Chapter 37
We drift from canals into wider rivers, until the sun begins to set. As the tiny village of Mytilene approaches, Quin murmurs, “Anyone asks, we’re travelling home to Hinsard.”
I perk up at the mention of Hinsard, but before I can ask, Quin adds, “You can’t be scholar Calix Solin.”
The name hits me like a blow. It’s been weeks since I’ve thought of him, when for so long I couldn’t go a day without him haunting me. A ghost of a person who disappeared as suddenly as he had appeared in my life.
My breath catches before I can stop it. Quin notices. He always notices. His gaze sharpens, unreadable yet piercing, and I feel too exposed, like he’s peeling back layers I’m not ready for him to see.
“Why can’t I?” I manage, forcing a grin. “It’s a mask I’ve worn before.”
“It’s not your mask to wear,” Quin says quietly, his voice low and firm, like he’s closing a door I shouldn’t have opened.
My stomach tightens at his tone—there’s a hidden depth to his words I can’t quite reach. But before I can dwell on it, he continues briskly, “You’ll be a cook. I’ll trade in fabrics.”
I narrow my gaze on him, determined to catch any flicker in his expression, but his attention is turned to the approaching village, his posture composed and his jaw set.
I let out a soft breath. Maybe it is all in my head. Maybe when it comes to Calix Solin—Maskios—I’ll never think clearly.
“Trade in fabrics?” I eye his fine clothes pointedly. Even stripped of his title, Quin carries himself with the elegance of someone who’s never had to haggle a day in his life.
He smirks faintly. “Don’t overthink it.”
“Undo your braids and give me those pretty fastenings,” I reply, gesturing to his immaculate hair.
Quin pulls the braids loose and knots his hair roughly, as if it’s a practised motion. It should look haphazard but somehow, even like this, he manages to appear more effortlessly regal than half the linea I’ve met.
I grimace.
Quin leans heavily on his cane as he disembarks, his lips curling into a wry smile. “Too handsome for this act, am I?”
Without thinking, I scoop up a handful of mud and smear it across his jaw, catching him off guard. “That fixes that.”
For a split second, he’s stunned, and I bite back a laugh at the rare sight of the untouchable king looking . . . human. His expression hardens, and he raises his cane like he might swipe me with it.
I dart out of his reach, grinning as I duck behind an approaching aklo. Oblivious to our antics, he takes the docking rope and waves us toward the low stone walls of an inn. Quin sighs, muttering under his breath, but he doesn’t swat me. Instead, he grabs his things and snaps his cane up the path.
Inside, the inn is alive with laughter and talk, the clink of mugs and the scrape of chairs. The innkeeper’s face is flushed, her cough crackling. “Looking to stay the night? One room or two?”
“One will do,” Quin says.
I whip my head around to him, eyes widening. He ignores me and we’re led to a small room with a wide bed, a table, two chairs, and a window overlooking a jasmine-shrouded inner courtyard. Quin collapses onto the bed, the cloud of pain around him dissipating.
“Breakfast from six to nine—” the innkeeper begins, but she coughs again. I subtly gauge her condition with a hint of magic. This could get worse if not addressed.
She stops coughing and apologises, backing out.
“Wait.” I stride to her. “Chicken broth with pixie mushrooms and rostwetty. After that, I can—”
Quin coughs, fixing me with a pointed gaze.
Right. I clear my throat. “Chicken broth please.”
“I’ll have the kitchen bring some up right away,” the innkeeper says.
Quin thanks her and shuts the door. His brows lift in a semi-chastising manner.
I flash him a toothy smile, then drop it. “One room?”
He arches a brow and remains nonchalant as he drops onto the bed. “You stripped me of my fastenings. Better be consistent all the way through, hmm?”
I narrow my eyes at him, but he’s lifting his bad leg carefully onto the mattress with a faint grimace. “Will we have to scrimp the entire journey?”
He side-eyes me. “You’re welcome to leave and do it your own way.”
I huff and point to a case poking out of his bundle of belongings. “Did you seriously pack your chess set?”
“We all have our priorities.”
“How much longer did I have to wait in the coffin for you to pack that?”
The barest of flushes creeps over his cheeks, but his gaze remains solid on mine. “Will you join me for a game?”
I squint at him. “I don’t play.”
He opens the set and gestures to the pieces. “Pawns, sentinians, vitalians, crown prince, princess, king and queen. The aim of the game is to protect your king.”
I fling myself onto the bed opposite him.
“Don’t see it as a game. The pieces mirror the dangerous and delicate balance of power in our kingdoms. We move them with careful thought. One false move, and—”
“Countless lives will be ruined,” I finish.
Quin nods.
