Interlude
Late Autumn four years ago, Royal Woods
Thornwort only grows here—past the boundary pillars where redcloaks patrol—and Akilah needs it. I dig up a root, wipe mud on my cloak, and run.
Boots crash through brush behind me. Closer.
I skid into a small clearing and stop dead.
Someone else is here.
A young man stands at the cliff’s edge, still as carved stone, cloak and hair tugged by the wind.
Beautiful sight or not, he’s in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“Move,” I hiss, waving him toward the trees.
No response.
I wave again. Quick, urgent, pay attention!
He turns. Not startled. And offers me a single, assessing blink.
“Redcloaks! Hide, quick.”
Branches snap. The redcloaks are almost on us.
I run, catch his sleeve, and yank him into the shadow of a buttressed oak.
He hisses, bumping over a root, and we wedge into a narrow hollow, bodies pressed close, bark digging my spine.
I spill a pinch of pepperroot into my palm and blow it into the clearing—my grandfather’s trick.
Moments later, the patrol bursts through, sneezing and swearing. Swerving away from us.
Footsteps fade. I exhale.
I glance at the man I snatched to safety. A magic mask veils his features. Imperceptible to most, but I recognize the lattice of herbwork. I can name the notes without trying: wintergreen, ghost-iris, a thread of nightmint. An expensive mask.
I lean forward to breathe it in again and he jerks back. Suddenly, the scent around him sparks against my nose. Sharp and sour. Pain.
“Did you twist it?” I say. “Let me read your pulse.”
“No.” Steel-flat. One hand on the trunk, the other clamped over his right knee.
“The pain says otherwise.” I reach for my pouch.
“Leave it.” A lash of words, and something trembling underneath.
My hand falls. Silence blooms, small, bruised.
He angles his face and I feel the slightest hum of his mask.
“That isn’t your real face,” I breathe.
The space between us crackles.
“What are you doing?” he rasps, clearing his throat too quickly.
“Trying to understand what I’m looking at.” I tip my head. “Were they chasing you? Are you a wanted criminal?”
“What if I am?”
My pulse stutters, then steadies. “Then we’re both having a bad day.”
He almost smiles, and doesn’t. Outside, a distant whistle answers another. The patrol is circling back.
“Can you walk?” I ask.
He shifts his weight; the pain flares. “Well enough.”
“On three,” I whisper, already palming a second pinch of pepperroot. “Left, then down the river. Don’t touch the white nettle, it stings.”
His mouth tilts and his gaze feels . . . prickly on me. “You give orders easily.”
“Only when the alternative is being cutdown by redcloaks.” I blow the powder, grab his forearm, and we slip from the hollow.
We move quick and low, sliding through fern and shadow. At the river, I steady him over slick stone, then half-guide him into a gully veiled with hanging roots. We crouch, listening. The woods settle back into birdsong and drip.
He studies me.
“Oh, I’m Cael,” I say. “Who are you?”
A too-long pause. Then: “Calix Solin,” he says, like he’s tasting the name for the first time.
“Sure,” I murmur.
He shifts to stand. Pain spikes so hard I taste metal. Instinct moves faster than sense: I reach for his wrist, but he knocks my hand away, palm to palm, precise and light, and unarguable.
“No pulses,” he says softly.
“Fine.” I keep my distance, watching the flex of his throat. “Don’t lock the knee. Breathe on four.” I count it out—one, two, three, four—and his breathing matches, steadier by degrees.
“I’ll heal myself,” he says.
“Of course you will.” I tuck the thornwort deeper into my belt. “Preferably not where soldiers can find you.”
He glances toward the dim path through the trees. “You shouldn’t come back here.”
“I won’t,” I lie.
He notices. Something unreadable flickers in his eyes. “And don’t follow me either.”
“Is that a challenge?”
“A warning.”
We listen a last moment—no boots, no bells—just wind combing the canopy. He steps from the gully, favouring one leg but walking clean.
“Thank you, Cael,” he says without looking back.
“Any time,” I answer.
He vanishes into the trees. I keep the thornwort, and the question of what his face looks like behind the mask.