Chapter 22 #2
Like he’s been doing with me. Today, yesterday. Every time we’ve met.
Heat flushes through me—humiliation, hurt. The things I’ve said to him. I slide my fingers along his wrist and feel his pulse. Except for the permanent blockage in his leg, he’s in fine health. “Your majesty . . .”
Quin’s head remains slumped and heavy-like, but I catch his warning side-eye. He wheezes, “Tell me.”
He wants me to play along.
I press my lips together. “Perhaps you’d prefer my diagnosis in private?”
“Don’t hold back. My uncle is family.”
I hesitate, putting on a show of anxiety, until the duke commands me to get it out. “You’re of a sickly disposition. Not just”—Quin’s eyes are fixed on me now. I whisper—“Not just physically unstable. Mentally, too.”
Quin coughs abruptly, hard at first, then weakly. “The headaches I’m plagued with.” Another darting glance just for me, and with quite a kick to it. “I do wish they’d calm down.”
I bow my head sombrely and lift my gaze with a kick of my own. “They’ll need much attention to calm down.”
“Possible?” His voice is tight, and he coughs again for the duke.
“That remains to be seen.”
“Just address the cough,” the high duke says, lips quirking in disgust as he fans a hand before his nose. “Don’t want to catch anything, too busy for that.”
“I have a new technique for dispelling such maladies.”
Quin croaks quickly, “The traditional spell will be sufficient.”
I pause, then nod. “I understand. The new method may work faster but it is uncomfortable.”
“You’d be doing me a great favour, nephew,” the duke says, his tone honeyed but his eyes hard. “Swift action is what your people expect, after all.”
Quin’s knuckles whiten around the cane, but his expression remains impeccably serene. “Go on.”
I still have rosehip reserves; I call them all up from my veins into a bright pink flame and channel it into Quin’s chest. Harmless to his health, but potent enough to make his innards itch like mad.
Immediately, Quin starts writhing in his seat.
I stop abruptly, bowing low. “Should I continue?”
He delivers a tight smile that promises later consequences.
I hide a responding smirk, then rise and sink the rest of the spell into him bit by bit as he writhes.
For the pearl heart.
For enjoying it.
When it’s done, I shuffle back, bowing to take my leave, but Quin stops me.
“Stay there,” he says, still affecting a sickly shade to his voice, “in case the cough reappears.”
“That shouldn’t—” He throws me a sharp look and I stop. “Yes, your majesty.”
Quin plasters on a smile and addresses his uncle. “What brings you . . . here to visit?”
“I thought we agreed, in return for my support on Nicostratus’s birthday, the spring gala would take place.”
“Isn’t it happening as we speak?”
“I’ve heard your aklos and aklas have been ordered not to attend on the final day.”
“With rogue water wyverns about and the gala being along the canal, I want to keep them safe.”
“You can always attend the gala yourself.”
Quin rubs his chin, as if thinking hard about it. “You have stopped a number of attacks, that’s true.”
“Of course. The kingdom and the safety of its people are paramount.”
Quin smiles weakly. “I’m not sure I could stop the wyverns though. It’s been a long time since I practiced controlling them. I was young, the last time I went to Hinsard.”
“Your father and I both thought after—” the high duke looks pointedly at Quin’s poisoned leg. “We believed focusing on your academic education was more important.”
“You did what you thought was best, I know. You are always looking after me and helping my mother.”
The high duke’s lips twitch slyly; he smooths it into a gracious smile. “No one could anticipate the arrival of rogue water wyverns in the royal city.”
I wonder if the handle of Quin’s cane will need replacing after this meeting.
“Seeing I will be attending the gala,” the high duke says, “you should feel assured. This is the event of the year for the aklos and aklas. They do so much for you. They deserve this day. Don’t you agree?”
“They are invaluable to me.”
“So reward them!” He laughs robustly.
I shiver.
He continues, “I’m sure your mother would tell you the same thing.”
Quin’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes; his grip tightens again on the cane. “If only the vitalians were half as useful as you, uncle,” he says. His tone is brittle with affected weakness, but there—the shift of his hand over his cane, a glimpse of restrained venom.
“I’m sorry she must rely on me.”
“I still don’t understand how she can’t fight it off when you did.”
“I have a stronger constitution.” The high duke reaches out and pats the shoulder of the king. “It’s just a thimbleful of blood; I don’t mind helping out when I can.”
