Chapter 7
After that day at Thinking Hall with Quin, par-linea rang in my head like a struck bell. I could not shake how one small word ruled me. Then Silvius found me again, and the word softened; less verdict, more possibility.
Over the next half year, life is good. Silvius crosses my path whenever he can arrange it.
His laughter feels like warmth breaking through my chill, leaving me giddy and glowing.
His kindness stands in sharp contrast to his keen martial skill.
I know, deep down, he only uses force when every other path to peace has closed.
His smile slays indiscriminately; I shake my head and grin anyway.
He sneaks me out of my home whenever he can, careful Father never catches on. With his cloak over my shoulders, I walk into Thinking Hall or Pavilion Library as if I was born with the right, without so much as a second glance from the guards.
But he never comes inside with me.
He lingers in the shadows, as if there is a line he refuses to cross, some secret he is keeping. He does not share it. Sometimes, I think of Maskios before I can stop myself, and my mind stitches one silhouette to the other.
Sometimes I hope . . .
Sometimes, I don’t.
Silvius takes my hands. “It has been forever since I could trust someone,” he says quietly. “It is nice not to feel so alone anymore. It is nice to have met you.” Then, as always, “I have to go again. For a while.”
For the last month, I have headed to Pavilion Library alone.
Without Silvius it feels riskier. I have a soldad token, the guards’ stamped writ that grants access, but I do not have the breeding or the trappings to belong here.
A borrowed cloak may conceal that, yet it feels like a thin skin over a quietly festering wound. Any moment, my truth might break out.
Still, the lure to learn is too strong. I devour the theoretical texts, memorising the five foundations of medicinal magic until they feel etched into my bones.
By spring, I am immersed in the preservation and transportation of vitalian spells.
I sketch the lattice for a capsulised pain-draught, practising the steady pinch that keeps heat from bucking loose.
Hours blur. I have not slept much; exhaustion has me resting my eyes atop my books. Just for a moment. When Taffy’s purring wakes me, I blink into the hazy light of dawn.
I stretch up from a dense essay on capsulising magic and lay a cooling simplex spell for the ache in my neck. Soon I will have a way to send spells to Frederica, useful on her farm estate. I am also building one for Megaera’s father.
There are not enough spells in the world to ease the guilt of the lies I keep telling my family. If I can move somewhere no one knows me, start a vitaliary and send money back, I can make sure they never lose our home or go without complex healing again.
Evander’s fur-lined cloak lends me countenance as I head to the public gardens for practice.
Evander indulges my questions and pretends not to notice the hours I keep.
It is risky. The wrong spell at the wrong time and I will be carted off to the courts, but it is early, and I need room to perfect this technique.
The spell steams in my hand; I release it too fast. It is meant to hover before me and condense into a pebble. Instead, it veers and strikes a plum tree. A thousand blossoms shiver loose and rain onto the grass.
I scan the walkways and breathe out when no one turns.
A gardener’s whistle carries from beyond the hedge.
I hurry. The spell gathers more steadily this time, faint pulses of light drawing down to a pebble in my palm.
Somewhere, a cane ticks softly against stone, and a faint thread of awareness rides through my veins.
A bark splits the air.
My fragile spell wobbles as a dog bounds toward me. I shove the magic aside, but it implodes mid-air with a sharp bang. The dog yelps and bolts to an elegantly dressed woman rushing into view.
“What did you do to him?” she cries, glaring as she kneels to calm her frightened pet.
“It was an accident,” I say, keeping my voice even. “He is not harmed.”
“An accident?” Her voice rises, and two men emerge from the trees. “You spelled my dog!”
One man hesitates before stepping closer, his grip firm on my arm. My heart ticks faster.
“The spell wasn’t meant for the dog,” I say evenly, forcing my mind to race ahead. “It’s a practice spell.”
She narrows her eyes.
“My master ordered me here,” I lie smoothly, “he can confirm. It was an accident. He won’t take kindly to his servant being unjustly accused.”
Her companions exchange a glance. One clears his throat.
