Chapter 56
T he next morning we say our goodbyes and leave the magistrate’s office on foot, hoods pulled low.
Redcloaks are checking everyone at the gates and all throughout the town; we’re stopped at the canal, the soldier frowning at hunched, cane-holding Quin.
The soldier yelps. “You’re the old man on the boat! They came, like you said. The spirits, they came.” He steps closer to us and clasps his hands together. He wants Quin to do his reading. “Please, please.”
My heart races. Every moment we linger draws attention; gives him time to recall my face and put the pieces of that act together.
I keep my head bowed and tug my hood lower over my eyes—
“Assistance!” The call is loud and startling. The redcloak’s attention is swiftly diverted by a figure in crimson cutting the dozen yards between us.
It’s Megaera. Her gaze glides over us and lands firmly on the redcloak. She pulls a badge from her belt and holds it for inspection. “Emblem of the regent,” she says. “Obey.”
The redcloak takes in the badge and immediately prostrates himself.
“The runaway is headed towards the east gate,” she says. “Gather your men.”
With a fleeting glance our way, she and the redcloak depart in a rush. We move swiftly, and I look over my shoulder at their retreating figures.
Megaera seems to be someone who appears and disappears at crucial moments in my life, somehow entangled with me even if I don’t want it. I’m still bitter at what she’s taken from Quin, but... helping her has at least helped us here. It’s something. But how I wish she’d take a page from Maskios and leave my life for good.
The sudden thought of him follows me as we hurry along the riverbank, my boots crunching over loose stones. By the time we reach the waiting boat, memories are clinging to me like the damp air. Something Quin seems to notice as we untie the rope and set forth. “What are you thinking?”
I look over at him and recollect our departure from the capital. Why can’t I be Calix Solin? It’s a mask I’ve worn before.
It’s not your mask to wear.
Slow shivers slink through me, and I have to shake them off. Maskios is gone. He doesn’t mean anything. He would return if he really wanted to.
Quin murmurs, “It seems to have stolen your mind.”
“It hasn’t stolen my mind!” I rush out, swallowing. “I’m just contemplating what comes next.”
Quin watches me for a long moment, unconvinced, but whatever he thinks, he lets it go. “Most of my supporters are in Hinsard. Once I’ve secured witnesses proving my uncle’s schemes to destabilise the kingdom, the city will be key to my return to the capital.”
“Due to the power of Veronica’s family?”
“Her family and their soldiers are among my biggest allies. The redcloak units my brother used to command are also based there, along with others who are loyal.”
I dip my fingers into pulling water and they flex, my gloves momentarily heavy. The rare material wicks off the moisture the moment I pull my hand away from the surface.
“You’re frowning,” Quin says.
“Your uncle sending soldiers from the borders back to Hinsard... aren’t they his loyalists? Will there be warring between units? Is he trying to curb the last of your power?”
Quin’s jaw twitches determinedly. “I won’t let that happen.”
We pass through gnarled woods, morning sun turning to afternoon sun, casting golden rays between tree trunks. Mystical, and a little... foreboding. There’s movement beyond. Deer, hopefully. I shiver quietly, and distract myself. “If Hinsard is your stronghold, will many recognise you?”
“Those that do will be sure to respect my alias.”
“What will your alias be?” How many do you have? “Travelling merchant again?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“You could shave your hair off and say you’re on a pilgrimage to all five spiritual sites.”
“Why are you intent on ruining my hair?”
“What about a messenger? Or an aklo? Say you work for Veronica’s father.”
“I need more status for my purposes.”
“Suppose that rules out jester.” I sigh, smiling. “Pity. You’re spectacular dolled up, playing my wife. Speaking of, how exactly did you get my golden feather back? Even saving his life didn’t compel him to give it to me...”
“I visited him.”
“As . . . my wife?”
“As his king. Some buried wine the vespertines discovered that morning gave me the idea. I had someone leave a pot where our dear farmer would find it. When he did, I was informed and made my way to a few houses along the street thanking the people for their trust.”
I smirk. He clears his throat and continues, “When it came to thanking him, of course he flurried about to offer me the best of what he had. I noticed the wine, gushed about the quality, and we got to drinking.”
