Chapter 38
Iwait, it feels like years, for the paralysis to fade. But when I finally roll off the bed, my body stiff and aching, and look out the window, only a few hours have passed. If Quin thinks I’ll give up easily, he’s sorely mistaken.
I brush my fingers over the funds he left behind and gasp. At least three years of a high salary. He truly meant it when he said he wanted me to live well.
I grumpily tuck the purse into the inner pocket of my robe and sling my belongings over my shoulder.
The boat is gone, as I suspected, so I purchase a horse.
The innkeeper informs me that travelling by water would require passing through the town of Kastoria.
There’s a shortcut, a path used by locals to avoid the carriages that clog the main road.
I prepare my horse. I’m two hours behind Quin, but the river’s winding detours could give me an edge.
If I push on at a brisk pace, I could reach Kastoria before he does.
I’m buckling the girth as a unit of redcloaks halts across the town square.
One unfurls a poster with Quin’s likeness, asking locals if they recognise him. No one seems sure.
“You there,” a redcloak calls out to me.
I lift my head and meet his gaze.
“Seen this man?” He thrusts the poster toward me.
I study Quin’s image—the depth of his eyes, the unmistakable handsomeness of his face. “Haven’t seen him, but I’m a traveller. May I keep this?”
He hands the poster over and moves on. I fold the paper and tuck it into my cloak, then mount my horse. At the junction of the trade path, a flash of red catches my eye, but when I turn, it’s gone. Too many redcloaks.
I pull up my hood and silently thank Veronica for teaching me all those horseriding tricks. I ride swiftly through the breezy, leaf-strewn air, the first golden leaves of autumn reminding me that the world is changing.
For the better, I hope. I urge my mare forward as the sun climbs, until I reach the end of the trade path and catch my first glimpse of Kastoria.
Through a wide, gateless arch in the massive stone walls, I see the village huddled behind—the dome of its luminarium, the fields and farmlets stretching beyond.
Forest presses in from the mountains on three sides, creeping over the walls in places, a slow but relentless advance.
A few elegant carriages are departing, loaded with goods.
I stop an elderly man on horseback, his cloak faintly glowing.
Why would a luminist let his cloak fade?
He would infuse it with magic, to proudly represent the Arcane Sovereign.
Shaking my head, I ask for directions to the river. He answers hurriedly and departs.
At a short, wooded trail away from the walls, I tie my horse, along with my things. “I’ll be right back.”
I make my way through dense trees toward the glimmering afternoon light reflecting off the narrow river.
It’s not long before I spot our boat. Quin is at the helm, using the wind. He’s dressed in black, his hood up, but his figure remains distinctive.
Light catches his profile, and my hands clench into fists. “Caught you,” I mutter.
A snap of twigs makes me turn. Downstream, black-clad figures are sneaking through the trees towards the river. My heart leaps into my throat as I see them unfurl their whips.
I yell, but he doesn’t hear me. A dozen men spring from either side of the river, their crude weapons snapping as they rush Quin’s boat.
Quin sends out a cloud of razor-sharp leaves, but the vespertines are agile, slashing through the leaves with their whips and forcing Quin to manoeuvre sideways.
Figures erupt from the water in a spray of droplets, their black-clad forms cutting through the sunlight.
Whips crack against the air, sharp as thunderclaps, and the metallic tang of magic scorches my nose.
A storm of violence converges on Quin, and I’m too far away and too weak to help—to do anything but watch with a pounding pulse.
Quin’s magic flares in a blur of gold to fend off the attacks.
A child’s scream pierces the chaos, followed by a splash. My chest tightens as I drop my belongings and run, my legs trembling, towards the submerged child. Too far. I won’t make it in time.
Quin dives into the water, and the surface ripples.
The vespertines close in, waiting; my anguished cry catches in my throat as Quin and the child emerge.
The child is safely placed on the jetty, but Quin buckles in pain, a leg cramp seizing him, and at that moment—while he’s vulnerable, exposed—they advance, targeting the acupoints that will block his magic.
I bite back a scream, hiding behind an oak, my fist pressed to my mouth. He’s defenceless now. No longer a threat. They drag him, weakened by the fight and hindered by his leg, from the water; the leader approaches the child, thanking them and sending them home.
Quin hurls curses, enraged by their use of a child, but his anger has no power without magic.
