Chapter 45
Empty cottages close to the luminarium begin to fill with critical patients. It’s a few hours before I leave them resting with volunteers stationed at each house.
Outside, shoulders drooping, head cast towards the packed dirt road, I stare absently at the intricate shifting shadows of tree branches and the moonlight reflecting in puddles from a recent shower.
A whinny catches my attention, coming from the massive sprawling oaks near the canal. A dark horse shakes its head from the tickle of an overhanging branch. Olyn’s horse, the one she lent Quin.
He’s here.
He must be close.
I splash through a crescent moon on my jog into the trees and come to a breath-catching stop. There—on a low, sturdy bough—Quin sits resting against the trunk, good leg bent on the branch, his wrist tapping against his knee, cloak well draped over the rest of him.
He stares through the branches to the scattered but clearing clouds and the stars twinkling behind them. The lines of his face are beautiful. Weary, but there’s quiet strength in them too—a strength that draws me close. Deep inside, I ache for his solace.
His attention turns to my approach, gaze glittering, but not with surprise I found him. Like he hoped I would, or expected me to. He swings his foot down, swivelling to making space. The tree is gnarled and ancient; bark snags at my clothes as I clamber onto the bough beside him.
He says nothing, and neither do I. My chest is heavy with images. Mother and daughter, clinging together. I shut my eyes, but it doesn’t help. I see the daughter sickly and sobbing. I hear her accusation. You promised.
The words burrow painfully in my chest. I don’t realise my breath is coming in and out too fast until Quin’s warm sigh tickles my cheek.
My whisper cracks, “I spelled the child to stop her crying. She was making her symptoms worse. I couldn’t . . .”
He wraps his cloak around my back, his arm steady as he pulls me closer.
His hand moves in slow circles on my arm, the warmth of his touch sinking through all my shivers.
My breath hitches at the tenderness, and I press my head against his shoulder, surrendering to the feeling of safety, just for a moment.
“You came here,” I mumble into his tunic.
“To quietly assess the situation.” His murmuring combs through my hair. “Olyn told me you were in the cottages.”
I nod and, head heavy on his shoulder, stare at the branches stretching towards the sky.
His chest rises, holds as if he wants to add something, and falls again wordlessly. He tucks a stray strand of my hair behind my ear and keeps his fingers against the side of my head. Warmth against my cold ear. He exhales softly, the sound more grounding than any words he might say.
For a moment, the luminarium, the sickness, the world fades away, leaving the two of us, silently drawing strength from each other in this ancient tree.
Golden leaves rustle in a gentle symphony, and I don’t feel the wind at all. There’s only his warm presence chasing away the cold. I close my eyes.
Too soon, the beat of hooves over earth has me pulling my gaze around.
It doesn’t sound like it’s coming from the direction of Olyn’s horse.
Quin sits straighter, alert. My heart quickens at a crimson-cloaked figure on horseback, emerging from the trees.
I haul in a sharp breath. That’s my horse.
The one I’d bought chasing Quin here. The one stolen from me.
The silent figure is Megaera.
On a gasp, I slide out of the tree and stand in front of Quin, ready to shield him from whatever she’ll try next. Why won’t she stop? Can’t she at least bide her revenge until the people here are freed from this?
My teeth clamp tight with rage.
The horse stops a few yards from us, and I shift, ready to cast a shield.
Quin speaks behind me. “She’s not here to attack.”
As he says it, Megaera tumbles off the horse into a heap on the ground. Her hood is thrown off her face, revealing damp, fevered skin and unfocused eyes. She calls my name on a rattling breath.
It’s instinctive and it’s cruel, but suddenly I want her to feel fear. Want her to regret. It’s a thorny, wild feeling. It goes against all my principles, and yet it claims me. I won’t tolerate anyone hurting the king.
She has not cared for his difficulties during her quest for vengeance. Why should I care for hers now?
“She’s still one of my people,” Quin murmurs, his words calm and clear and resolute.
I bristle, my hands clenching at my sides. “She—”
“It doesn’t matter.” His gaze locks onto mine, firm and steady. “I won’t let you lose yourself over her.”
The words hit like a quiet rebuke. A warning for me to look deep into myself—a hand offered for me to take, to steer me back onto my path.
He hasn’t ordered me to aid her. He’s simply reminded me to be the person I long to be.
