The King’s Man, Vol. 2

Chapter 33

Fog coils, smothering Akilah and me in damp, oppressive grey. The chill seeps through our clothes, gnawing at our bones. Akilah’s trembling hand clutches at my soldad, pulling me back into harsh reality.

I’ve become a pawn in the high duke’s game.

“Your dream,” she murmurs, her voice breaking. Her head droops onto my shoulder and I pull her close, fighting the raw lump in my throat.

“You’re my dream too,” I whisper against her hair.

Her teeth chatter uncontrollably; I force us to our feet, scanning the desolate landscape for shelter.

The crumbling silhouette of a castle rises above the island like a spectre.

We trudge toward it, our steps heavy as the pebbly shore gives way to coffinweed.

The stench of decay thickens, curling in my throat.

My foot catches on something hidden in the weeds, sending us sprawling into the dirt. Akilah lands hard, her breath hitching with pain. “You alright?” I scramble to help her up.

A voice grumbles from the shadows, rough and irritated. “I’d be better if you hadn’t trod on me.”

A man rises from the ground, brushing off his cloak. He’s thin and grimy, the lines on his weathered face sharp in the dim light. Eerily familiar, though roughened. A book dangles loosely from his hand.

Akilah gasps, her grip tightening on my arm—not in fear, but in recognition. “Florentius . . .” she whispers.

The man snorts. “Wrong brother,” he says. His gaze flickers between us, guarded. “Do I know you?”

I shake my head, my throat dry. “Your brother’s . . . my friend.”

“Little Florentius made a friend?” His laugh is disbelieving but softens as his eyes land on Akilah. “You’re hurt.”

“The duke—” I begin, but the words catch in my throat.

His expression darkens; he pulls a pipe from his cloak, lighting it with practised ease. Smoke curls around him like a protective barrier. “Come on, then,” he says. “I’ll take you somewhere she can rest.”

Lucius leads us through a decaying courtyard, his pipe glowing faintly in the mist. “Water’s over there,” he says with a casual wave. “Rations are tight. Boil it first, skim the scum, try not to think too much about what you’re drinking.”

Grubby men shuffle past, their hollow eyes avoiding mine. The air is thick with the brittle sound of laughter edged with despair.

Inside the castle, it’s colder. The gallery is dimly lit by narrow windows casting pale light over rows of bedmats. Half are occupied. Lucius retrieves two threadbare blankets from a creaking cupboard and tosses them in our direction. “Spare mats are over there. Make yourselves comfortable.”

I lower Akilah onto a mat at the far end, away from the others. Her pulse is weak but steady. She needs real rest—healing sleep—but I don’t see how that’s possible in a place like this.

“Do you have any herbs? Anything for the pain?” I ask.

Lucius exhales a long plume of smoke, his expression unreadable. “I’ve got something,” he says finally. “Come with me.”

Down and down we descend, the air growing thick and heavy. The cellar is low vaulted and smoky, filled with grimy tables where people huddle, coughing between throws of the dice.

Lucius acknowledges a rather discordantly elegant woman rising from a card table; she eyes me with bright curiosity and leads me to a curtained alcove. He gestures to a small table cluttered with books and opens a drawer. Capsules glint faintly in the lantern light. “These will help with the pain.”

I take one, rolling it between my fingers. “What’s in them?”

Lucius leans back in his chair, his eyes half lidded as he puffs on his pipe. “Belief. Sometimes, that has to be enough.”

The capsule crumbles under the pressure of my grip, revealing an empty core. My chest tightens.

“The real herbs are gone,” he says, his tone flat. “What else is there to do?”

A wave of hot abhorrence slams over me. I crush the empty capsules in my hand, the glittering shells crumbling into dust.

The betrayal burns as I storm out of Lucius’s alcove, the smoky, oppressive air of the cellar giving way to the harsh, damp cold of the courtyard, then to the stifling air of the sleeping area.

At least a dozen people are coughing violently. The pervasive stench of sickness clings to the air. My stomach churns as I spot Akilah on her mat, her face pinched with pain.

I stop abruptly, drawing unwanted attention. Heads swing my way, then quickly turn back to their meagre meals.

One man leans over to Akilah and presses a capsule into her trembling hand. “This might help,” he says kindly. Akilah thanks him profusely, her voice broken with pain.

The lie has my chest seizing. These people need real care, not false hope. I fumble for my soldad, desperate to gain their trust, but what can I say? A newcomer like me has no authority here.

The air shifts behind me. I turn, startled—

A sharp jab at the back of my neck.

Darkness.