The leader turns, and I finally see his face, the freckle under his eye.
It’s the man from the inn, smirking at his hostage.
“From all I’ve heard of you, I wasn’t sure you’d bother helping that brat.
At least you’re not entirely heartless.”
He gestures to his men, and with a swift blow Quin is knocked unconscious.
My fists curl so tightly my nails bite into my palms. I should’ve acted faster. Done more. Instead, I crouch low, my breath coming in jagged bursts, my chest tight as I follow at a distance.
Each thud of Quin’s body on the cart feels like the vespertines’ whips are lashing me instead.
Two cover Quin with sacks and take positions beside him.
The cart creaks as the horses pull it down a narrow lane, leaving a trail in the softened dirt.
I track it to a group of huts at the base of the mountains, shrouded in forest and fog.
Hiding behind a log pile, I watch as they drag Quin into a shed and post two guards outside. My fists clench as I argue with myself about Quin’s fate. I sigh. I’m not equipped to fight my way in and out. I need a plan; an escape route.
I convince myself that Quin will be fine. If they intended to kill him, they’d have done it already. They’re after the bounty.
As I head back down the road, I ask a local farmer about the frequency of travellers. Few use this route now, but every afternoon around four, farmer Georgos carts wood into the town with his donkey.
Reaching where I tied my horse, I find it gone, along with my clothes and my grandfather’s books. I strike a tree in frustration, splinters digging into my palm. At least my soldad is still tied to my belt. The money remains in my pocket.
Exhausted and frustrated, I return to Quin’s capsized boat and retrieve a few of his soaked belongings, including his chess set and cane. I enter Kastoria through an unguarded gateway. The town’s ancient walls are choked with ivy and young trees, crumbling away—a victor of past wars, now forgotten.
Halfway up a cobbled road, a keeper stands at the gate of a rustic inn. He rushes over when he sees me. “Stay at our inn. Two nights and get the third free.”
Assuming Quin will need to recover before we move south, I agree. The keeper’s desperation is palpable as he leads me into the empty inn.
“Don’t get many travellers since the earthshakes,” he explains. “We used to have many vitalians as long-term guests, but the miasma drove them away. The rooms are well maintained, though. And there’s a communal bath out back, heated by hot springs.”
That would aid Quin’s recovery. I pay for the stay and ask for directions to an apothecary.
The apothecary has a queue outside, but inside, it’s eerily bare. I gather supplies from the nearly empty baskets. “When will you get more?” I ask.
The dispenser avoids my gaze. “Soon, soon.”
The prices are high, but I need to be prepared.
Back at the inn, I spend the evening brewing and drinking tea after tea and after a restless night, I head to the tailor for some final necessities and pilfer a governing official’s uniform from a washing line.
I hurry out of town and, near a quiet lane by a bubbling creek, I change clothes—
A hard thump hits my back. Hands shove me against a weeping willow, and I let out a shriek as rough bark scratches my cheek.
“Well, well, well. The dead sure is lively.”
I’m yanked around to face Megaera, her red skirts and crimson cloak fluttering. I shrink against the trunk. “You were following me.”
“Since yesterday,” she says, her ground-rumbling magic rising to deliver a long stick, which she points at my chest like a sword. One magical shove could pierce me through.
I swallow hard. “What do you want?”
“You know what I want.”
“He took life-shortening tea. You saw it. The high duke saw it.”
“He’s a calculating one,” she muses. “It’s not enough to poison the king; he spreads news of a bounty.
At court, he appears concerned. Two birds with one stone—winning the trust of a few on-the-fence officials and having a failsafe if the poison doesn’t work.
” She scrutinises me closely, suspicion in her eyes.
“I’ve volunteered to witness his lifeless body. ”
She presses the stick harder against my chest, her words curling soft, determined. “And I will.” She cocks her head. “The question is, what will I do with you?”
“Have I not . . . paid enough?”
The stick pierces through my clothes, my skin.
I gasp.
“You’re right. You’ve suffered.” She pulls back her force.
I squint in the search for honesty. Does she mean it?
“I’ll let you go.” She lowers the stick to the official’s uniform and flings it into the creek. “But I won’t let you save him.”
I glare defiantly and she laughs.
“If you want your horse and books back . . .”
“You took them?”
“As I said, I followed you.”
“Why didn’t you attack me yesterday?”