“You drank him under the table and stole the feather?”
“What kind of king would do something so underhand?”
“Yes, since everything else was above board.”
Quin leans forward and I jerk myself away before he can land a flick. “I steered our conversation until he brought out the golden feather for me to admire. At that point, I declared I must have it.”
“He gave it to you?”
“As you said, he wouldn’t even give it to his saviour.” Quin grimaces. “I bought it off him.”
I feel my inner cloak for the money Megaera returned—the only money we have. “How did you get your hands on it? How much did you spend?”
Quin stares at me, and then, “Does it matter?”
I start counting our money. “We need this to reach Hinsard.”
“It’s supposed to be your priceless love token.”
I pause, stiffen, and stuff the money away. I watch the water flowing past us, rippling through the calm. “How much did you spend?”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t take the money I gave you. I paid him with a certified and sealed exemption from a year of taxes.”
I glide my hand into the water again. “The king can be useful.”
This time his flick gets me smack in the middle of my forehead; I rub it, scowling at him while trying not to grin.
The boat groans as we round a bend in the canal, and we’re quiet for a stretch. I pluck a few bundles of herbs from the passing banks, and Quin stares ahead, not to the view of the woods, but into a middle distance, where he gathers his thoughts; makes plans.
After a day’s journeying, we reach a small inn nestled among trees. Smoke curls languidly from the chimney, and the sound of rustic music along with the scent of cooking stew promises sanctuary. We’re finishing a hearty meal near the hearth when a group of redcloaks enters, requesting meals and spaces to sleep.
I duck my head and quietly observe the soldiers from behind my cup.
“Where are the others?” one barks. “They should’ve been here hours ago.”
“Do you think . . .?” A gulp.
A fist bangs on the table. “If crusaders think they can take down all of us, they’ve another thing coming.”
“They captured twelve at once. They’re at least that capable.”
“Those were non-linea new recruits, only fit for delivering food relief. True soldiers would fight them to their demise.”
Quin shifts sharply. My stomach tightens too.
Water splashes over the lip of my cup. Quin’s expression is pensive.
“I don’t have a good feeling,” another redcloak says. “I think they only captured the first lot to lure more of us to get them back. I think as soon as they catch enough of us, they kill everyone—”
“Help. Quick!” The startling yells are coming from outside. “They’ve been taken!”
The soldiers jump to their feet, hands landing on their weapons as they rush out. Quin swiftly follows with his cane, raising his hood, and I’m on his heels. Three more redcloaks, battered, bruised and bloody, are grabbing at their comrades’ cloaks.
“We tracked them to the old fortress at the base of Crysippos. Four of ours were snatched, two with magic tried to fight, but against so many...” The bloodied redcloak gestures to the lifeless body they brought back. “The others were dragged underground.”
“How many crusaders?” the captain barks.
“Sixty, at least. Maybe a hundred.”
My heart rams against my chest. Nicostratus.
“We’ll attack tonight. We won’t let them take our men.”
They rally together and ride, two by two, into the woods. Quin ushers me with urgency back to the boat and uses the air to shuttle us at speed along the water. Bile races up my throat when I think of Nicostratus battered and bloodied, or worse...
Sternly silent, Quin steers us down forks of the canal to a narrow, concealed gully. Towering trees form a canopy overhead and splashes of sunset fall on the still water. The air is thick with damp earth and over the creaks of the boat come distant shouts.
I wish I could jump out, race into the crumbling fortress I glimpse through the trees and snatch Nicostratus to safety. Quin, reading my mind, warns me with a shake of his head.
“You’ve been here before,” I choke out as Quin brings the boat alongside a wall of cascading vines and roots; he pulls at them, revealing a concealed entrance.
“As children,” he says with a note of pain in his voice. “We stopped here on our annual journey to Hinsard.”
“The two of you?”
“And our aklos. They played dice while we explored the ruins.” He shoves the rusted gate open. A dark tunnel stretches behind it. “It’s been many years, but I’m sure I know where they’ll be held.”
I rise quickly, wobbling the boat, and Quin pulls me back into a crouch. “Wait.”
