Chapter 24 #3
I hide a smile and flip to the spell. It’s a challenging one, with a warning to stack the herbal compounds carefully.
Challenging enough with the sixty ingredients it requires, but one factor is still missing.
“The core compound requires the spiritual source of the infection, so it can be reversed.” I grimace. “The source is still not clear.”
Mikros rubs his cold hands together, and Makarios encases them in his larger ones to help. They’re cold and tired and likely hungry.
“I’ll keep working on it,” I tell them. “Get some rest.”
Makarios and Mikros exchange a grin. “After we eat, we’ll guide you through creating the spell. You’ll be out of here within a week!” They slap hands in triumph.
“A week? I want out by tomorrow.”
“You’re dreaming,” Florentius says with a scoff. “Even my father needed three days.”
“We need to be at the gala tomorrow, especially if there’s a wyvern attack.”
Makarios and Mikros trade uneasy glances.
Their discomfort mirrors my own. I’ve read enough vitalian accounts of the victims of these creatures to understand their fear.
For some reason, the ones here in the royal city are deadlier than those in the wild.
They don’t just attack when provoked—they strike whenever an opportunity arises.
Their poison is also stronger, could taint the canals, could turn this royal city red.
If the high duke planned to unleash them in a crowd . . .
My stomach churns. “It’s better to be prepared,” I say firmly.
Florentius narrows his eyes at me. “I’d rather not see the apothecary blown up by sloppy spellwork. I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”
As he strides away, I murmur, “Thanks for breakfast.”
Pots and kettles hiss and whistle on the stove behind me, filling the air with steam and bitter scents. The table in front of me—large enough to lay a body on—is cluttered with teacups, half drained, the rest waiting their turn. I’m bent over the victim’s clothes when Makarios and Mikros arrive.
“You look like you’ve found something,” Makarios says, his sharp gaze narrowing on my hands.
Mikros points to a tray beside me. “Are those glowing shards . . . scales?”
“Yes. And this—” I hold up a cuff stained with dried blood. “No visible cuts on the skin, though.” I frown, turning the cuff over. “It doesn’t add up.”
Setting the clothing aside, I move to the herbs steeping on the stove. “We’ll come back to it. For now, the spell. I’ve prepared forty-five herbs—only fifteen more to brew.”
My tongue is numb from the bitter teas, but energy pulses thickly through my veins.
I channel it to craft the outer layers of the spell, including a protective barrier for myself.
Once it’s ready, I absorb it into my palms and take another sip of tea to steady myself.
The final stage looms: combining the herbs into their purest compounds.
This part is tricky. Mikros wipes sweat from his brow as he mutters, “Please don’t blow up, don’t blow up.”
“Become the scales,” Makarios intones. “Feel their weight.”
I close my eyes, trying. “After a month of this, you’d think I’d have found my inner scales by now.”
“How have you crafted spells before this?” Mikros asks, sceptical.
“Intuition. What feels right.” I shrug, frustration tightening my chest. My grandfather taught me complex-medius cures, but I’ve never tackled anything this intricate.
If he’d lived longer, maybe he’d have shown me how to master these combinations.
Or maybe . . . maybe it’s because we’re only par-linea.
The thought gnaws at me. Are scales something only pure linea can have?
I grit my teeth. No. There’s always another way. Weigh outside the box. Quin’s voice echoes in my head, his words pulling me from the spiral. If you’re not good enough, get better.
I stare at my gloved hands, each holding a swirling orb of condensed energy. Outside the box . . .
I twist my wrists, calling up water bubbles beneath each orb. One sinks rapidly, the other bobs to the surface.
“Buoyancy,” I murmur, stacking the orbs accordingly. When I look up, Makarios and Mikros are staring, slack-jawed.
“If you can’t feel it, measure it,” I explain, pouring the last teas into cups. Smugness creeps into my tone—until I take a sip of caelumthorn and hiss as the heat sears my lips.
Makarios and Mikros burst into laughter. Fair.
The sting of the burn draws my gaze to my sleeve, and a thought strikes faster than a spell. I snatch up the victim’s clothes, inspecting the bloodstain. “He took one bite of fish before his wife stole the rest, right? What if he burned his mouth in his haste and dabbed it—like I just did?”
I whirl to face the others. “Can you verify something for me?”
They exchange wary looks. “Why do I get the feeling you want us to check the body?”
“I want you to check the body.”
“We’d have to sneak into the ice cellars,” Makarios says.
Mikros lights up. “I know how to do that.”
“Check his mouth and tongue.”
They nod. “We’ll be back soon.”
They aren’t back soon. I’ve prepared all layers of the blood-curing spell except for the spiritual source of the infection, which I only have one shot at inserting into the spell. If I forge ahead with my assumption and I’m wrong, I’ll have to start over completely.
No time for that. I may not be able to help Nicostratus and Quin fight the wyverns, but I can help keep the aklos and aklas safe. Give them a chance to heal if they’re hurt.
I need to solve this fast. Makarios and Mikros will be back with confirmation in time. They have to be.
Hours pass. It’s almost dawn when I acknowledge they won’t be returning before the gala. I worry myself to sleep over parcels of dried herbs.
“Wake up.”
The sharp call has me bolting upright, my blurry gaze slowly sharpening on pristine robes. Florentius, as promised.
I yawn, stretching my limbs overhead. “Bringing me breakfast again?”
He ignores me. “Call up the spell. I’ll proof it, then I have to go.”
“What’s the hurry?”
His expression is grim, and my senses prickle.
I plant myself before him, making the barrier shimmer in warning. “What is it?”
“All gold-sash mages were called to the high duke’s quarters this morning.”
“The high duke is sick?”
“A dozen of his guests fell ill during the night.”
Cold steals over me. All mages qualified to administer spells to royalty conveniently busied.
“What about silver sashes?” It comes out a rasp. That’s why . . .
“Ordered to various parts of the royal city. There’s never been so many medical emergencies at once. It’s unprecedented.”
More like contrived.
“Are you telling me there are no mages attending the gala?”
“I’m being pulled away too,” Florentius says.
“Of course.” He’s Chiron’s son. His skills are superior. A possible threat to the high duke’s plan.
“I said I needed to grab some books, but I only have a minute. Show me your spell.”
I call it to my palm, expanding each layer for him to analyse. “Better than expected,” he says. “Inserting the spiritual source of the infection will be the hardest part. You mustn’t release it until it reaches the correct layer. It will hurt. Keep your fingers steady.”
At the sounds of heavy footsteps downstairs, I grab some spell books and slide them to Florentius.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” he says in hushed, serious tones, “but something is.”
I stare vacantly through the shimmering spell as he goes. The high duke will try to depose the king today; if he can’t kill him outright, he’ll make the kingdom’s subjects question why Quin struggled to control the wyverns. He’ll make them cry out: imposter!
Aklos and aklas, redcloaks, Nicostratus, Quin. Anyone—all could be hurt.
With no mage nearby.
I kick at the barrier like my panic and frustration could be enough to tear through it.
I need to be there.
I grab the victim’s garments and soak the bloody cuff in a basin of water. Hope my theory about the source of the infection is correct—
In the distance, tasting tinny with terror, a chorus of bloodcurdling screams. My heart seizes as fear slices through me.