“Let’s meet this master of yours,” she demands.
The men loosen their grip, and I lead them toward the library, silent prayers on my lips.
A few scholars are perusing the books, but there’s no sign of Skriniaris Evander, or his cat. I search every room, Mistress and her men growing increasingly impatient behind me. Not outside either. No one here, except—
My breath catches in my throat. There, in a rose-draped pavilion, sits Quin, his impeccable attire at odds with the faint smirk playing at his lips. That same unforgettable arrogance. He’s just as I remember him.
Before the men can close their fists around me again, I stride confidently towards the pavilion. It’s a long shot, but I must try. Hopefully I didn’t offend him too grossly last time.
Hopefully he recalls me at all.
I call for his attention a dozen steps from the shade-dappled pavilion. “Master!”
His eyes snap up from his book, dark and observant. He doesn’t so much as blink in surprise.
“That spell you wanted me to practice backfired,” I say with a pout.
“It frightened this mistress and her dog, and now she thinks I spelled them intentionally.” I drop to my knees, almost knocking over the cane resting against the table.
I catch and resettle it, and lift my eyes to his; I lower them in subservience as Mistress and company crowd in behind me.
I hold my breath.
Quin is quiet for a long-drawn moment, and then he laughs. His steady palm comes down atop my head. Fingers slide down my face and pinch my chin, steering my eyes to his proud ones.
He looks over my head at my accusers. “Give me your side of the story.”
She does so, elaborating extensively.
Quin raises a brow. “Almost killed you and your dog? How positively villainous.”
“He ought to be punished. Prevented from ever using magic again.”
That might be . . . worse than execution.
I grimace, my eyes fixing imploringly on Quin. His narrow on Mistress while he strokes my cheek absently. “He wouldn’t harm even the most rabid dog.”
Mistress sucks in a peeved breath. “There’s a half-fallen tree to prove his crime. Not just any tree either, the celebrated plum tree the queen consort moved from the royal gardens to celebrate the birth of her son!”
I wince. There is such a tree? I’ve inadvertently maimed Veronica’s gift to the public? Queen Veronica, now. She’s no longer the young girl, devoted to all things plum, that I once played with.
I let out a long breath. Perhaps this is fate and the news will reach her. Perhaps she’ll shake her head and remember fondly the fixes I get myself into. Perhaps the universe is allowing us to communicate again.
“Look! See, he’s smiling. Such evil needs to be weeded out.”
I drop my smile. “What tragedy has befallen you to be this vindictive?”
“You—”
“Neither you nor your dog are so much as bruised. Show mercy and drop this.”
“He dares talk back!” Mistress steps close and swings a flat hand—
Quin snatches her wrist and bends it away from me, forcing her to gasp and buckle back.
“No one touches him.”
“But—”
“This was an accident.”
“Let’s see you say that when his spell blows up in your face!”
Quin’s gaze turns icy as he slowly and deliberately rolls up his sleeve. His wrist, pale against the fine silk, stretches towards me. “Do it,” he murmurs.
The pavilion feels too quiet as I shuffle closer, my fingers sliding to the pulse in his wrist. His skin is cool, but his heartbeat ticks fast under my touch.
I peek up at his face. His eyes are on me, expression one of absolute conviction as he watches me.
But the pulse doesn’t lie. He’s aware he’s exposing some of his own secrets.
I swallow a tender lump and force myself to focus.
His pulse is strong and steady, if a little fast. I close my eyes and feel for disruptions.
Organs, fine. Digestion, regular. Bones strong.
His body is almost entirely in top form, it’s only—there.
A nerve blockage in his left leg. Inflammation causing extreme pain.
He could walk with the aid of a cane—but painfully. Sitting would be more comfortable.
Quin flinches almost imperceptibly as I slide my fingers further up his wrist, but I catch his quietly held breath. I glance up once more, a question before delving deeper into the reading. His mask of confidence is still perfectly in place; his eyes catch mine with a short nod of allowance.
