Chapter 40 #2
Quin arches a brow in utter disbelief, but at my blushing insistence that he’s a fortune teller who may be able to see our best course ahead, he clears his throat and plays along. “I have foreseen that I am to take part.”
“Wait,” Olyn says. “You aren’t the fraud I heard about?”
I gulp. “Not a fraud! I used that as a way to return coin the people couldn’t well afford, and to steal him for our own needs. Truly, he is an all-knowing master.”
I spy a chuffed smirk at this and elbow the king’s side.
Olyn raises a brow. “Right.”
On the spot, Quin decisively outlines a plan, calling it ‘Old Man on a Boat’ after a famous painting that was crafted in the region and is deeply revered among the locals and the military.
Two hundred years ago, during the Mythos Aion wars before these giant walls were built, the army was surrounded on three sides by concealed forces, about to be ambushed and annihilated.
A lone man in his boat was the only one who, knowing he would die if he entered the canals, did so anyway.
His death on the waters alerted the soldiers. Warned them. Saved them.
I shiver. Every time I hear this story, I’m breathless and achy at this man’s bravery. To knowingly seek his own death for the lives of a thousand others . . .
Could I do that?
I shake my head. Swallow. I’d want to, but . . .
I hope I’m never confronted with such a choice.
“Cael?”
“Hmm?”
“You heard all that, right?”
Um . . . “Uh huh.”
“Your part is to help Olyn collect the herbs.”
There seems to be some overbearingness in his tone, like he’s afraid I’ll take things into my own hands and get into trouble. I immediately trot behind him and start massaging his shoulders.
“A ‘yes’ will do.”
We gather what gear we need, and when the sun sets, Olyn and I head to the meadows and hide behind some trees. Quin quietly ‘borrows’ a dinghy and rows along the canal bordering the field.
The redcloaks have pitched a tent at a clearing next to the canal and are cooking fish over a fire. “I’ll take first shift, you take second,” one of them says. “Use the whistle to signal any trespassers.”
“Those farmers were scared out of their leggings. Doubtful they’ll try again.”
As they eat, Quin drifts into view on the moonlit waters. He stops rowing and calls to them in a crackling, old voice. “There’ll be trouble tonight.”
The men leap to their feet and rush to the edge of the canal, drawing swords.
Quin clasps his hands together and bows his head, humming, in the way travelling readers do.
The redcloaks glance at one another and back at the old man in the boat. “What are you talking about?”
“I sense disaster.”
One shifts from foot to foot. “F-Fortune tellers are only right half the time.”
“Yeah. Yeah, only . . . half the time.”
Quin bows again and picks up his oar. The redcloak flinches, tugging his companion’s sleeve. “What if he’s . . . like the Old Man on a Boat?”
Their eyes widen. “Wait. Wait.”
Quin sets his oar down again.
“What advice do you have for us?”
Quin takes a pouch of herbs we took from my box, and tosses it to them.
“What is this?” the redcloak who caught it asks.
“To cleanse the air of sick spirits.”
“S-spirits?”
“Of those who died unnecessary deaths. Sprinkle over the fire and breathe in the cleansing smoke.”
“I d-don’t believe in spirits.”
Quin bows again. “Be at peace.” He picks up his oars and dips them into the water, but while the redcloaks do seem shaky, they’re not quite convinced.
The one holding the pouch tosses it into the grass. “H-he’s a quack. Some old fool. That’s all. Let’s finish our fish.”
Despite chattering teeth, the other redcloak nods and resumes his seat on the fireside log.
My fingers are tight against the tree as I watch Quin calmly row away. He was certain that the men would give in to their superstitions and use the herbs. We wait.
Time seems to crawl and race by at once.
Although they seem nervous and glance around often, the pouch of herbs remains unused—in fact it seems all we’ve achieved is to put them on high alert, ears pricked for every sound.
Perhaps they were close to falling into our trap, but not close enough. They need . . . they need . . .
I suck in a breath. Unravel the silver ribbon from my wrist and tie it rapidly around my head. Olyn’s eyes widen, but she nods.
I scream and race out from the cover of trees, looking back over my shoulder and yelling into the darkness.
I stumble closer and the redcloaks swing the points of their swords towards me and the shadows.
I scream again and point.
My silver ribbon flutters around their faces in a breeze and the men jerk away from me, their swords shaking.
“Cael? Cael? Where are you?” Olyn emerges and upon seeing me, sighs in relief. “There you are.”
She comes closer, acknowledging the redcloaks. “Sorry. My cousin has been seeing things since his ma and pa passed away. Keeps running away, saying the spirits want peace.”
I start rocking back and forth, whimpering.
“That one’s bad luck,” one redcloak says, terrified. “We should kill him.”
Olyn gasps. “Cael, let’s go—”
“They’re trespassing. We can kill them both.”
Their swords swing towards us and stop at a hair-raising yell from the canal. Had Quin heard my scream? “I wouldn’t if I were you,” he warns. “Check his skin, the pallor of it. He’s sick. Spill his blood, and he’ll become another sick spirit. If he doesn’t infect you first.”
The redcloaks gulp, unease flickering across their faces. One glances uneasily at the other. “I don’t like this. Spirits or not, what if this gets back to the captain?”
The other growls, gripping his sword. “Just get rid of them. Into the water.”