I draw in a shaky breath, hesitating as she struggles. Pleads—
I scramble over tree roots and grass to her side. Her cloak is sweated through, and her pulse is erratic. She must have been infected for days. Was this why she’d tried to follow me? She was sick all this time, chasing after the faint hope I’d help her.
I need to get her inside, wash her down, give her water.
I scoop her into a sitting position. She’s too weak to help me.
Quin comes behind me and I throw an arm up, stopping him.
His leg can’t tolerate helping her move.
I fumble through the grass for a fallen stick and cast it before the horse, spooking it into a neigh and a run.
The ruckus brings a few men with lanterns towards the trees, and I call out to them.
With their help, I get Megaera to a cottage and make her comfortable. Olyn brings a selection of capsules and I take them with a forced smile, stomach restless. These are nothing.
Behind her, coming through the door, men are carrying another critical patient. I glance over her shoulder to see the farmer Quin and I hitched a ride with. From scratching in the fields, to deathly pale and limp.
I swallow. More and more will become critical during the night.
Olyn wipes the back of her hand over her forehead—
I catch a glimpse of something up her sleeve and snatch her wrist. My eyes snap from her arm to her tight swallow.
She tugs her sleeve lower over patches of glistening skin.
“You need to rest.”
“I’ve a good day of work left in me,” she says lightly, but I detect a nervous lilt. “Until then, I can help others.”
I assess her condition. She has less than a day. And less still if she continues to exhaust herself.
I call in a volunteer, and one of Bastion’s men responds. Good, someone intimidating. “Make sure Olyn doesn’t lift another finger.”
I shuffle her to a chair and race to the door, my blood pounding.
“Where are you going?” she calls, and the door slams shut behind me.
I take a lantern and charge down the road, towards the southern gate and into the towering trees beyond.
Night is thicker under their shadows but it’s not as haunting as the faces flashing through my mind.
Pale and fevered and dying. There might be danger ahead, but there will be death if I don’t go on.
I race towards the mirroring pool, stumbling on mossy rock and scratching my face on a thorny branch along the way. Ahead, up a steep rise, nebulous haze and beckoning fingers of poisonous fog. I begin the climb, grappling with tree roots and vines to pull myself up.
My shouted name comes from behind and I slip a few feet. I jerk my head around. A lantern appears from behind tree trunks, Olyn’s horse and Quin in its light, with a sword strapped across his back—no, not a sword. His cane.
He moves to the base of the incline and slides off his horse, looping the reins around a low-hanging branch. His cane comes out to steady him. He stares at me, unimpressed, and starts moving. “Let’s go.”
My gaze keeps flickering to him as we climb to the small clearing and the moonlit, serene pool. The stench of sick and decaying wyverns is gone, replaced by a cool, earthy breeze and the trickle of perfume on the tendrils of fog.
My steps feel as heavy as my chest. The eerie mist shifts back and forth with a foreboding, beckoning curl. Quin halts before it and faces me grimly, gesturing with his free arm. “After you.”
My breath shudders. I step forward, the air shifting around me like a living thing. A sharp pain blooms at my acupoints, and I crumple, the ground rushing up to meet me.
It’s the same move Quin used to leave me once before. Inside, I scream at him to release me, but no sound comes out of me. Just a whoosh of air.
Quin folds towards me, gaze dark and intent on mine. “My people. My responsibility.”
My heart pounds with another cry for him to listen to me, to stop, to forgive me for leading him here. You’re the king. You can’t risk yourself. The miasma—
He strokes my cheek with a touch so light it feels like a question.
His fingers catch my chin, lifting my gaze to meet his.
His dark eyes search mine, peeling back every shield I’ve built.
“This fear,” he murmurs. “For me. For what I might face.” He leans in and whispers in a tortured voice.
“Do you think I didn’t feel it for you?”
His words break something loose inside my chest. I can’t move, can’t speak, but I want to. I want to pull him in tight, beg him to stay, to let me go instead. My life is inconsequential.
Not even my finger twitches.
He leans closer, a sighed breath against my ear. “You are my biggest responsibility, Cael. You are mine to protect.”
Then he flicks my forehead, the fondness in the gesture so achingly familiar it brings a lump to my throat. He’s saying goodbye. His eyes hold mine for one heartbeat longer, as if to memorise me. “Stay here.”
His words are a soft command. And then he turns with purpose and steps onto the wispy path.
The fog swallows him, greedy tendrils clawing at his figure.
Only the soft click of his cane remains.
Then, not even that.