Chapter 41
We take a winding way back, not to pass our redcloaks, but the inn is still awake when we stumble in. I ask the keeper to send up teapots of hot water.
Damp and smelling of smoke, I whisk myself through the bath and return to our room, where Quin is frowning over a game of chess and my hot water awaits.
I spend the next hour drinking teas while Quin shifts pieces on the chessboard, and as he checkmates the black king, I throw myself over the bed, spreading my arms and legs wide.
Quin laughs.
His cane snicks across the room and he drops weightily at my side.
I wriggle my limbs, making myself heavy on the mattress. Impossible for him to move. “I booked the room. You can’t always take the bed.”
“Must I remind you, you spanked me in front of a crowd of onlookers.”
I grin. “I wanted to beat you today. Turns out I really did.”
Quin barks another laugh and follows it with a hand on my chest that holds me down. His white hair sweeps around my head, shadowing his face, intensifying the darkness of his eyes.
Something like fright shoots through me.
“The floor, Cael.”
Yes.
I grab the blankets and deposit them quickly.
After a restless sleep and then consuming more than twenty types of herbs, I row through dawn with Quin. At the bend before the fields we robbed, the bark of military orders has us steering our boat under the cover of willow.
“It was an accident. There . . . there were angry spirits—”
“Enough. We have more pressing matters. Pack, get to the gates.”
I glance at Quin. More pressing matters?
Quin shakes his head, equally unsure.
We wait until we glimpse red moving towards the road, and row on. In any case, if the redcloaks think they know where Quin is, they’re headed in the wrong direction.
Olyn greets us at the luminarium door wearing a kerchief around her mouth and nose. “Thank Heavens. Something’s not right. We had another twenty come in with high fever this morning.”
She hands us kerchiefs and I hurriedly put mine on and glance at Quin. High fever is a sign of contagious disease. Nothing the king should be near. “Stay out here.”
Quin’s cane snaps and he presses the square of silky fabric into my hand. “Put it on me.”
“But this is—”
He stops me with a look.
I squeeze the fabric and slowly nod. My fingers still on the knot for a tight breath. I wish had the ribbon with me. That I could tie it into his hair to keep him safe from others this time.
My slowly released breath fans the back of his hair and at his small twitch, I step away quickly. “Done,” I murmur, and we follow Olyn inside.
The sick writhe and moan on floormats surrounding the raised centre of the nave, under the dome. Strips of wet fabric cling to their foreheads, bright white against the feverish red of their cheeks. Next to me, Quin dry retches at the smell. Under a sharp tang of herbs is the scent of rotting fish.
“Open the windows and all the doors,” I say, moving towards some to my left.
“But the draught,” Olyn says, “Wouldn’t that make it worse?”
“It’s better to bring down temperatures and exchange the air.”
Even with the windows and doors open, the luminarium is stifling. Groans echo off the dome ceiling, mingling with the clatter of bowls and worried whispers of family.
The sharp tang of steeping herbs offers a glimmer of hope, but it doesn’t mask the stench of decay beneath it.
Olyn leads me to the first patient. “I’ve made chicken broth, cooled their heads with river water, bandaged felbei onto their . . .” she hesitates and lowers her voice, “itching skin.”
“Itching?” I kneel at the side of a mother clutching an equally sick child.
“Mother and daughter came yesterday with fevers, and today they woke to darkening, itchy patches of skin.”
Could it be . . . “May I see?” I ask the mother, and she nods feebly.
Olyn helps me pull up her sleeves and undo the bandaging.
I suck in a quiet breath, heart beating fast. Darkened scales catch the light.
They shimmer faintly, their edges shining like wet shell against the fevered skin.
The air smells faintly of salt, like something dredged up from the depths of the sea.
Not an ordinary illness. Unnatural. I glance at her daughter, who is wide eyed and clutching her mother’s wrist.
I hide a flicker of fear. “It’s alright,” I murmur to her, steeling myself for the fight to fix this. “I can help.”
However. It requires many herbs, and perfect accuracy in stacking them. I still have enough in my system to take care of the mother and child, but if all those who came in have this . . .
My stomach twists, but I push the nausea down. These people need action.
Newcomers shout, carrying in a wheezing, clearly pregnant woman.
Quin takes over the herb grinding table, freeing the volunteer there to set out a mat and cushions for the pregnant patient. I check the vitals of mother and child, and determine them stable enough for me to go to the pregnant woman first.
I read her pulse. It’s quick and thin. She’s panicked for the baby, and her panic is adding to the babe’s distress. I infuse her with a calming spell and check her over. I swallow roughly. Her ankles are rings of fish scales, the smell pungent.
I scan the luminarium, gut tightening at each fevered, desperate face.
We have an outbreak on our hands.
“Hold on a moment,” I say to the pregnant woman’s frightened family, and stride over to Quin on his stool, grinding.
His head snaps up.
I eye his cane. I know this will put him in discomfort, but we’re low on help and I need to prioritise my time. “I need the family of each patient to answer these questions.” I free paper from a stack and write the most pressing questions in a flurry of ink.
Quin reads them over and looks at me.