Their swords nudge us towards the deadly depths.
The chill of the canal seeps into my bones the moment I’m submerged.
Holding my breath, I grab Olyn, who is struggling—she can’t swim; it’s what the redcloaks were counting on—but I clutch her hand and tug her with me.
Above, the redcloaks’ barking voices are muffled.
My pulse thunders in my ears. I swim determinedly, pulling Olyn along toward the shadow of Quin’s boat.
We surface on the far side, trying to control our spluttering, clutching at the boat’s edge. The night air feels icy against my wet skin and I cling to the rough wood, shivering. Olyn’s wide eyes meet mine, her breaths ragged. “What now?” she mouths.
Quin bows stiffly to the redcloaks, his silhouette framed by the pale moonlight.
One oar rests against my shoulder, his grip firm and deliberate, while his expression—a mix of irritation and resolve—promises a lecture later.
With measured ease, he dips the other oar into the water, propelling the boat forward.
“Hold steady,” he murmurs, voice barely audible over the rippling canal.
Olyn and I kick to guide the boat’s path, our movements creating small splashes that feel deafening in the tense silence. My fingers ache as I cling to the boat, and the weight of the night presses heavily on my chest.
The tension in Quin’s jaw doesn’t ease. He rows in silence, each pull of the oars sharper than the last. “Reckless,” he mutters under his breath. I open my mouth to protest, but his glare silences me. “You don’t understand the cost of a single misstep, Cael.”
I swallow and look back at the scene I left behind.
The redcloaks are retrieving the discarded pouch of herbs.
One of them sniffs it suspiciously, but they sprinkle its contents over their fire.
A faint aroma wafts through the air, mingling with the smoky tang of burning wood.
Moments later, their heads droop as they yawn and slump onto their log seats.
“They’re out,” I whisper to Quin, my voice shaking—from cold and from having his displeasure levied on me.
He glances back, his grimace etched with tension. “Be quick.” His tone is clipped, but his eyes linger. “And careful.”
While Quin mans the boat, Olyn and I squelch through the mud toward the field.
The woven mats of herbs glisten faintly under the moonlight, their scent sharp and earthy.
We work in frantic silence, rolling the mats up with the herbs inside.
My heart pounds with each rustle, every creak. The redcloaks could wake at any moment.
We heave the mats back to the boat; it dips dangerously under the weight, but Quin steadies it with the precise movement of his oars.
Sweat dribbles down my face despite the chill as Olyn and I run back and forth.
My hands tremble as I lift the last of the mats, leaving nothing where they had been but summer-dry flattened grass.
My gaze darts to the dark horizon. With the last herbs loaded, we trail a line of bracken and fallen leaves from the firepit to the plundered field, our movements hasty but deliberate.
The fire flares behind us, chasing the trail to consume the evidence in a burst of orange and gold.
I crouch in the shadows, my chest heaving. Time to wake the redcloaks. I send a ripple of magic toward the firepit. The air thrums faintly and the soldiers stir, their groggy murmurs joining the crackle of the flames.
“Water, quick!” one shouts, stumbling toward the canal.
“The fire—look what you’ve done!”
“How could you fall asleep?”
“I didn’t! You did!”
I slip away, heart racing, leaving them to their fruitless efforts. The fire, contained by the stone fences, will burn itself out, leaving nothing behind.
Further down the canal, Quin waits silently, his figure a dark shadow against the faint glow of the luminarium dome in the distance. The sight is more comforting than I ever remember a luminarium dome being.
Olyn offloads the herbs from the boat but wraps a bundle for me. “Bathe, rest. Decoct these,” she instructs wearily. “Tomorrow, come to the luminarium.”
I nod, clutching the herbs. “The luminarium?” The words feel foreign. In the capital, the sick are left in their homes or on the streets, ignored by the powerful.
“It’s a good space,” Olyn says, her tone bitter. “The luminist is gone; it’s the only reason we have it.”
“Gone?” Quin’s voice cuts through the night, sharp with disbelief.
She shrugs, her expression tight. “Weeks ago. Took the tithiscar with him.”
Quin’s fists clench around the oars, his knuckles white. “The coffer belongs to the people.”
“Not the first time a luminist has been despicable,” I mutter. The local luminist had run away instead of helping the people in Castorvra, too.
Quin’s lips press into a thin line; I say goodbye to Olyn and slide alongside him in the boat. He’s still staring at me with a tightened expression.
“At least we got the herbs,” I say, but the weight of the night lingers between his furrowed brow and mine.
He pulls the oars hard through the water. “You were reckless tonight.”
I’ve been expecting this, but not the twinge of guilt I feel.
“Seeing spirits? They might’ve killed you.”
“Your plan needed a catalyst.”
He pushes one oar into my hand to palm his chest, over his flutette. “An eerie melody would’ve had them scrabbling for that pouch.”
“You didn’t . . . mention that part of the plan.”
“Did you fall asleep? Of course I did.”
I blink, and flush, and stare at the rippling, moonlit water around my oar. I had gotten caught in thoughts, back in the dispensary. “I . . .” I shut my mouth, and reflect. “This can be considered my fault.” I grip the oar tightly. “Is it my turn to get caned?”
Quin leans forward and flicks my forehead, and when I rock my head back towards the sea of stars again, he growls.
“Your life is mine. Remember that.”