Chapter 26 #2
He takes my hand and after he’s sure the coast is clear, he pulls me outside. “Our meetings are always so fleeting,” he murmurs.
I lift his hand and, sure we’re alone, brush a kiss on his wristband. “For while we wait.”
I crawl through the wall and just have my legs under me when a barking shout has me lurching to my feet, heart ramming. I yank my gaze around the shadowy field, expecting redcloaks to be charging towards me. There’s no one.
At least, not on this side. I suck in a sharp breath and crouch, shoulder pressed against the stone, to peer back through.
“. . . past curfew.”
A timid voice, “B-but he’s—”
A snarl. “He’s nothing in these quarters but at our mercy.”
My hands ball into fists. I want to do something—slide under the wall and confront them, force them to back off. Steal him away.
But my presence will only make this worse.
The timid one shuts up, and with nothing more than a tight expression, Nicostratus lets himself be led away.
What was I thinking, coming here?
I race through shadows to the canal, bypassing the scholar’s precinct and heading directly for King’s Island. Guards prevent my entry, so I drop to my knees and call for Quin to come out.
He does, with the aid of a cane, in elegant sleepwear and an unimpressed scowl. He waves a hand to dismiss the guards and stares down at me. “Anyone who dares disturb me at this time would be kneeling the rest of the night.”
I seek his gaze. “I’m willing to accept that. Please help Nicostratus.”
Quin stiffens, his knuckles whitening as he grips his cane. For a moment, he says nothing, his gaze narrowing.
“I went there in secret, I needed to see . . .”
His voice is quiet but taut with suppressed anger. “You . . . When will you learn?”
I bow my head.
“Everything you do here has consequences. You could have been taken for a spy. Killed on the spot.”
This . . . did not even cross my mind. “It was reckless. Beyond stupid. I didn’t think past my worry.”
Quin casts a tired gaze skyward and runs a hand over his eyes.
“Please,” I whisper. “He was outside after curfew—”
“What’s there to do now? He’ll have been disciplined already.”
I sag onto my haunches. “Can’t you make sure he gets medical attention?”
“The less he and I interact the better.”
“Every time I see him, he’s bruised. He always refuses treatment. What’s the use in being king if you can’t even—”
“Watch your mouth.”
I turn my clenched teeth to the ground.
“If he got treated every time, they’d torture him more. He leaves the bruises so they back off a few days.”
I sink onto my haunches, the weight of his words pressing down like a physical blow.
“Kneel until dawn.”
My legs already ache, but this? This feels deserved.
Not only should my body be exhausted, guilt should gnaw at me from the inside.
This is the price for being foolish. A small price compared to what others have suffered because of me.
I can’t undo the harm I’ve done, but I’ll do everything I can to heal things.
Quin turns, and pauses before he heads back inside. “I don’t care how much joy you bring him. Risk my brother’s safety again, and I’ll cast you out.”
Makarios and Mikros find my hobbling baffling. They wonder why I don’t heal myself, and I tell them sometimes pain has its place.
They shrug and take an arm each, and each of their tugs has me wincing.
Has me thinking of bruised Nicostratus and glaring Quin in turns.
It takes an effort to focus on the details they want about the Crucible case.
“Husband and wife may have done and eaten the same things, but the key point was the river water on their clothes.”
They finally stop pulling and huddle in.
“They ate fish from the river and cooked soup with its water, but heat killed the pestis. The water that soaked into their cuffs when they caught their fish and filled their cookpot was cold. When the husband burned his tongue, he dabbed the open wound against his sleeve, allowing the infection into his bloodstream. That’s why only he got sick. ”
Makarios and Mikros are bursting with questions but they’re cut off by Chiron rapping his knuckles on the teacher’s desk. Class has begun: the miracles of transplantation spells.
All parts of the body can be transplanted into another’s—skin, liver, kidneys, heart . . . Even a person’s one and only lovelight.
I gasp, horrified.
Chiron hums. “The technique is the same, but using the spell for this purpose is rare. The lovelight is connected to the soul—we have nothing that can numb the soul, so removing a lovelight this way is an agonising process. It’s also used as a form of torture.”
Barely five minutes deeper into the foundational lesson, our heads snap up as redcloaks stride into the classroom. Chiron casts them an uneasy glance; across from me, Florentius visibly stiffens.
We’re herded into boats and ferried towards the luminarium. Its massive dome gleams in the sunlight, an incredible sight, but the beauty quickly turns ugly as the heavy bronze doors slam shut behind us.
We’re led down a short dark corridor, past a dozen stone-faced redcloaks to another arched door. Where are the luminists and their glowing cloaks? The sound of spiritual bells? The scent of incense?
I swallow and the next doors open into a vast, open nave.
Massive columns of white marble supporting the dome. Wall murals depicting the story of the Arcane Sovereign. Niches with statues of past kings.
The floor under our feet is polished and reflects the luminarium’s centrepiece: a massive violet oak, rooted deeply into the earth, bathing in light from the long windows surrounding it.
This oak is different from the one the prince and I sheltered in as children. This one glows. This one receives and stores the magic of all the linea who pay homage here.
At first, it’s a glorious sight.
And then I look down from the spindling, glowing tree, to what’s before it.
The high duke is seated on a lavishly cushioned chair, stroking his beard. He’s dressed in gold with boots up to his knees. All this gold and glare. Chiron orders us to line up, eighteen mages altogether, from green sash to gold. Three rows of six.
We all stare nervously ahead.
The high duke commands his redcloaks to pull out the mages who attended his visitors, and our rows are reduced by half.
Then reduced again when those sent out on his orders are identified.
Finally, Makarios and Mikros, Scamperios and Dreamios are pointed out by a hook-nosed aklo.