I stare at the stone kings on the board. “Do you always play to win?”
He shakes his head. “Sometimes sacrifice is necessary.”
“Have you ever sacrificed something you didn’t want to?”
His hand hovers over a pawn, his expression shuttering. “You get used to it. Even if it hurts.”
A shiver runs through me and I lean in, whispering, “Is it unstable at the border?”
“The Iskaldir king is waiting for an excuse to go to war; only his son keeps him in check. It wouldn’t take much for the king to act regardless.”
“Why?”
“On the surface, they want to reclaim sacred land between our kingdoms. It’s where our oldest violet oak grows—a gift from the Arcane Sovereign himself.”
“Why can’t it be shared?”
“Wouldn’t that be a peaceful solution?”
“Why the sigh?”
“That was the original agreement. It was broken by my father.”
“Your father?”
“He stole the then Kronprins’s intended.”
“You don’t mean—”
“My mother, yes. Kronprins Yngvarr fell in love with her during a royal exchange meant to promote peace. My father, more cunning, caused the destruction of that peace, as well as emotional devastation.”
How dangerous love can be. “The devastation of your mother?”
Quin gestures for me to make the first move. I do, still staring at him.
“You’ll learn more by paying attention to the board.”
I hum in response, uncertain.
His gaze locks with mine, stirring a flutter of unease in my stomach. He leans forward, a subtle smile playing at his lips. “You want me to talk about love?”
I focus very quickly on the board, trying to steady my nerves.
“Let’s continue with the game.”
There’s no beginner’s luck. As the moon climbs high, I lose the fifth game in a row. “Again.”
Quin, rising to grab his cane, shakes his head. “Enough for tonight. I’ll return shortly.”
I follow him through the shadows, hiding under the wooden staircase as he meets a mysterious someone and exchanges something with him in hushed tones that I can’t quite hear. The conversation from three men at a nearby table disrupts my spying.
The youngest, with a striking freckle under one eye, notices me and signals his companions. They vacate, and when I regain my focus, Quin’s mysterious someone has already left.
“Can I help you?” the innkeeper’s voice startles me.
I pat the timber framework. “This carpentry. Exquisite.”
She coughs, and while she’s distracted, I race back up the stairs, barely avoiding Quin’s notice.
He and his cane snick, snick, snick into the room a few minutes later. The door shuts with a whoosh, blowing out the candle on the table.
He sits on the bed and unravels a note. With a satisfied hum, he folds the paper and tucks it into his belt. Then he tosses the blankets to the floor. “You take those; I’ll take the mattress.” He stretches out, his head resting on a pillow, utterly at ease.
I watch him, curiosity gnawing at me. What could the note say? What news does it carry to leave him so relieved?
The moonlight spills into the room, casting long shadows across Quin’s sleeping form. He lies still, his dark hair loose and fanned across the pillow, his brow free of its usual tension. Asleep, he seems almost . . . ordinary.
The note peeks from his belt, luring me closer. Slowly, I shift, my heartbeat loud in my ears. My fingers curl, careful and quiet, as they slither between the folds of his clothes and the fabric of his belt—
I jerk around as he sits up, our faces inches apart. My eyes widen on a shiver rolling through me. “Sorry. Just curious.”
He pushes me back slightly, his gaze fixed on my fingers tangled in his belt. “About what, precisely?”
I pull my hand back, flustered. “The note.”
Quin retrieves it and hands it to me.
“That’s it? No ‘off with his head’?”
“I’ll consider two rooms next time. Read, then sleep. Your body needs to recover.”
“Are you my vitalian now?”
“Quickly, or I’ll knock you out.”
I unfold the note. “‘Commander Thalassios of Wyvern division, recently transferred, Hinsard outpost.’ Who gave you this?”
“One of my network.”
“You have a network?”
“My most loyal subjects. I gave them the name of the lead I got during our drakopagon game. Turns out it’s a name used for private affairs.”
“Did you meet him during your trip to announce a new general?”
“No. He and his unit recently relocated from the east river.”
“Will he help us?”
Quin frowns solemnly. “Uncertain. We’d be better to meet him incognito until we can be sure. If he’s a spy for my uncle . . .”
“Aliases it is. Can I be something other than a cook?”
“We’ll see.”
“I’m thinking something impressive.”
“Go to sleep.”
I slink to the blankets on the floor. “Yes, your majesty.”
Quin and his chess set are gone when I wake, but his other things are still here.
I eat the breakfast left for me while reading Grandfather’s books, freshen up and head off to find him.
He’s sitting at a table in the corner downstairs, all stubborn and perfectly graceful angles.
Gridded light from a nearby window casts him in an ethereal glow, and once again I’m hit with the fact: he’s important.