Chapter 4 #2
Quin musters the wind to slam the dog to the ground. Its ribs heave; blood mats its fur. It howls in agony, and there’s a swollen abscess on its back. I murmur, “I can help it.”
Quin glances at me, his brows furrowing. “It could rip your throat out.”
Our gazes clash, a challenge sparking between us. “So don’t let it.”
For a moment, he grimaces, magic pressing harder against the dog, as if to end it. Then, with a mutter, the winds cease. A flick of his fingers, and golden threads of magic lash around the dog like a net.
Forcing a grin, I step closer to the shuddering creature.
“My spell will clash with yours.” I glance at Quin, his lazily shifting fingers. “Can you hold steady?”
Quin laughs; power hums.
I summon my spell and funnel it through Quin’s. The two merge smoothly—his blazing hot and gold, mine cool and calm.
His makes my own feel supported, stronger . . .
My pulse hitches and with it my magic jolts, a painful collision that lances through me. I almost drop my spell. Quin’s magic flares like a pocket under mine, lifting it, holding it in place.
“Focus,” he says. The punch of authority steels my resolve; his keen scrutiny has me rising to the challenge. I needle the spell under the abscess on the dog’s back. Our magic slides seamlessly together until I pull out and it repels.
“You’re overpowering,” I mutter.
He just laughs. “That’s nothing.”
The abscess bursts and drains. “Pull back,” I grind out, trying not to let the strain show in my voice.
“I’ll be gentle,” Quin retorts.
The dog whines softly, its pain easing as the last of our spells release. I feel strangely hollow when it’s done.
I shake off the feeling and collapse into Akilah’s waiting arms, my legs trembling with exhaustion.
She presses sugared ginger to my lips, a sharp sweetness, and Frederica ushers us inside to eat and rest. Quin follows, gaze a hot prickle at my back; I look over my shoulder sharply to catch him in the act, but he’s snapping off into another room, calling for his aklos.
Herb-stuffed chicken is the main event at dinner, and between it and the bone-broth, my energy is restored. Akilah, seated next to me, leans in and whispers under the chorus of conversing guests. “Where did that haughty man go?”
I shake my head.
“What’s wrong with him, do you think?”
I lift a silver spoon between us. “Grew up with one of these in his mouth?”
She snickers.
I weigh the spoon, frowning. “He moves like a fighter—the cane’s about pain, not weakness—and that surge of power earlier tasted similar to the night of the branded redcloaks.”
Frantic banging echoes through the bones of the manor. Our hostess rises from the table with apologies; I flash my teeth at Akilah, who sighs and follows me.
Around a corner on the way to the foyer we collide with Quin. He halts, blocking the narrow corridor, filling it with his presence. There’s a weight in it that has Akilah lurching back a step.
I, on the other hand, follow the impulse to push on. “We’re making sure the mistress of the house isn’t bothered. Again.”
Quin’s eyes flash and I glare. He snaps toward the source of the ruckus, and we sneak along beside him.
From the yard, a distant shout: “Luminists are on the road!”
Frederica stands on the threshold, her hand resting on the head of a young akla kneeling in the pool of light falling from the open door. “Deep breath. Tell me what the matter is.”
“My master, he fell—we found him alive, but he won’t wake up. We’re all so scared. Please, he’s like a father to me. Master Hrafn has tried shaking him and yelling but—”
“Don’t shake him.” The akla looks around Frederica’s skirts to me. “You need a vitalian.”
She shakes her head and shuffles toward me.
I’m already gesturing to a sighing Akilah to grab our belongings.
She doesn’t move though. Instead, she comes closer and whispers in my ear. “After the earthquake, they’ll be patrolling.”
The threat of that has my stomach tightening.
I look at the distraught akla. I could never leave a person to die. “I’m not a vitalian,” I say, offering her a sympathetic smile. “But I can try.”
Quin’s brows lift and he catches my eye.
I level him a look. “Are you going to tell on me?”
He tips his head and laughs heavily.
I look over at Frederica; her gaze darts rapidly between Quin and me. “Do you have any powdered frostbloom?”
Quin cuts in sharply. “I have everything you need.”
We go by boat to the house of the akla’s master. The cottage is small, surrounded by fields of lavender; the rich scent mingles with the metallic tang of blood.
We’re greeted by a tall, fair-headed man with the forever-beauty of those hailing from the kingdom of Iskaldir. But while it’s beautiful, it’s also contorted with worry.
“Wait,” he says between sniffs, “you’re not linea?”
I pat a fist over my heart, in Iskaldir-Skeldar respect, something I know because half my family hail from there. “I’m not an official vitalian, but I could help your . . .”
Master Hrafn clears his throat. “My cousin.”
I scan the cramped room, my gaze lifting to find Quin strolling the shadowy space, watching me intently.
Master Hrafn’s expression pinches. He shakes his head. “I can’t let a par-linea treat Bjorn.”
Quin snarls, and I cut over him, “May I ask why, sir?”
“The luminists say par-linea spells are curses,” he says, hushed.
I ought to have expected this; I’d assumed Master Hrafn would care more that there is someone who could save his . . . cousin.
“You might cure one thing for a time,” he carries on, “but inevitably the patient dies.”
“Inevitably, we all die.”
Master Hrafn sucks in a sharp breath; I lower my gaze and try a less cutting approach.
“What you are referring to are baseless folktales and preachings, propagated by official vitalians to ensure their authority doesn’t take a dive, and luminists who are afraid of being demoted in their next life.
Don’t let your Bjorn suffer because of them. ”
“You want me to trust you? We left Iskaldir for Lumin’s spiritual superiority. How can I risk his life on your word alone?”
“You’re not the only one afraid. I am the first anyone will blame if he does not survive.”
