to warn the farmers their crops and the water are compromised and—with the promise of government compensation—got them to burn their fields.”
Quin makes a sound of approval.
Bastion continues, “The people rely on those crops for most of their food. We had to go through the stores and burn more than a third.”
“Supplies were already tight.”
“It’s worse. Some of the flour in store is full of weevils.”
“Sift it. Remove the bugs and keep quiet.”
“But it’s—”
“Better than starving.”
A sneer, “Will you eat it?”
Simply, “Yes.”
I loosen the hands around the blanket I’ve been crushing.
“How many days do we have?” Quin asks.
Another responds, “They were running low before this. Now—”
“How many days?”
“Three. Maybe four.”
Silence.
Ten days. That’s how long they’ll keep the gates sealed after the last case. Ten days we need to survive.
More footsteps. “You’re back,” Bastion says.
The thump of knees hitting the floor. “Forgive us.”
I tense.
“Herbal supplies in the nearest towns are gone already. We took the liberty of checking the redcloak camp—they are also out. Everything has been sent to the capital under the regent’s orders.”
Quin curses quietly.
Bastion growls. “The redcloak camp? Are you tired of living? If you’d been caught—”
“We saw a safe opportunity and took it.”
“I sent three of you. Now there are only two.”
“I sent one brother further south. Pylaios. It’s bigger, he might find what we need there.”
“He’ll need at least two days.”
We don’t have that time.
I lunge out of bed, shirt untucked, hair a wild mess around my head. I round the screens and rush forwards. “Did you find anything? Something ?”
A small pouch is produced. “That’s everything.”
I snatch it from him, open the drawstring and finger through the dried herbs. Some caelumthorn and strands of starglow. My stomach sinks.
Bastion picks up a small cup from a side table where a few teapots rest and pours himself a drink. I swipe it from him before he tips it to his mouth and he blinks at me. I down the cold tea. “I need this. All of it.”
I set out all seven cups, fill them all from the pots and shoot them back, eyes narrowed on Bastion, daring him to take them from me.
Quin watches thoughtfully, letting me have my aggravated moment. I refill the cups again, and choke on a lump in my throat swallowing down the last one.
There are no supplies.
My eyes are hot, my vision blurry.
People will die.
I pace the length of the room as the vespertines file out again, laden with instructions I didn’t listen to. I stare out the window at the setting sun, blood red over the rooftops. I turn sharply, return to the teapots and shake them of any residual drop. My eyes dart to Quin as he leans casually against the desk, watching me with that infuriatingly measured gaze.
If you’re so calm, what do we do?
“Cael, here.”
I absently follow Quin’s firm instruction, a teacup dangling from my crooked finger. He takes it from me, sets it down, and searches my frowning face.
He extends his arm.
I blink down, and—
I drop to my knees with a guilty gasp. There’s a long cut on his palm. I touch the skin beside it softly. No matter how little magic flows through my meridians, I should’ve healed this right away. Instead, he’s put up with the sting of exposed nerves for hours.
I pull magic to the tip of my finger, barely visible, the slightest glow, and begin a slow trace over the long gash.
“Stop.”
I pause over split skin and the warm throbbing of his palm under my finger. “I have to—”
“I’m fine,” he says softly. He shifts his hand slightly, and my fingers twitch. So he... had been trying to distract me.
He lifts his injured hand and tips up my chin. He holds my gaze firmly, but his words are careful, teacherly. “If you panic, what will they do?”
They. Voices are trailing into the office as the townspeople gather. Sundown.
Shouts. Pleading. The air is thickening with fear and uncertainty and a need for someone to hear them.
My heart pounds. “I’m a single healer. A par-linea with a broken inner scale and an unorthodox foundation. There are dozens sick, more every hour. The herbs needed to cure them are all gone. How can I—”
Quin pulls me in by the robe and I lurch forward. His eyes meet mine squarely as he tugs at my belt and lifts my soldad. It dangles from his pinched fingers between us. “You’ve come this far. None of the journey was easy. What makes you think the rest will be?”
The crowds outside swell with a cry that echoes in my chest.
Quin presses the cool wooden badge into my hand and curls my fingers around it with quiet faith. “I have promises to make.”
I squeeze the soldad. “What can you promise?”
“Whatever keeps them hopeful.”
“An act, then.”
“It’s what I’m good at.”