“Nicostratus is somewhere in there.”
“Crusaders are vicious.”
“All the more reason—”
“Calm yourself. Look at me.” I look at him. His gaze is dark and steady. “As long as I stand, no one will hurt my brother.”
I swallow, and I’m hit with the memory of Quin abandoning me on the rooftops during the lovelight festival. How urgently he’d leapt onto his horse and galloped through the capital to the royal city. He’d done it to save his brother then. He’d do the same now.
I nod. “What are we—”
Metallic clashes and the roars of men travel through the ruins to the gully. Shouts echo down the tunnels, sending fighters to the front and side gates. The sounds of armour being grabbed from walls and retreating footsteps has Quin urging me out of the boat. I pass him his cane and duck into the tunnel, faint torchlight from deeper within our only guide.
The walls are wet with damp. Moss and lichen cling to them. We move awkwardly, trying to keep our steps and the cane from giving us away. The tunnel twists and dips and rises until we’re in the shadows looking in at an underground chamber. Torches glow solemnly against vine-choked stone walls and two purple-robed figures spar, the older calling out instructions to a smooth-faced youth on how better to hold his weapon.
Quin and I press close in the shadows, his hand stilling mine around the wrist. He whispers in my ear. “There are robes and armour opposite us. When they start sparring again, grab them. We’ll use them to get closer to the prisoners.”
The boy and his master continue practice fighting, but at shouts from outside, the boy drops his weapon and shields himself. “Please, uncle. I don’t want to go out there.”
“Pick up your spear, Zenon! Fight for freedom.” The master twirls his spear around and when his back turns to me, I dash to the hooks and pull two robes off.
At the dinging of metal as the pair begin again, we slip into the robes. They tie at the waist with dyed rope. If there are less than a hundred crusaders here, we need to be careful not to show our faces. I rip a couple of strips off my undershirt, slash my arm and rub blood over the material. At Quin’s hitched breath, I turn and tie one of the strips around his face, and hurriedly do the same to mine.
Quin grabs my wrist over the surface wound, then lifts his bloodied fingers and smears more around my face. He speaks quietly as he lifts my hood up for me. “Don’t reveal your magic.”
Master and boy spar into one of the forking tunnels, and abandoning his cane, Quin and I use the opportunity to slip into the main chamber. Prison . Thick bars line one wall and behind them more than a dozen redcloaks grip and shake the metal. Another tries to unpick the lock while master and son are out of sight.
I spy a set of keys hanging between torches, and lunge for them.
I turn and throw them to Quin hobbling along the cells.
“What’s going on here?” Master and boy have returned.
I keep my head bowed, voice raspy. “All redcloaks to be brought outside. A demonstration.”
I’m eyed suspiciously. Master is about to speak when Quin gruffly interjects. “At once.” He unlocks the cell and bellows for the men inside to line up and keep an orderly pace. “Anyone falling out of line won’t make it to the courtyard.”
Master and son eye one another, and the master steps forward. “We’ll fight with our lives.”
The boy shrinks, and my teeth grind. “Captain says to protect the child down here.”
“Boy’s ready to fight for justice.”
He’s too young. He doesn’t want to. I won’t let him, if I can help it. I pitch my voice to sound nonchalant. “Sure. But you know how the captain is. Will you defy his order?”
Master grunts unhappily, and hiding his extreme discomfort, Quin hauls heavily beaten redcloaks out. He glances at me and subtly gestures to two remaining prisoners in a corner. One I can tell immediately is dead, body stiff, eyes glazed. The other is slumped, limbs shaking under his cloak. His hand is bloodied and squeezed tight around... a ribbon. A silver mourning ribbon .
My stomach dips. It takes all my effort to keep my gait even, steady, as if I don’t care. “Everyone out,” I bark, bending over Nicostratus’s sickly, cold figure. “Including you. Up.”
My voice is harsh, but my fingers are gentle as I take hold of his arm and help him into a sitting position. I want to help him, heal his internal bleeding, his cuts and scrapes, warm him through. But I heed Quin’s warning—no magic—and heave him to his feet. He’s unsteady; he falls heavily against me. He doesn’t cease clutching the ribbon and it flutters between us.
