Chapter 42
Irush forward, zigzagging my way to the front of the crowd. “Wait.”
The captain ignores my wild, urgent plea. A shimmery seal, like that of the Crucible, begins to creep over the gate. A young man, not more than twenty, takes a running leap before it closes completely.
The seal pulses faintly, its translucent surface glinting as the young man presses through, distorting his form—
Then comes the sword. Blood sluices down the barrier, pooling at the base.
I skid to the gate. The end of the sword juts sharply towards us, a warning to all.
The young lad’s feet are jerking, his hands grappling at the sword hilt.
I ball a hurried spell, something to stop the loss of blood.
I slam it against the seal—it brightens for a moment and spits the spell back at me.
I’m thrown off balance and land heavily on the cobbles, heave myself up to try again, but the lad’s feet have stopped moving.
His hands fall to his sides. His head drops.
Screams come from all around me—harried movements—pushing and shoving and running . . . run where? To try their luck at another gate? To secure all the food they can? To find their families?
Wherever they go, nobody comes to weep for the lad.
Nauseated, I drag myself away. The blood is still fresh, still slicking down the barrier. No one cries for him. I don’t have time to either.
Quin. Need to find Quin.
If we stop people taking water from the brook and remove the source of the outbreak, we can contain this. In ten days, the seals will be unlocked.
What about medicinal herbs? What about those who’ll die in a day if I don’t get those supplies?
Movement keeps catching my eye from shadows; it comes with a prickly feeling at my nape, like someone’s watching me. I catch another glimpse when I turn a corner. A red dress. A womanly figure.
I don’t have the energy for her feud. I cut through an abandoned clothing store, exchanging my cloak for a blue one, a colour she won’t expect, won’t pay any attention. I slip out again and turn back into the main street, fixing my clasp at the neck of the new cloak.
The magistrate’s office is the most imposing structure in any town, and though this one is smaller than those in larger settlements, it is no less austere.
A fortress-like complex with high walls and a heavy gate guards a two-story stone building within.
Narrow windows dot the facade, and from the upper floor, a speaker’s ledge juts out—the place where the head magistrate would address his men, who might stand in neat rows below in the courtyard.
The mightiness of the building should be a place residents can feel protected, but at the moment they most need a calming, controlled voice on that ledge, there’s no one. The gates are open, guards who should be manning them are gone, and the courtyard is empty.
A lone horse grazes a stretch of grass near the colonnaded staircase.
“Quin—”
I’m grabbed by the arms from behind. I gasp in fright, and hands tighten on me. A gruff voice hits my ear. “Got you.”
It’s a familiar voice. I yank my head around and catch sight of a grim smile and a freckle under a narrowed eye.
Other figures slink into the courtyard to surround me.
Pinched faces, hands ready to wield their whips.
Like the last time, they’re wearing cloaks that clasp at their right shoulders, metal that blinds in the sunlight, engraved with a vespertine insignia.
“What do you want?” I choke out, wincing as he yanks me around for his men to see. Like I’m a prize he promised them.
“This is only half of us. Want to know where the other half are? Lying on wagons in the main street, sick like my sister.”
My heart is ramming fast and my throat is dry. “I’d help but—”
“You have the gall to negotiate with me a second time?”
I shake my head. He lets me go with a push that lands me hard on my knees. I raise my head to meet his blackened gaze. If I tell them I’m currently unable to cure anyone, how will they react? I need to be careful.
“You care deeply about your men.”
“What kind of leader would I be if I didn’t?” He pauses. “Ah, perhaps then I’d be like the king.”
I grit my teeth and ignore his blatant taunting, meant to strike a nerve. “Your principles are to stand up for the less fortunate, the weak and powerless.”
“What’s your point?”
“You must be aggrieved how the townspeople here are being treated.”
Bastion’s jaw twitches.
He lifts a booted foot, and like the first time we met face to face, presses it against my shoulder. His lips curl, voice rumbly, creamy on the surface with a warning underneath. He laughs suddenly, tipping his head skyward. “You’re flattering me?”
“Help me save the people here. And your men.”
“You’re the healer. You save. I avenge.”
“No.”
His eyes narrow sharply. “You don’t hesitate to speak your mind.”
“You wonder if I’m frightened or not. I am.” I shove his foot off me and he lets me. “But there’s no time to dwell on those feelings. People are sick. Dying—”
Whizzing sounds overhead. I blink upwards, toward the blur of an arrow. Before anyone can move, it has pieced the clasp on Bastion’s cloak, breaking it open. Dark fabric flies through the air and smacks into the wall, pinned by the arrowhead.
“The next one kills.”
The vespertines and I turn towards Quin’s voice as it booms through the courtyard. He leans against the balustrade on the speaker’s ledge, bow in hand, arrow nocked and ready, midday sunshine bright on his silver hair and the deadly glint in his eye.