I read deeper. My stomach sinks.
Poison. Not even the magic of a lovelight could fix this. The ancient spirits in immortal bone, possibly, but finding the petrified wood of violet oak is a miracle of its own.
My quiet sigh must drift over his wrist because he shifts impatiently; I hurriedly call up cloves, capsaicin, feverfew.
A simple pain remedy, but mixed with the hispid sanguinary Silvius gave me .
. . its potency will be unparalleled. Most mages transfer magic through the acupoints near the inflamed area, but to shocked gasps I remove Quin’s boot and find the three nerve points I need on his sole.
This will transport deeper. To the source.
The blockage will still be there, movement will remain difficult, but his pain will be temporarily relieved.
Quin inhales sharply, his eyes widening. I remind him of our audience.
“It’s what you had me practising, master.”
“There you have it,” he says to them. “Go.”
A gasp. “You should compensate—”
“For what?” Quin says quietly, eyes dark.
“My husband is Philaretos Monomachos—”
“Monomachos?”
Mistress smiles smugly.
An odd twist plays at Quin’s lips. “He’s low in the ranks.”
“How would you know?”
He leans forward, gaze tightening on her in a way that makes even me shiver. “I happen to be very close to his superior.”
Mistress smartens right up at the threat; with an aggrieved huff, she calls her dog and her men and leaves.
With the others gone, the air settles into an uneasy calm, broken only by birdsong and the rustle of leaves.
I push off my aching knees to wobbly feet, tension lingering in my chest. “I was afraid if I were brought to the notice of the courts, my par-linea status might be uncovered. Thank you. You saved my life.”
“If you’d spelled that woman, I’d call it godly comeuppance.”
“She was ruthless, but . . . I did give her a fright.”
“Why practice in those gardens at all? Why not here?”
I lean towards him, smirking. “These pavilions are far too pretty.”
“But the queen’s plum tree can be forfeited?”
My levity wanes. I slide on a remorseful, yet hopeful smile. “Thank you for not telling anyone about this?”
Quin shakes his head sharply, and for a heartbeat, I think he will tell, but then his lips curl into a huffed grimace. “You’re much too troublesome to die that easily.”
“The right amount of trouble for your . . . troubles?”
A single barked laugh escapes before he presses his lips into a firm line. “Could you possibly trouble me more?”
A flicker of something rises in my chest, like he’s goading me—like I want to rise to it. I swallow the heat down and step back.
Quin lifts his boot and slides his silk-socked foot inside. “Where did you learn to deliver relief like that?”
“It’s a commoner’s trick.”
“Oh?”
“Time to recover from ailments is not often possible. We’ll try anything to numb pain.”
“Never thought that’d lead to better medicating than the upper classes have access to.”
My jaw tightens. “For all I’m thankful for your help just now, please show some compassion.”
His eyes flash. “You—”
“Commoners might have ways to overcome pain, but they have those ways because they aren’t entitled time to heal the source of their troubles. Their life-expectancy is twenty years less than the nobility.”
Quin’s lips flatten into a tight line. “Going to call out your useless king again?”
I step back and incline my head. “I don’t need to.”
Quin flings the book he’d been reading against a beam, the sharp sound making me jump. “Do you think a kingdom can survive on canals and farmland alone?”
“It can’t survive on injustice,” I counter, stepping closer. “But you and your gold-threaded underpants wouldn’t understand, would you?”
The lines of Quin’s face grow harder, colder. “Do you think you’re the only one suffering under this kingdom’s flaws?”
His words cut deep, a flicker of something—frustration, guilt, something far heavier—breaking through his polished exterior before he sucks it back in again.
I tear my gaze from his. “I’ll leave first.”
“Get back here.”
I walk away calmly without looking back. “Thank you for your help,” I say, the distance growing between us. “I won’t bother you again.”
We might keep meeting, but I don’t need Quin in my life. I have Akilah, and fate has blessed me with Silvius too. These are people whose presence adds something to my life. Quin . . . only has a knack for getting under my skin.