Quin inclines his head reverently and the high duke breathes deeply, like the air tastes magnificent.
“I shall take my leave. Rest up. Enjoy the gala . . . festivities.”
He sweeps away with half the redcloaks in tow. Those remaining, Quin dismisses. I start to scramble, only to be delivered a flat look. “You stay.”
When we’re alone, he turns to me. “Mentally unstable? You’re not afraid of me at all.”
“I can’t say I’m not afraid of your uncle. He’s planning something for Sunday’s gala.”
“To be sure.”
My stomach rolls. “Are you truly rusty at controlling the wyverns?”
“That is, in fact, his hope. He wants me to lose credibility, publicly. He wants to claim I’m not my father’s son.”
“So prove him wrong. Control the wyverns. Have your men help if necessary.”
“That’s his back-up plan. If I have to act, he’ll know who my supporters are. He’ll make sure they all succumb.”
“If you force the wyverns into submission alone?”
He stares out at the vista of the royal city.
“Quietly manipulating better outcomes for my people will be over. He’ll know my true strength, doubt my every move.
He’ll be determined to be rid of me. But not before he stops giving my mother her antidote.
Not before he makes me watch her suffer until she . . .”
I close my eyes, briefly. “What will you do?”
Quin stares hard at the long canal and the colourful stalls set along its bank. He sighs, looks at me, and steps forward. “We have other things to discuss.”
I cast my gaze to the grass between us.
“Don’t act shy now.”
“Shy?” I snort, stepping back. “Playing the part of your dutiful subject. Isn’t that what you like?”
“Scathing.”
I snap my head up and swallow a retort over the sudden fiery lump in my throat.
“Go on. Let it out.”
I don’t know where to start. I throw my hands up and ask, “Quin?”
“My aunt—Frederica—she calls me that, from my middle name. Constantinos Quintus Gaillot. I never reveal my true identity when I’m outside the royal city . . . unofficially.”
“I’ve been here a while.”
“And I expected you to find out.”
“You could’ve told me,” I say, my voice low, laced with both hurt and disbelief. “But I suppose the king doesn’t owe explanations to his subjects, does he?”
“You made the assumption I was waiting for the king and you were rather vocal about not wanting to meet him. I confess, I wanted your opinions when your guard was down.”
“You teased me.”
“And what was that with your itching spell?”
“You enjoyed making a fool of me,” I snap, crossing my arms.
His smirk deepens, maddeningly unrepentant.
“Not just enjoyed,” he says, leaning closer. “Relished.”
I’m quiet, my cheeks hot. My chest is throbbing with humiliation. But also sympathy, and a hoppy, nervous kind of . . . frustration. I want to step back, haul in lots of fresh air. My legs don’t move. I’m trapped.
“You had no idea, and I played along. Even had an aklo dress in my robes and move around in my chamber to see how you’d react.”
The feet between us become inches as he moves forward, and my eyes start to hurt along with my throat. My chest feels about to burst.
“I enjoyed prolonging your punishment.” He leans forward—
My palm meets his cheek with a sharp crack, the sound reverberating through the clearing. For a moment, his face remains turned, his breathing slow and measured—too measured.
The second Quin touches his face, I realise what I’ve done.
I fall to the grass and slam my eyes shut. I can still feel the throb in my fingers. “I couldn’t help it. You still feel like Quin to me, not . . .”
He doesn’t speak for a long time, the only sounds my uneven breaths and the flutter of breeze-blown grass around my burning ears.
He steps back a foot.
Tentatively, I push to my haunches, staring hard at my knees.
“Nicostratus also hid his identity,” Quin says, no hint of anger in his voice. “Were you this upset?”
“He told me himself.”
“If I had told you today?”
Slowly, I lift my chin. “It’s different.”
Quin stares at me, his eyes dark and thoughtful. His usual arrogance seems softened, and something sad and wistful lurks in those depths. He rips his gaze away and squeezes his cane.
He laughs to himself and waves me away with his hand. “Consider the matter of the pearl heart settled.”
I wobble to my feet and turn, then turn back. “Your face—” I hesitate, the words sticking in my throat. “Let me make sure it doesn’t bruise.”
Quin turns slightly, his profile sharp against the sunlight, but his silence feels like a dismissal.
“Go,” he says, the word clipped and final. But as I turn, I catch the faintest tremor in his voice.
That tremor lingers long after I’ve fled into the trees.