Master Hrafn frowns; Quin lounges against a beam, watching me shrewdly. He gives a commanding swish of his hand.
Apparently, an exquisite summer cloak and finely tailored clothes are enough to trump a luminist’s preachings.
Hrafn leads me to the next chamber. Bjorn lies on the narrow bed, his pallor waxy, his breaths fragile. The luminist threat still lingers in the back of my mind, but I push the thought down. This man doesn’t have time for my fear.
I take his pulse. Slow, unsteady.
“Close the windows,” I order. “Too much lavender’s making him drowsier. I need clean water—boiled—immediately. And Quin—” I glance over at him, lounging with infuriating calm against a doorframe. “Have Akilah bring in your apothecary chest.”
Quin raises an eyebrow but gives a sharp nod to one of his aklos outside the door.
“There’s a physic’s treasure-trove in there,” Akilah whispers as she sets the chest down with a puff. “Who is he exactly?”
“Someone,” Quin drawls, “who could buy your master and make him my personal aklo.”
I pull out frostbloom and thornwort. “Save your money.”
“Trust me,” Akilah adds, pushing herself up against my shoulder, “this one is shameless. He’ll only get you into trouble.”
The mention of trouble has Master Hrafn tensing. I find his gaze and hold it.
He hesitates and steps back with a short nod of permission.
Akilah moves out into the yard—no doubt to play sentinel—and I kneel before Bjorn.
The wound at his side weeps, the torn flesh sluggish to respond even as the spell takes hold.
Blue light swirls at my fingertips, faint and unstable, and I grit my teeth.
This spell demands focus, but the tight knot of unease in my chest only grows.
The luminists can’t know I’m here, but my magic must be making the whole cottage thrum and glow.
“Will you finish anytime today?” Quin’s voice cuts through the tension. He’s still relaxed, but he watches me with an unsettling intensity, as if he’s cataloguing every movement.
“If you’ve got capacity to insult, you can make yourself useful,” I snap, not looking up. “Stand guard and make sure no one interrupts.”
“Apparently you see me as your own personal aklo,” he replies, his voice dry. But to my surprise, he straightens, and canes toward the door.
“Thank you,” I mutter.
As the spell stabilises, Bjorn’s pulse improves under my fingers. Relief floods through me, but it’s not over yet. There’s another spell to go. First, though, my body needs to absorb enough of the idleflower nectar I just drank.
Master Hrafn stays at Bjorn’s side, holding his hand, murmuring to him softly. I leave him a moment of privacy, returning to the front chamber where Quin is stationed at a crack in the shuttered window.
He stands like a statue carved by a master’s hand, the flicker of lantern light glancing off his sharp angles and smooth lines. His gaze is rooted on the outside, but his expression is distant, as though he’s deep in troubled thoughts.
There’s a stillness about him that makes me want to lean in and prod him, see if he can still move. I don’t try. I watch, and the silence stretching between us feels taut and prickly.
“Something you want to say?” he asks, turning his head sharply.
I yank my eyes away from him to the shutters and then around the room in a frantic search for Akilah.
“Do you refuse to speak, or are you afraid?”
I snap my gaze to his. Afraid! “Thank you for your escort here, and for the frostbloom.”
“Don’t think this means I like you,” Quin says, his lips twisting wryly.
I laugh. “If this should turn to friendship, I’d have a lot to explain.”
Sound approaching the cottage pulls our gazes apart. Quin checks out the window, his sharp eyes narrowing.
The first chime of a luminist’s handbell freezes me in place. My blood chills.
Quin’s gaze moves between me and Hrafn as he comes into the room, eyes wide with panic.
The bell chimes again, closer this time, its steady rhythm like a funeral march. Possibly an omen of my own to come. Quin moves to the door, his cane snicking the floor at measured intervals. He pauses at the threshold, his broad frame blocking the view outside.
“Awaken Bjorn,” he commands.
“Not yet,” I hiss. “I just delivered the first spell. I’m still—”
“You don’t have time. Either he wakes, or the luminists will try dragging us all to the capital for judgement.”
The air thickens with fear as I bend over Bjorn, channelling the spell’s final layer, my hands trembling. I pull at every bit of idleflower nectar in my system and press it into him, willing the magic to hold, to be enough.
“Come on,” I whisper to Bjorn—and to myself. “Come on.”
The sound of the bell stops. Muffled voices. Quin steps back into the bedchamber, his expression unreadable.
“Akilah,” he says, calm despite the crackling tension. “But she won’t hold them long.”
Bjorn stirs, his lashes fluttering, and I sag with relief.
“He’s waking,” I tell Hrafn, who falls to his knees beside the bed, tears streaking his face.
A sharp knock at the door cuts through the moment.
Quin’s gaze snaps to mine. “Finished?”
“Barely,” I admit, my chest heaving. “But if they see me—”
“They won’t,” Quin promises, his voice firm. He glances at Hrafn. “Get rid of them. Say whatever you must. Send Akilah back in here.”
Hrafn stammers, his fear palpable, but he obeys, stepping out to greet the luminists.
Quin’s calm facade falters for a moment. He grips his cane tighter, his knuckles whitening. “Take Akilah and go,” he orders. “The back door leads to the river where we left the boat. Be careful.”
“What about you?” I ask, my voice low.
Quin fixes me with a look that’s equal parts annoyance and something I can’t quite name. “Think I can’t handle a few luminists?”
His self-assurance is infuriating, but the weight of his tone has me ready to follow orders.
Before I can respond, Akilah bursts into the room, her face pale. The luminists must have frightened her.
“Not just luminists,” she says, reading my mind. “Frederica sent an aklo after us.” She trembles as she holds the paper. “Your niece, Lucetta, she was injured in the earthshake.”