I lean in, close, so no one else overhears. “We need to find out how it’s spreading.”
“It’s not from person to person?”
“The case I had in the Crucible stemmed from water contamination. But given time, these things can evolve to spread in other ways.”
He pushes himself up with his cane. “I’ll record their answers.”
I begin with those presenting with the worst symptoms. It means I can’t heal the mother and daughter straight away; the little girl’s cries as she scratches her arms prick at my conscience.
I work harder, faster, but I’ve soon exhausted my magic with a dozen still needing spells.
The young daughter scratches at her darkening skin. Scales have not yet formed, but in the next day or two . . .
“You promised you’d help us,” she whimpers.
“She’s just a young girl!” the mother cries. “I don’t care about myself, just help her.”
I wish I could.
All I’m able to offer is some relief from the itching. The mother grits her teeth and curses me.
“Such disrespect!” Quin’s voice startles me; I whirl around to his snip-snapping approach. He glares at my patient and opens his mouth to say more, but I lurch to my feet and tug him away.
“Leave it.”
His eyes are dark and prickly, and he holds himself back with effort.
“We have to be understanding of others’ vulnerability,” I say.
His lips flatten and he nods tightly. “I’ve gathered the information you asked for. Most drank water from Willow Brook. I’ll see what I can do to prevent any more use of that water.”
I send him on his way, and head to Olyn—
A wave of dizziness makes the room spin around me, and Olyn captures my arm. I lean on her with a murmur of thanks and let her steer me outside. With a worried glance over her shoulder, she takes a breath to speak. My stomach tightens. I already know what the problem is.
“We’ve run out of ignisleaf and dragonfire moss.”
Two of the key herbs in the spell.
I whisper back, “We have to find more. Of everything.”
“The next town over might still have a supply. Try there.”
“Me?”
She nods. “You can’t perform the necessary spells without the herbs, you’ll only frustrate the patients if you’re here. Besides, you’ll be able to decoct immediately and cure the patients on your return.”
“Will you manage?”
“I have my needles.” She pauses. “Broths. Massage.”
“It’s not as effective as—”
“More effective than nothing. It’s what most kingdoms have.”
I grimace. “I’ll borrow the horse you lent Quin. Give me a few hours.”
I hurry down dirt roads that turn into narrow cobbled streets glistening with dewdrops that still haven’t met sunlight.
There’s an eerie quiet as I hurry past the tiny timber-framed stores lining the alleys.
There should be the humming of craftsmanship, a blacksmith’s hammer ringing, the flapping of housekeepers taking care of the washing.
There should be the scents of midday stew coming from nearby houses.
There should be smoke rising from chimneys.
Something’s off. My stomach twists sharply.
I move faster, feet slapping over stone, cloak whipping behind me as I careen into the main street.
Movement. A crowd gathering at the east gate.
I stop at the edges and ask what’s happening—
The clank of armour and whinnying horses steals everyone’s attention. A line of redcloaks on horseback is blocking the gates. They draw their swords when a group tries to pass.
Their captain, stern and weathered, raises a hand and projects his voice over the murmuring crowd. “Step back. Everyone, step back from the gates.”
Next to me, a young mother clutches her whimpering child. Ahead, the farmer who took Quin and me to town is leading his donkey by the reins. He’s stopped at swordpoint. “I have business a town over. It’s my living.”
The captain booms. “No one leaves.”
Anxious murmurs ripple through the crowd. My stomach twists again. I recall the men Quin and I overheard this morning. We have more pressing matters. Pack, get to the gates.
I’d thought they’d found a lead on Quin’s whereabouts, but this is bigger than that. I know what the captain will say, but I still feel the slam of shock when he says it.
“There’s an outbreak here. Until we learn more, we cannot risk it spreading. All the gates are being sealed.”
Cries ring out of the crowd, thick and fast.
“Three of my neighbours got fevers overnight.”
“I saw weird scales growing on my uncle’s legs—”
“I’m not sick, let me leave!”
Someone yells, “Let the healthy out.”
“We have innocent children here.” Mothers and fathers yelling over the little shoulders of their children. “You can’t trap them here to get infected!”
Two young men make a run for the gates; the captain raises a hand and blasts them back with magic. They fall, knocking people over. The crowd is growing restless, the bitter taste of blooming panic in the air.
The child next to me is crying; the mother hugs him tightly.
“This is for the safety of the people,” the captain says.
“Which people,” someone mutters.
“The quarantine will be lifted when ten days pass without new infection.”
“What about provisions?” someone calls. “Our stores are low as it is—”
“Ration what you have,” the captain snaps. “Provisions will come when they come.”
“What does that mean?”
Someone throws a stone and it clips a redcloak’s shoulder.
The captain barks, “Get back. Anyone who tries to leave will be executed on the spot.” He addresses his men. “Seal the gates.”
The townspeople are in uproar. Swearing, cursing, crying. Some stand staring into the middle distance, like they can’t believe any of it.
My throat is tight as I swallow.
What about the herbs?
What about my patients—the children, the mother with scales, the baby not born yet?
What about the town?
What about us?