Chapter 18
The mist of tea dissipates and Quin stamps his cane across the space through gloomy shadows.
His boots are cut from cloth of gold, and the same garnet cloak that cushioned us on the rooftops is draped over his shoulders.
Undeniably aristocratic at a glance. No commoner actor-patient as for the first examinations.
He slows to a stop before me and stares down his nose. “You’ve become an official mage. You’ve proven yourself. Now quit.”
“Excuse me?”
His lips part, but before he can reply, his face contorts, eyes slamming shut. He doubles over with a gasp of pain, clutching his right side. He hisses against it.
I steer him into a seat. “This is an examination—the spell you took to weasel your way in here is causing real symptoms. What did you do with my original patient?”
“Bribe,” he says through clenched teeth.
I drop to my knees and take his pulse, sliding fingers under his sleeve, feeling the ripple of muscle in his very cold arm.
His pulse is slowing, growing sludgy like .
. . like he’s been submerged in ice. His liver is damaged, blood vessels burst. The spell he consumed is mimicking a stab wound, leaking a poison that’s freezing him.
A wound like that from an icicle dagger. Not any icicle dagger, one with spores from the breaths of frost-bats, a rare breed living only in the Chrysargos mountains. The pain must be incredible. I snap, “Why did you take his place?”
He unclenches his eyes and hooks my gaze, teeth gritted. “Quit.”
I yank off his boot and trigger the acupoints to help against the pain. “Do you have your flutette?”
His eyes snap to mine and hold, and then he steers his gaze away and grunts, “Why would I always carry it on me?”
I shake my head.
He shifts, and the scent of his pain overpowers my frustration. I take his pulse again.
I’ve only read about icicle dagger poisoning, and only in ancient texts.
It’s an ailment that hasn’t infected anyone for centuries.
If only my Poison Halting Miracle could target poisons based on animal spores.
I squint into my memories, seeing the heavy book in my hands, the ragged paper and worn ink . . .
Alas. This needs the excretion of snowy silkworms. Which are also extinct.
What herbs could mimic their effect?
Quin’s heart rate drops again. I quickly skate my fingers off him.
First mend the wound. The spores may be deadly, but they take much longer to infuse into the blood—they simply aren’t a priority.
“Don’t cure me yourself.”
I ignore him, call a stitching spell, and surge it into his wounded side.
He throws his head back with a sharp hiss.
His laboured breathing evens out and he pulls himself stubbornly upright, fighting the cold seeping deep into his bones.
Blue lips move as I call a warming spell to my fingertips. “Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s too dangerous in the palace.”
“Turned into my mother, have you?”
“Listen to her.”
I urge my spell towards him and he blocks it with a shift of his fingers. I glare at him, and try once more. He glares back at me as he blocks it again.
“You said I have no chance.”
“Of course you have a chance.”
“Then why did you—”
“You’re competitive.” He thwarts another of my attempts. “You’re bent on annoying me. Proving me wrong.”
“Then let me prove you wrong!”
“Can’t. Not now I know who you . . .” He rips his narrowed gaze away.
I take a calming breath. He’s one of the few in the royal city who is on Prince Nicostratus’s side. He’s concerned.
“Isn’t it better I get into the palace, where his uncle can see his every move, than risk him sneaking out to me and causing suspicion?”
His jaw clenches, his words slowing as the cold in him deepens. “If anyone finds out . . . Even if they think you’re just friends . . . You are an enemy.”
“How threatening can a par-linea be?” I sneak-attack him with a spell, but even half-frozen he’s too quick, reflecting it back my way. I duck and it blasts into the shelf, shattering a dozen jars.
“You’re someone to get rid of.” His teeth start chattering; the sound makes my stomach clench.
Not on my watch. I plant my knees either side of his on the chair and he jerks his head back so fast it whacks against the frame. I jam my fingers against the soft skin at his throat, at the acupoint to paralyse him momentarily. His gaze is dark but there’s a streak of surprise and respect in it.
I drop my fingers and he laughs hollowly, icy puffs against my chin. In a snap of his fingers, he hurtles air toward the default cure and pulls the vial off the shelf towards us.
“This is my future you’re playing with,” I croak, and the vial pauses mid-air beside us.
“Doing this . . . to protect . . .”
“I want to protect him too.”
Quin shuts his eyes, frosted lashes meeting icy skin.
“If he is hurt in the palace,” I whisper, “how many would seriously treat his wounds? I will do anything to make sure he lives.”
His cold thighs numb my own. If I don’t work fast, I will need to use the default cure.
I need to get warmth to his core. Without magic. Fast.
I stare at him, and—
I press my fingers against two more acupoints as he instinctively palms his chest, higher up. “This will confine your energy and keep your vital organs warm.”
His dark eyes hit mine like he wants to bellow his outrage. Only the ice weaving patterns over his skin is stopping him. I call the spell to my fingertips—
It stutters, and snaps.
My meridians are blocked.
He’s momentarily smug as he takes the vial. I snatch for it, but Quin expends the last of his energy to keep it from me.
“Please,” I beg him.
His words are mostly clouds between us. “Ending things . . . with Nicostratus . . . is best.”