And then it’s down to me and Florentius and our shadows on the shiny floor, our fellow mages arrayed down the nave on either side.
The high duke’s fingers dance in the air, six iron nails hovering at his palm like sinister puppets.
Their sharp tips glint in the light, glowing faintly red as he heats them with a casual flick of his wrist. “They say you saved a half-dozen children, Florentius,” he murmurs, his smile curling like smoke.
“Tell me, how does it feel to be a hero?”
The nails shift again. Did he use these to brand the napes of his followers? Does he use this to punish?
I shiver.
Florentius is expressionless. Lethally quiet.
“I said,” the high duke repeats, “you’re lauded as a hero.”
When Florentius doesn’t acknowledge this, Chiron rushes from the sidelines and drops to his knees.
“My son was ambushed by water wyverns on his way to help Official Monomachos. The redcloak with him attempted to save the children and was killed. My son had to protect them, and himself. He’s been in shock since. Forgive his lack of courtesy.”
“But of course. In that situation, what else could you do?” The high duke looks to me and back to Florentius, the nails leaping from his palm in a lethal dance. “Did your fellow mage help you? Was he the one who saved the king in such a wildly creative manner?”
Each word is a threatening shiver down my spine.
Florentius speaks. “I don’t know the king’s saviour; he wore a mask. He had a southern accent.”
The high duke shifts his attention to me. “Was it you?”
I pull my gaze away from the menacing nails and stare at the oak above. “I was undergoing the Crucible.”
“Could you have escaped and attended the gala?”
Chiron laughs. “Your highness, I am the highest ranked mage in the kingdom. The cure that would allow his release took me three days to figure out. This boy is par-linea; his foundation is a mess. Overcoming this trial in less than two days is simply impossible.”
The high duke snaps his fingers and the nails return to inside his sleeve. He scowls and waves a dismissive hand; blindly, I follow the others out, stumbling as the truth slams into me. The king anticipated this, down to Chiron’s disbelief.
His response gave my story credibility.
Otherwise . . . would I have become intimately familiar with those nails?
The heavy doors slam shut behind us, but they don’t seal in the high duke’s threats. Those linger as my legs carry me away from the luminarium.
The others are already on their way down the canal, their hushed voices trailing into the distance.
Chiron and Florentius climb into a small rowboat and I quicken my stride to catch up, but slow once more as I come in range of Chiron’s hushed, angry words.
“I said no mistakes.” He glares at his son. “At this rate you’ll end up like your brother.”
Florentius turns his head away from his father and closes his eyes upon catching sight of me. No point trying to hide myself now. I slap my feet against the wet wooden boards, announcing company to Chiron. The boat is uncomfortably silent all the way back.
When Florentius opens his door once he and I have made our way wearily underground to our rooms, I sneak in behind him.
He makes a small sound of surprise when I make myself at home and sling myself into his chair.
The teapot he stole from me sits in the centre of his tidy desk. I run a curious finger over the lid.
Candles flare to life as Florentius sighs and shuts the door. He perches stiffly on the edge of his bed, staring at his long, elegant fingers.
“You want me to explain,” he says.
“I want you to know I’m here for you.”
He looks sharply at me. “You don’t know me.”
“I know you’re prickly and aloof.”
Florentius scoffs.
“I also know you’re intelligent, determined, and kind hearted.”
He lowers his gaze.
Also surprisingly modest.
“I don’t want you here for me.”
Aaaand honest to a fault.
“Why not?” I ask.
He’s quiet.
“Because I’m par-linea?”
“Yes.”
I open and shut my mouth. Frown.
No, this isn’t the Florentius I’ve quietly observed. He keeps using this excuse, but there is something behind it. I feel it. I lean forward and pinch his chin. “When will you learn I won’t be pushed away like that? I’m par-linea. So what?”
His sigh slides over me, spiced with fear. “Most of the kingdom’s officials are against you. You’re only safe from their schemes to get rid of you because my father believes you’re a joke. If they saw what I’ve seen . . .” He looks me in the eye. “You’d terrify them.”
“You don’t want me to be here for you, because you think—”
“What I want will only bring you more to their notice.”
“What do you want?”
Florentius rises from the bed and touches the teapot.
“I found a matching teacup,” he murmurs, his fingers brushing the handle as if it might shatter under his touch. “It’s part of a set I gave my older brother when he moved to the palace.”
My stomach tightens—was that the teacup I broke in the market?
Florentius hesitates, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I thought finding it was a sign he’d be alright, but . . .” He swallows as he stares wistfully at the pot.
I ask softly, “Why was it left in my room?”
“Because it was his room. Before he was taken away.”
I imagine his brother mid-cup of tea, focussed on his books, when redcloaks invade. “Why? What did he do?”
“He dared to suggest women be allowed to study vitalian arts. He taught the high duke’s daughter in secret.”
My chest feels heavy.
“The daughter saved a life.” Florentius’s fist squeezes around the teapot handle. “The high duke found out. He cast his daughter out of the royal city, and Lucius to that cold, sickly island. I want . . . to save him.”
I slump into his chair with a profoundly touching realisation. I look up at him slowly. You’ve constantly criticised my knowledge, publicly doubted my abilities . . . to shield me.
While also worrying about his older brother, wishing to help him.
“Florentius,” I say on a sigh.
He steps back, brows quirked with sudden discomfort.
I reach out to capture his hand and he rears back like a startled rabbit. “Whatever you’re doing, stop.”
I slide off the chair onto my knees before him. “I mean it. You have me as a friend, forever. I will help you however I can. I will—Where are you going?”
He’s a blur of swishing robes as he vanishes through the door. The thunk of it closing jolts through me, and I murmur a fond tsk-tsk-tsk. “Florentius, dearest, this is your room.”