Chapter 25 #2
“Treat the young ones first. You must. You must.” Pleading cries become cries of outrage as magic seeps through my palms, aimed at Florentius—
An aklo tackles me from the side, pinning me to the floor, eyes alight with anger and injustice. “That man is a vitalian. He would do anything to save others. He’d want you to save those children.”
I struggle against his determined weight.
“Help the children first.”
“I can’t,” I say quietly. “I only have enough medicine for two children, or him.”
He stiffens. “Only two?”
Veronica grabs the back of the aklo’s robe and drags him off me. I haul in air, coughing, and scramble back to Florentius’s side. He hasn’t depleted himself of the antidote. “Saving him will give all your children a fighting chance.”
I force the spell into him, thick and fast. My body screams with the effort, shaking, sweating. Must be done.
I slap his face, and his eyes ping open.
I cry as I haul him into a hug. Then I thrust him back. “Five need antidotes. I’m depleted.”
He blinks, momentarily disorientated, then catches sight of the children and their distraught mothers. He spins into elegant action.
I pace a wall of teapots, cups, and saucers. If there are any more . . . I dare a glance outside. The tea room looks out onto a raging battle; I grip the ledge, scouring for Quin and his cane—there, near the fountain.
I squint.
The man clutching the cane wears a wooden mask. His shoulders are broad, but his magic shield doesn’t have the right aura . . . A decoy.
Bait.
Two figures, back-to-back, dominate the centre of the fighting. One has his hood drawn up as he slashes a magic whip through two wyverns with perfectly timed grace. The other favours one leg, gusts swirling around him to keep him balanced. His mask is river-pearl, the mask I gave him.
Synchronously, the brothers leap into the air, shocks of gold and purple magic all around them. Wings explode into rain.
A shield stutters, the protective umbrella crumpling. Wyvern water sprays over half the redcloak formation below.
My stomach balls tightly as men race their comrades toward the palace.
“We’ve got a half-dozen poisoned coming!” I call to Florentius as Veronica flies to the doors and protects the men on their way inside.
Florentius grunts. “I’ve only enough for the children.”
I slam my eyes shut. Think. Think!
Teacups rattle at a thunderous explosion outside. I snap my gaze to the cups, the pots, the jars of tea . . .
I yank open corked jars and sniff, one after the other. Come on, come on. It has to be here. Veronica always kept some—
Thornwort!
I whimper relief into the jar and ground particles fly into my mouth. The bitterness is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. I race to Florentius.
He cringes at the raw taste but chews, swallows. “Thornwort?”
“It’ll give us time, delay the poison for a few hours.”
“Needling?”
“Yes.”
“That technique is ancient.”
“That technique is all we have right now.”
The infected sag against the wall in a line.
Aklos and aklas murmur, fear in their voices. “So few fighting.”
“What if they fail?”
“Those wyverns will get in.”
“Why can’t the king stop them?”
“Maybe he’s not royal blood at all.”
“He’ll be the death of us all.”
Each murmur twists my stomach. I whirl towards them, squeezing the jar of thornwort. “Quiet.”
They jerk their heads up.
“The king is out there,” I jerk a finger towards the courtyards, “risking his life to protect you.”
Veronica glances at me, surprised by my outburst. She crosses the room, about to speak when a young child comes running in; harried aklas chase after him, calling him back.
Veronica swoops the child into her embrace and a sharp ache lurches up my throat. Her son. Quin’s.
“Where’s F-father?” the boy cries into Veronica’s neck. “They s-said he’s fighting wyverns.”
Veronica delivers a tight look at the aklas and they cower, mumbling apologies.
A small sob. “Is father going to die?”
“Probably,” someone dares to mutter.
“Enough,” I say, voice cracking.
Big brown eyes look at me over Veronica’s shoulder. He has his father’s eyes.
“Your father is clever,” I tell him. “And I won’t let him get hurt.”
Veronica lifts her son, glancing back at me. “I’ll take him somewhere safe.” Her eyes beg mine. “Keep your promise.”
The aklas follow her out.
Florentius finishes flooding antidote into the last child and hurries to the redcloaks.
Urgency is making my throat sting. This poison works ten times as fast. It’s ten times as strong.
A normal wyvern would be exhausted. A normal wyvern couldn’t even poison a person if it didn’t change into its water form. It should take at least a dozen to have so many victims . . . but the adapted strength of the poison, not needing to plunge through a body to kill . . .
These wyverns are different.
Icy, bone-deep shivers slice through me.
The jar slips from my hands and smashes against the floor. I race through the shards to the windows. The remaining redcloaks, Nicostratus, Quin . . . Once they deplete their spiritual energy . . .
They have no chance. Their uncle has fed the wyverns his own blood.
They’ll only obey him.
Unless . . .
“Florentius, can you take care of the redcloaks alone?”
His gaze slices to me, to the fight outside the windows, back again. “Why?”
“Can you manage?”
“Of course.”
I nod, move to the jars of tea and open the one filled with chamomile. I grind a dried flower between my teeth and move to one of the men who helped move the poisoned.
“What are you planning?” Florentius demands. “You’re drained. Your hands are shaking.”
I ignore him and face the redcloak. “Everyone here will die, unless you can get me to the king.”
Outside, gale force winds have me staggering.
I brace an arm at my face, curtaining the view of the writhing wyverns overhead.
The redcloak obediently covers me as I force my way to the centre of the courtyard.