Clutching his cane, he rises from the chair and snaps his way through the office to the speaker’s ledge. I drift to the shadows by the double doors, open to the view of his cloaked back. His knuckles are white where they clutch the head of his cane. His only nervous tell. The rest of him is all confidence—the strong set of his shoulders, the glorious flicker of his cloak in a breeze. He commands attention.
The noise below dampens to whispers.
Quin unclasps his cloak with deliberate slowness that has the crowd holding their breath. The heavy fabric falls away, revealing the embroidered riverpearl wyvern gleaming on his tunic. Only the king and his heir may wear it.
Gasps leap from the crowd and I feel the air shift sharply. My heart lurches with it. He’s unmasking himself. Offering himself as a shield for his people.
The redcloaks will learn he’s here.
Skirts and cloaks swish as the troubled townspeople bow.
Quin calls, “I hear your cries. This outbreak brings much confusion and fear. We need to stand together, show our resilience, our patience, our kindness. Become united in helping one another, to protect your town, your families, and your neighbours.
“Maps have been posted in the town square to show where this disease has infiltrated your water and food supplies. Anyone who has consumed water or food from these areas in the last three days, please go to the luminarium. We have a vitalian and healers who will work hard to treat you. If you have any medicinal herbs left in your homes, please bring them to us here. Wait your turn with tolerance. Anyone abusing our healers will find themselves among the last to receive treatment.
“I can’t promise everyone will make it through this. But as your king, I can promise to be with you until the end. I will eat only after all of you have eaten. I will listen to your cries and will answer them. I will wait until you have all received treatment before receiving my own.” He raises his slashed hand as proof and the crowd gasps. “Trust in me, and I will help return your freedom.”
A strangled silence, and then a single cheer that starts a chorus. Hope rises with their voices.
Something is digging into my hand. I glance down to find I’m gripping my clasp so hard the edges are cutting through my gloves.
Quin makes his way back inside while I stare gape-mouthed at him from the shadows. He pauses, keeping his eyes ahead. “It’s your turn.”
To keep the people calm.
To act.
I’m thrown back to that island. There, too, the people were trapped with no medicinal herbs. There, too, a single vitalian had to help the sick and dying, and the people needed help assuaging their fears.
I recall my abhorrence when I discovered how Lucius had done that. I recall how despicable I’d thought it, to lie to those prisoners.
This is how powerless and frightened he’d felt when he chose to do that. This was what he was confronted with.
I squeeze my clasp harder until my own pulse throbs through it.
In a side chamber lined with shelves of scrolls, I capsulise spells at a large desk cluttered with emptied teapots. Light from sconces flickers around me as the air shifts with sparkling simplex magic. The capsules are pretty, but only as strong as a cup of calming tea.
After an hour I’ve produced a few hundred, in varying colours; one of Bastion’s men helps me separate them into portable, labelled boxes.
While he finishes sorting, I fling open doors looking for Quin. My chest has been a series of hectic thumps since his speech. My breath keeps stalling, and my stomach keeps swooping.
He’s seated at the head magistrate’s chair in the main office. He has removed his kingly attire and appears to be perusing lists of stores.
I halt before his desk, breathing tightly.
Quin’s gaze lifts from the stock list, calm and unreadable.
“What about your safety?” My voice is sharper than I intend, the words edged with fear I can’t hide.
He leans back in his impressive dark wood chair. “The gates are sealed. How would word get out? Even if the redcloaks discover my whereabouts, they won’t storm town, risking infection, for me. As far as they would know, I’m imprisoned here like everyone else.”
This is... somewhat relieving. “When the time comes for the gates to open?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
Two of Bastion’s men enter carrying the boxes of spells I prepared, asking where they should be sent. Quin’s gaze flickers over the glittering mounds of capsules, and gives them directions. When the men have left again, he eyes me. “Why the different shapes and sizes?”
“Details are reassuring to a patient. They feel they’re being uniquely treated.”
“Will you tell them this is the cure?”
“I’ll tell them the cure is coming. These spells will slow the progress of the infection.”
“Make them believe there’s time.”
“If they believe it, they’ll relax, and relaxation will certainly hinder the progression of symptoms.”
Bastion strides into the room. “There’s a long line outside the luminarium.”
“I’ll go now,” I say.
“Wait.” I pause on my way out. “Take Bastion with you.”
“I can get there on my own.”
“In case the crowd gets too wild.”