“I care about him.”
“If you care . . . stop.”
“Is that how you deal with your problems? By running away? Hiding?”
He uncorks the vial.
“Don’t force this.”
He lifts it to his quivering lips.
“He has my first kiss!”
Something sad lurks in Quin’s eye, like a part of him regrets doing this. He looks at me over the vial. “Doesn’t mean . . . he’ll have your last.”
“Stop.”
He hesitates.
“Nicostratus is only one reason I need to get into the palace. He’s not even . . . not even the main reason.”
Icy patterns fall down his cheeks as his trapped magic warms him up.
I swallow the lump in my throat. “They need to see there is hope. One day more par-linea will be able to do this.”
Quin’s fingers tighten around the vial.
My voice plummets to a whisper. “If I can show we are equally capable, if there is any chance to change stubborn minds . . .”
“At the cost of your life?”
“Should only the king live to serve the people?”
He swallows, and I reach for the vial, slide my fingers over it—
Dark eyes hold mine, filled with shadows of warning and something softer, fleeting and fragile. “Do you understand the risk you’d be taking?”
I look him squarely back. “I do.”
His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away. “I won’t always be able to help you.”
“That’s not your responsibility.”
He releases his grip and I soften my tone, grinning as I snap the vial to me. “Nicostratus can teach me how to fight. Self-defence. Hopefully it’ll give me more control in other areas.” I murmur under my breath, “Maybe then I won’t break any more of your vases.”
“You broke—” Quin lets out a long cloudy breath, and it trips him into a violent cough.
Poison has reached his lungs. I leap off his lap and rummage through herbs and shards of glass, plucking up murtleberry leaves and dandelion stalk. Combined, hopefully they will mirror the nutrients from snowy silkworm excretion.
I grind it into a paste, divide into two bowls, add water to one, and tip it to Quin’s grimacing mouth. He glares at me as he gulps. “This is your bedside manner?”
“Unique to you.” I set the emptied bowl down and pick up the thicker paste. “Your wound. Strip.”
I fluff his shirt to emphasise, and dark wood peeks out from his collar. I stare at the familiar grain of the flutette I carved. Quin palms his chest over it. The same move as when I’d triggered his acupoints. This is what he wanted to keep me from seeing? My gift, strung on cord around his neck?
I raise my eyes to his blankly schooled face.
“It’s practical,” he mutters, shifting his gaze away.
I frown—
Bells chime outside the shed, and the door is swung open. “Hands down. Examination time over.”
I set the unused paste on the bench and wait under tight scrutiny until the judges—Skriniaris Evander and Vitalian Horus—finish assessing the nine other candidates and head towards me, heads bowed in hushed conversation.
“Remember, Evander, I’m the palace-appointed judge. Keep your opinions to yourself. You’re only here to ensure my decisions are just.”
The redcloak shuts the door behind them. Skriniaris Evander looks up first and his eyes flicker in surprise at my patient. When Vitalian Horus registers the richly dressed Quin, he palms the wall to stop himself falling into it. “Y-your—”
“I’m just an eparch.” Quin spears him an annoyed look. “Don’t look so stunned.”
Horus shakes his head.
Quin splays his arms. “Give us your verdict, then.”
Horus frowns and searches the room for cues—
“Don’t guess what I want you to say,” Quin snarls. “Judge as you should! He’s like any other scholar.”
Horus drops to his knees, high-pitched apologies tumbling out of his mouth.
I flick the side of Quin’s head. “You’re scaring him.”
Horus gapes, eyes wide.
I offer him a hand up and lower my voice. “Don’t worry, he deserves it.”
“The result,” Quin barks.
I warn him to cool his temper with a curled finger, ready to release, and he moves to bite me.
A laugh bubbles up before I recall I’m still angry he tried to sabotage my exam. I restore my scowl. Skriniaris Evander watches us, rapt, from his corner.
Horus inches over to Quin, hovers his fingers at his extended wrist, and hesitatingly drops them to read his pulse.
His gaze flickers in surprise. “Did you aid the candidate in any—”
“How presumptuous!”
Horus scurries back. “Forgive me. Only one other candidate managed to steady his patient’s pulse.” He eyes me in disbelief. “I never thought—”
“No, it seems you don’t. How do you rank his result?”
Horus frowns at the floor, eyes moving side to side as if analysing and comparing in his head. “Both stitched the source of the wound and found substitutes for snow silkworm. Florentius used a more elegant spell for internal warmth, but . . .”
“But?” Quin says.
“But the effect is the same. In fact, for not using a spell, Amuletos’s method—sealing your meridians—is . . .”
“Brave?”
“And”—Horus bows his head—”ingenious.”
Skriniaris Evander beams at me, and my voice fails, coming out as wobbly as I feel inside. I grip Quin’s shoulder to keep steady. “What are you saying?”
Vitalian Horus looks at me. “The merits of your solution are equal to his.”
“Equal?”
Quin’s lips press tight. He turns his head to me. “He’s saying both you and Florentius Chiron . . .”
“What?”
He grimaces. “Shall study in the royal city.”