Each breath is a mouthful of tinny metal and blood.
A feisty wyvern is slammed away and I flinch.
Keep it together.
In a whirl of cloaks and grassy daggers, Nicostratus and Quin land before me, back to back.
Quin barks, “You’re unbelievable.”
Nicostratus lets his whip fly. “Take him to safety.”
The redcloak grabs the back of my cloak—
I jerk out of his grasp, onto my knees, and snatch a handful of each royal robe.
“The wyverns are modified. Your uncle must be growing them with his blood. You have no chance to control them.” I look up.
Nicostratus is focused on a couple of spiralling wyverns.
Quin’s gaze is hard on mine, listening. “Unless you have more blood in the pack leader.”
“How much?”
“Half what’s running through him.”
“Sacrifice myself, you mean.” Quin says it as if he’s . . . considering it.
I pull myself up hurriedly, scowling. “Slashing your wrists won’t work.”
“How then?”
“Transfusion.”
My glare hardens on Quin as his becomes darker with resolve.
“Let me do it,” Nicostratus says. “I’m expendable.”
“No!” I say firmly. Quin lifts his gaze sharply from mine, settling it tightly over my shoulder.
I glance at Nicostratus. “You’re stronger.
You have to lead an attack, separate the pack from its leader.
Shield us during the procedure. We’ll be vulnerable.
At my signal,” I say, “you need to weaken the shield around the pack leader. I’ll need twenty, maybe thirty seconds to get the blood into it. ”
Nicostratus hesitates.
“I will not let your brother die.”
He hears the vow in my voice; he calls his men into a new formation and leads them into the fray.
Quin is staring at me, gaze steeling up around a flicker of surprise. His leg is aching; I can taste the pain pulsing from him. I fan my fingers over his chest and push him three steps back, to the edge of the fountain. “Sit. Bracing your leg is depleting you too fast.”
He thrusts out his arm, rolling up his sleeve. “Take it.”
“You’ll feel—”
“You can’t kill me,” he warns. “You’ll be beheaded.”
“If you die, I’ll go right along with you.” I say it fast and foolishly, and hurriedly qualify. “Blood loss is a much better way to go.”
Dark eyes lock onto mine, unreadable, but the faintest twitch of his lips betrays trust beneath his stoic mask.
My chest tightens as I sink to my haunches before him and latch our wrists together with a spell. Quin grunts as I draw his blood, and I gasp as it flows into me, potent and warm, full of life, like protection against the cold of death surrounding us.
I add a second spell and my blood drains out, slowly, to replace it.
His eyes ping open. He looks from one arm to the other. “You’re giving me your blood.”
“Half as much as I’m taking.”
“Stop.”
“You’ll be fine. It’s channelling through a compatibility spell.”
“That is not what I meant,” he says quietly.
Stone bites into my knees as I shift, my focus locked on the flow of blood between us.
It’s an exchange that takes from our deepest selves and shares it; it feels too intimate amongst the roaring chaos.
“I promised your brother,” I say, my voice cracking.
“Your wife. Your son. If I fail—” I grip his wrist like an anchor. “I won’t fail them.”
In the subsequent quiet, the clangs and crashes of magic become deafening. His blood continues flowing into me, rich, thick, and warm. Mine leaving me, earthy, with echoes of a thousand herbs.
Nicostratus shouts and I whisk around; he’s luring the lead wyvern closer.
I cut off the spells and immediately ready the royal blood for reversal.
Quin captures my shoulder as I rise, squeezing through my shakiness. His gaze steels my stomach with determination.
“If you dare die on me, Cael,” he says, voice edged with steel but betraying a flicker of something, “I’ll drag you back, just to behead you myself!”
“Charming,” I mutter, fingers trembling. “Royal blood and empty threats. How could anyone resist?”
The pack leader’s shriek pummels around us in waves. Giant wings flap at thinning shields.
“Can’t get any closer,” Nicostratus grunts.
I try, but the leader moves too wildly. A dozen feet too far. Even if I do manage a link between us, if it breaks halfway through, the transfusion will fail. I need—
Hands curl around my hips and I fall back against Quin’s chest as he thrusts us upwards, forceful winds pillowing us.
“I’ll hold you steady,” he says at my ear. “Deliver the spell.”
“You’ve lost too much blood.” I’m already forming the tubing spell. “You’ll exhaust yourself to death.”
“Get on with it.”
I aim at the underside of the wing, where it meets the body. Nicostratus’s shield is an obstacle, but I needle through it and—
The shimmering line tightens. The wyvern’s pulse drums into me.
“Keep him from splashing,” I call to Nicostratus. I can smell his sweat from here, sense the weakening of overspent muscles.
Quin is also fatigued. I feel the dampness of his skin, the shuddering vibrations of his limbs, the rasp of his breath into my hair.
His blood flows from me, a stinging suction, pulling all the warmth from my veins. Cold, colder. Nicostratus and the wyvern blur. I see double. Shake my head. Concentrate.
I cough, chest so hollow.
Dizzy.
King’s blood. Need to transfer. Every ounce.
Faster. Nicostratus and Quin are swaying.
I force the blood with a spiritual shove—
My breath fogs, mingling with his.
A blurring curtain rises. Unyielding, merciless.
But through it is the faint but steady pulse of Quin’s heartbeat at my back.
I focus on it until it’s the only thing I’m aware of.
Until even that disappears.