I stir slowly, my body sluggish and heavy. Blinking, I take in a blurred, cone-like ceiling. Where—? Memories rush back: Lucius’s fraud, the warmth of someone landing behind me.

That wind.

Manmade. Magical.

My heart skips. Nicostratus? No—he wouldn’t knock me out. I push myself upright, voice thick with chastisement and lingering relief. “Quin?”

But it isn’t.

Across the small circular room, seated at a table strewn with wood shavings, is the curious woman from the cellar. She carves methodically, her expression unreadable.

I bolt off the sleeping mat, but the sudden movement sends me to my knees. I rub the sore spot on my neck. “You knocked me out?”

Something about her face—the mouth, the jawline.

The realisation hits like a blow. “You’re the king’s mother.”

Her lips twitch, almost amused. “Casimiria will do,” she says simply, without looking up.

I swallow hard, remembering the weight of Quin’s pain when we met near the canals. He must have been coming from here.

“You must be the one my son talks about,” she says, setting down her work and the knife.

My throat tightens. “He . . . talks about me?”

She arches an eyebrow. “What were you thinking out there?”

I glance at the narrow, arched window overlooking the courtyard, the fog-laden island stretching beyond it. “There’s so much sickness. It can be cured if we act swiftly.”

“You’re earnest,” she says, meeting my gaze. “You’re wrong.”

Her bluntness stings.

She folds her arms. “The duke forbids medicinal herbs here. If redcloaks find anyone trying to bring some in, they kill one of us as a ‘lesson’. Most don’t even know what rule they broke. What do you think would happen if they found out the herbs were never here at all?”

The weight of her words presses down on me.

“Hope,” she murmurs, “is all we’ve got. No other cure can grow on this forsaken rock. Magic might be mighty, but it’s nothing with no plants to feed it.” Her voice softens, but her gaze holds steady. “At least they feel better, believing they’re healing. Lucius is right about that.”

The capsules, the gambling, the smoke, the laughter—this is the only medicine Lucius has to work with.

I slump back onto the mat, her words twisting uncomfortably in my chest.

She smirks faintly. “Your intention was good. Your execution . . .” She lets the thought hang.

I push to my feet, restless. “But is this not . . . giving in?”

Casimiria looks at me, and lets out a single laugh. “He said you don’t hold back.”

I push to my feet. “What if Quin brought seeds? We could grow our own herbs.”

Casimiria sighs and pulls a small box from a shelf, opening it to reveal neatly labelled sachets. “We tried once. Nothing grew.”

“Try again.”

Her gaze sharpens. “Try until we die?”

I grab the box and hold it just out of reach. “What do we have to lose?”

For a moment, she studies me, her expression softening into something close to respect. Finally, she laughs—a low, almost reluctant sound. “Fine. Take the seeds. But don’t expect magic.”

“Here you are.”

I whirl from my solitary work clearing, digging and pressing seeds into the rocky soil to find Nicostratus leaping down from a stone wall, his descent as smooth as a breeze. My heart lurches as he pulls me into a crushing embrace.

He captures my hand and moves it to his chest. His gaze rolls over me slowly, as if to make sure I haven’t been hurt. His eyes snag on my cloak, then lift to mine. “Constantinos demanded we continue south, but I . . . couldn’t. I had to come back for you.”

My stomach heaves and falls sharply.

I can picture them in their saddles, in light armour, the messenger on his own horse expressionlessly reciting the news.

Nicostratus would’ve begged for more information while Quin’s knuckles would only whiten around his reins.

Quin would have collected himself first, understanding the implications.

Understanding the duke wants to use me against him.

Continuing south was smart. No doubt, Quin will even lengthen his visit. Maybe the duke will forget about me, if my unimportance is made clear.

I nod and nod.

I look away. He tugs me gently closer and cups my cheek.

“I’ll find a way to free you,” he whispers. “I promise.”

I swallow thickly.

He kneels and swings a satchel off his shoulder. “They confiscated your things, but they waved this through.” He grinds his teeth. “To rub in what you can’t do on the island.”

I kneel beside him as he unpacks it. My breath hitches when I see the worn spines of my grandfather’s healing journals.

I reach out slowly, fingers brushing the cover. “How did you find these?”

“Florentius guessed they’d be coming—he took some of your things first.”

Emotion rises thick in my throat. “Thank you,” I whisper. “Both of you.”

Nicostratus nods, and then, hesitantly, whispers. “This island is ancient, Cael.”

He looks around and I follow his gaze past the ruins, trying to imagine how this place once stood proud and whole. He lowers his voice even further. “Ask Casimiria.”

“Ask what?”