Hollow laughter comes from Bastion and he saunters stubbornly forward. “He saved you last time, you’re saving him now. The healer and the useless king. I sense a story here.”
The others abandon me to flank Bastion. Behind a wall of their backs, I rise shakily to my feet and push my way to the front. “They won’t hurt me, Quin.”
His pull on the bowstring tightens, his gaze rooted on Bastion. I slip in front of him and claim Quin’s full attention. His gaze hits mine and holds, fingers on the string unrelenting. “We need their help.”
I keep staring at him, chin high, asking him to listen. His chest puffs out and he reluctantly lowers his arrow. “Inside.”
A low chuckle hits the back of my neck. Bastion tugs me forwards, ordering his men to remain outside.
The rooms are dimly lit, the air thick with the musty scent of aged parchment.
Heavy wooden furniture looms in the shadows; tapestries adorned with the kingdom’s wyverns drape the walls.
Shelves bow, laden with spine-cracked books.
Only the magistrates are missing—their robed figures discussing laws, with the head magistrate presiding over it all.
It’s a place meant for protection of the people and the pursuit of justice, but—
“They fled.”
I whisk around; Bastion’s arm clenches tightly, keeping me close. Quin has ditched his bow and arrow and is keeping his expression stoic as he snaps his way swiftly into the room. He makes straight for the head magistrate’s highbacked chair and formidable desk.
With a huff, Bastion drags me to the lower stools. He remains standing, crossing his arms in defiance of the king.
The two men stare hard at one another, neither willing to look away first. Bastion smiles slyly and caresses the top of my head. Quin’s eyes flash, his hand curling into a fist on the desk, just enough to make the inkpot rattle.
Bastion’s smile grows sharper.
I duck out of another caress. “Enough. We’ve more pressing issues.”
They turn their heads to me.
I speak quickly, and even though we’re the only ones in the offices, I keep my voice quiet.
When I’m done, I meet Quin’s sober expression.
“You came for assistance to find and remove the source of the outbreak. There’s no help here.
We have to work with Bastion.” I glance at the vespertine.
“You came to me to heal your men. There are no herbs. You have to work with us.”
Bastion scoffs. “Why don’t I bargain with the redcloaks? Our runaway king for all their herbs?”
I bolt to my feet. “You can’t.”
“He’s done nothing worthy in his life so far. He can make up for it by sacrificing himself for the health of the townspeople.”
Quin’s gaze is penetrating, but he’s not speaking against this.
A panicky jolt riddles through me. “There’s a bigger picture. More need him alive than he can possibly save here.”
“You’d let all these townspeople die for one man?”
I think of that boy racing through the barrier, the sudden swell of pain in the air, the red dripping down the seal.
I swallow hard. “I won’t let them die either.”
“Big promises.” Bastion looms closer, the smell of leather and steel sharp on his skin. “I like our chances better if we give him up—”
“What makes you think the redcloaks will make that trade?” Quin murmurs. “We’re trapped in here. They have the upper hand. They can get their hands on me and leave you all to die.”
I step forward and shove Bastion’s chest. “If he is taken, if he is in any way harmed . . . I will never help your men.”
Bastion stares down at me for three long beats before he laughs, the sound a loud echo through the dim room. He casts narrowed eyes at the king. “How in all the kingdom have you inspired such loyalty?”
Quin ignores this, saying tightly, “I imagine you have ways to get in and out of the town?”
Bastion answers with a gritted jaw. “Most of our routes are blocked by the miasma. There is one way, but it’s indiscreet. Only my men are practiced at exiting undetected.”
I speak, “We’re not looking to evacuate the townspeople. We’re looking to send a few men for lifesaving supplies. Will yours do it?”
“Will you treat my people first?”
I meet his eye. “No.” His face contorts and he looms forward. I hold him back with a palm against his chest. “I’ll deliver healing in order of need.”
Bastion pushes himself forward until we’re nose to nose, and Quin casts a quill pen between us, forcing a gap.
Bastion’s gaze stays on me, until he laughs drily.
“I’m beginning to like you.” He turns to Quin’s displeased expression and flashes a toothy smile.
“I’ll send my men out for the necessary herbs.
As for the source of the outbreak . . . Healer and I will trace it. ” He waggles his brows at me.
Quin pierces Bastion with a volatile gaze. “Send only three for the herbs. The rest are needed here to gather foodstores for supervision and rationing. I’ll see to it the people are cautioned not to consume contaminated water.”
Bastion strides out of the magistrate’s office, his voice audible as he orders Gappius and two others out of town and his other men, for now—just for now—to listen to the king.
Quin drums his fingers on the arm of the magistrate’s chair. He meets my eyes, his tight and serious. “Did he hurt you?”
“I’m fine. You . . .”
“I, what?”
I lean in, whisper, “Turns out you are decent with a bow.”
Quin mirrors me, leaning forward, and flicks my forehead. For a moment, a fleeting moment, we exchange the ghost of a smile.