Ahead, Quin barks orders, snapping me into action. I whisper, using his voice as cover, “Nicostratus, we’ve got you. You’ll be alright.”
His eyes flutter open and his head rolls back. “Amuletos,” he mouths. “I followed you.” Followed me... “At least, I can be happy now.”
He thinks he’s dead.
The reality is too much to explain in whispers while he comes in and out of consciousness. Instead, I murmur, “Help me move you.”
He chuckles and blood seeps from a wound on his shoulder, but he finds enough energy to stagger to the end of the redcloak line and through underground chambers that curve and rise until we feel swirling air and taste the scent of battle among the old fortress ruins, layered in violet as night sets in.
Quin rips off his purple robe and commands the surprised redcloaks to grab anything they can use to fight. “They won’t expect you—help the comrades who came to save you. Free yourselves.”
They’re a blur of movement and war cries as they charge over the crumbling fortress courtyard. Purple robes whisk around at the surprise attack. Blades clash against rock and iron sconces, and fiery torches. Quin spies a route out, but before he can whisk Nicostratus and me away, crusaders bear down on us, sharp spears glittering.
He blasts them away, but the bright flash of magic draws the attention and priority of the crusaders; they shove the gates closed on half the fighting redcloaks to focus on the magical threat—the thing they most want to get rid of in this world.
Nicostratus shudders in my arms and falls to his knees, clutching his stomach. There’s danger in showing my spiritual power. More crusaders will come, will turn their attention to us. But Nicostratus’s breaths are ragged. He’s losing consciousness. His internal injuries are worsening. He’ll pass away within minutes...
My hand glows with a gathering spell. I stack quickly to heal the worst tear inside of him.
“Amuletos,” Nicostratus warns on a grimace of pain.
“Keep still.”
The spell funnels into him, knitting his wound—
A glint of metal catches my spell-focused gaze. It’s coming from the purple-robed master from the cells, who must have felt something was off. He’s emerged from the underground with a cry of outrage, and his spear is aimed at Nicostratus’s heaving back.
“Quin!” I yell as I throw out a shield. The spear crashes against it and bounces off, but the force of his hit ricochets through my bones and my shield collapses.
The spear strikes again, my shield forms too slow—
Quin whirls on the wind and blasts the master; he skids across the courtyard back into the underground entrance.
More are crushing in, surrounding us.
Quin grabs his brother around the waist with one arm, and me with his other. A forceful twister lifts the three of us into the air. Such a surge of magic! It’ll drain him. Already our rise is not swift... Quin is close to exhaustion . He’s injured.
Through swirling air I spy the first ring of crusaders bracing against the wind, the second and third rings throwing their spears towards us. Most are blasted away, but the master is back and his spear hurtles toward Quin’s chest, breaking clean through the twisting air. It will hit Quin; it will pierce his middle. It will kill him.
Urgency, fear, and instinct rattle through me in a single breath, and I fling my outer arm around Quin’s neck, crushing myself into a hug against his body.
“Heal your people,” I croak into his neck just before the spear pierces between my shoulder blades, slicing though flesh and bone.
Searing agony lances through me, and my words turn into a cry.
My vision comes in and out of focus. I hear agonised yells from a distance—my name, over and over. I sag. Gravity and pain race through me, but I never hit ground. I’m held tightly. Green forest blurs under me. The sky is dark; speckles of stars coming out. Am I becoming one?
Blood tickles down my back and the metallic scent fills my nose. Pain turns to numbness.
My life is slipping away.
But Quin, Nicostratus... they are safe. We’re far from the ruins, and the crusaders.
More pressure surrounds me. My wispy breaths taste familiar, pleasant. A comforting scent to leave the world with.
“How many times do I have to say it?” Quin’s voice trembles, fierce and raw, and I try to hook onto it like it’ll anchor me to this world. But my hearing fades into a sharp ringing in my ears, and my body feels like it’s falling off a cliff awaiting the final crash.
His voice chases after me. “ Your life is mine .”
I use the last of my energy to curl my lips.