Bastion pats the whip at his side. His voice is rumbly, flirtatious. “We can share a horse—”
“Go via the canal,” Quin says bluntly. “I sent the capsules to a longboat, along with blankets and bread.”
Bastion hooks my arm and draws me in close as we leave the room, Quin staring after us. “My sister is there; she wants to thank you for saving her.”
I free my arm. “Do you like your head where it is? Stop trying to wind up the king.”
He smirks.
His joking demeanour has disappeared by the time we reach the luminarium. He shivers in a frail breeze as our boat glides to a stop. The moon is a crescent far above, casting ghostly light over the domed hall and the clusters of people waiting outside it.
A sombre melody drifts towards us, someone pouring their heart into a flute. It complements the moans, like they’re a supporting part of the piece.
This should be a place for hope, beauty, and brightness, not the weight of worry and despair.
People have come with lanterns; their light guides the way to the darker luminarium. Every face I pass has the telltale signs of sickness: flushed cheeks from burgeoning fevers; dark patches of skin; nail marks where they’ve been itching. I pass the farmer who has my golden feather. He scratches wildly at his arms, frowning at me like he’s trying to place who I am. Near him, a pocket of men are being tended by Bastion’s sister—
Someone lunges at me from my other side, clasping my cloak, growling at me to wait my turn. Bastion knocks his hand away and begins to force a direct path to the doors. He lifts his whip, and I yank his arm back down. “I’m a healer,” I say. “I’m here to aid you.”
I open one of the boxes, and at the sight of my sparkling capsules, they gasp and make way for me.
There are more pallets than before. Bathed in candlelight, pallid faces flicker with relief as I walk by.
“Cael!” Olyn picks herself up from where she was kneeling by a patient. She rushes over, nervous, but also like I’m a ray of light.
I explain which capsules are for which symptoms, and we make rounds—inside and outside the luminarium—delivering them.
A family of four have been earlier moved to nearby cottage. They have patches of blueish scales forming, and their condition is worsening rapidly. My stomach sinks as I look them over. They’ll make it through the night. But can they hold out another?
I thank Olyn again for separating the critical from the rest.
She whispers, “Without the herbs . . .”
I smile stiffly. “Soon.” I need her to keep her spirits too. Her positivity will pass on.
I keep my voice collected and encourage the family to sleep. When I shut the front door of the cottage, my sigh is long and foggy in the night air.
With heavy steps, I trudge to where the mother and daughter are waiting for me.
It’s a dimly lit place. Two rooms, and the air is thick. The smell of burning leaves in the hearth mostly masks the scent of rotting fish.
A gust howls through the cracks. Mother and daughter lie huddled on a rough-hewn bed of straw. The child is frail, feverish, with an arm around her mother. She chokes on a feeble whine.
The mother’s breaths are laboured, rustling, but she still tries. “The healer promised. Sleep now.”
I approach with a helpless, silent sigh, and make my presence known.
Swollen eyes shift to me, and the daughter pushes herself into a sitting position with shaky arms.
With trembling hands, I open a pouch hanging from my waist and pluck out a few shimmering capsules. I pass them to the girl and murmur for her to swallow them, they’ll help keep her symptoms from worsening. She takes the capsules and hurriedly tries to force them into her mother’s mouth. My throat tightens; I lay a gentle hand on her. “You take those ones. I’ll do what I can for your mother.”
I pull at every thread of magic within me, the pain sharp and unrelenting as it courses through my veins. I push it into her, desperate to feel some response—anything.
It’s a pebble dropped in a lake. Barely a ripple of effect.
Her breath falters.
“Mama? Mama?”
She manages a faint smile for her daughter, a tear leaking from her eye. “Love... you... always.”
I try again, with other herbs, maybe one of them will work...
Her breathing becomes shallower.
Her eyes grow vacant.
“Please,” I whisper, pouring useless spells into her. “Please don’t—”
The daughter throws her arms around her mother and sobs into her breast as she gives a last quiet breath.
I drop my hands, spell dissipating into a whiff, like a snuffed candle.
The daughter wails, and wails, and I stare listless until she collapses under the weight of her grief. I lift her into my arms. It breaks my heart to pull her away onto a straw mat in the next room, but seeing her lifeless mother is making her frantic, and it’s triggering her symptoms to worsen.
I’ve lost one. I can’t lose her daughter too.
I lay her down and cast a spell.