Chapter 49
The next morning we say our goodbyes and leave the magistrate’s office on foot, hoods pulled low.
Redcloaks are checking everyone at the gates and all throughout the town; we’re stopped at the canal, the soldier frowning at hunched, cane-holding Quin.
The soldier yelps. “You’re the old man on the boat! They came, like you said. The spirits, they came.” He steps closer to us and clasps his hands together. He wants Quin to do his reading. “Please, please.”
My heart races. Every moment we linger draws attention; gives him time to recall my face and put the pieces of that act together.
I keep my head bowed and tug my hood lower over my eyes—
“Assistance!” The call is loud and startling. The redcloak’s attention is swiftly diverted by a figure in crimson cutting the dozen yards between us.
It’s Megaera. Her gaze glides over us and lands firmly on the redcloak. She pulls a badge from her belt and holds it for inspection. “Emblem of the regent,” she says. “Obey.”
The redcloak takes in the badge and immediately prostrates himself.
“The runaway is headed towards the east gate,” she says. “Gather your men.”
With a fleeting glance our way, she and the redcloak depart in a rush. We move swiftly, and I look over my shoulder at their retreating figures.
Megaera seems to be someone who appears and disappears at crucial moments in my life, somehow entangled with me even if I don’t want it.
I’m still bitter at what she’s taken from Quin, but .
. . helping her has at least helped us here.
It’s something. But how I wish she’d take a page from Maskios and leave my life for good.
The sudden thought of him follows me as we hurry along the riverbank, my boots crunching over loose stones. By the time we reach the waiting boat, memories are clinging to me like the damp air. Something Quin seems to notice as we untie the rope and set forth. “What are you thinking?”
I look over at him and recollect our departure from the capital. Why can’t I be Calix Solin? It’s a mask I’ve worn before.
It’s not your mask to wear.
Slow shivers slink through me, and I have to shake them off. Maskios is gone. He doesn’t mean anything. He would return if he really wanted to.
Quin murmurs, “It seems to have stolen your mind.”
“It hasn’t stolen my mind!” I rush out, swallowing. “I’m just contemplating what comes next.”
Quin watches me for a long moment, unconvinced, but whatever he thinks, he lets it go. “Most of my supporters are in Hinsard. Once I’ve secured witnesses proving my uncle’s schemes to destabilise the kingdom, the city will be key to my return to the capital.”
“Due to the power of Veronica’s family?”
“Her family and their soldiers are among my biggest allies. The redcloak units my brother used to command are also based there, along with others who are loyal.”
I dip my fingers into pulling water and they flex, my gloves momentarily heavy. The rare material wicks off the moisture the moment I pull my hand away from the surface.
“You’re frowning,” Quin says.
“Your uncle sending soldiers from the borders back to Hinsard . . . aren’t they his loyalists? Will there be warring between units? Is he trying to curb the last of your power?”
Quin’s jaw twitches determinedly. “I won’t let that happen.”
We pass through gnarled woods, morning sun turning to afternoon sun, casting golden rays between tree trunks. Mystical, and a little . . . foreboding. There’s movement beyond. Deer, hopefully. I shiver quietly, and distract myself. “If Hinsard is your stronghold, will many recognise you?”
“Those that do will be sure to respect my alias.”
“What will your alias be?” How many do you have? “Travelling merchant again?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“You could shave your hair off and say you’re on a pilgrimage to all five spiritual sites.”
“Why are you intent on ruining my hair?”
“What about a messenger? Or an aklo? Say you work for Veronica’s father.”
“I need more status for my purposes.”
“Suppose that rules out jester.” I sigh, smiling. “Pity. You’re spectacular dolled up, playing my wife. Speaking of, how exactly did you get my golden feather back? Even saving his life didn’t compel him to give it to me . . .”
“I visited him.”
“As . . . my wife?”
“As his king. Some buried wine the vespertines discovered that morning gave me the idea. I had someone leave a pot where our dear farmer would find it. When he did, I was informed and made my way to a few houses along the street thanking the people for their trust.”
I smirk. He clears his throat and continues, “When it came to thanking him, of course he flurried about to offer me the best of what he had. I noticed the wine, gushed about the quality, and we got to drinking.”
“You drank him under the table and stole the feather?”
“What kind of king would do something so underhand?”
“Yes, since everything else was above board.”
Quin leans forward and I jerk myself away before he can land a flick. “I steered our conversation until he brought out the golden feather for me to admire. At that point, I declared I must have it.”
“He gave it to you?”
“As you said, he wouldn’t even give it to his saviour.” Quin grimaces. “I bought it off him.”
I feel my inner cloak for the money Megaera returned—the only money we have. “How did you get your hands on it? How much did you spend?”
Quin stares at me, and then, “Does it matter?”
I start counting our money. “We need this to reach Hinsard.”
“It’s supposed to be your priceless love token.”
I pause, stiffen, and stuff the money away. I watch the water flowing past us, rippling through the calm. “How much did you spend?”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t take the money I gave you. I paid him with a certified and sealed exemption from a year of taxes.”
I glide my hand into the water again. “The king can be useful.”
This time his flick gets me smack in the middle of my forehead; I rub it, scowling at him while trying not to grin.
The boat groans as we round a bend in the canal, and we’re quiet for a stretch. I pluck a few bundles of herbs from the passing banks, and Quin stares ahead, not to the view of the woods, but into a middle distance, where he gathers his thoughts; makes plans.
After a day’s journeying, we reach a small inn nestled among trees.
Smoke curls languidly from the chimney, and the sound of rustic music along with the scent of cooking stew promises sanctuary.
We’re finishing a hearty meal near the hearth when a group of redcloaks enters, requesting meals and spaces to sleep.
I duck my head and quietly observe the soldiers from behind my cup.
“Where are the others?” one barks. “They should’ve been here hours ago.”
“Do you think . . .?” A gulp.
A fist bangs on the table. “If crusaders think they can take down all of us, they’ve another thing coming.”
“They captured twelve at once. They’re at least that capable.”
“Those were non-linea new recruits, only fit for delivering food relief. True soldiers would fight them to their demise.”
Quin shifts sharply. My stomach tightens too.
Water splashes over the lip of my cup. Quin’s expression is pensive.
“I don’t have a good feeling,” another redcloak says. “I think they only captured the first lot to lure more of us to get them back. I think as soon as they catch enough of us, they kill everyone—”
“Help. Quick!” The startling yells are coming from outside. “They’ve been taken!”
The soldiers jump to their feet, hands landing on their weapons as they rush out. Quin swiftly follows with his cane, raising his hood, and I’m on his heels. Three more redcloaks, battered, bruised and bloody, are grabbing at their comrades’ cloaks.
“We tracked them to the old fortress at the base of Crysippos. Four of ours were snatched, two with magic tried to fight, but against so many . . .” The bloodied redcloak gestures to the lifeless body they brought back. “The others were dragged underground.”
“How many crusaders?” the captain barks.
“Sixty, at least. Maybe a hundred.”
My heart rams against my chest. Nicostratus.
“We’ll attack tonight. We won’t let them take our men.”
They rally together and ride, two by two, into the woods. Quin ushers me with urgency back to the boat and uses the air to shuttle us at speed along the water. Bile races up my throat when I think of Nicostratus battered and bloodied, or worse . . .
Sternly silent, Quin steers us down forks of the canal to a narrow, concealed gully. Towering trees form a canopy overhead and splashes of sunset fall on the still water. The air is thick with damp earth and over the creaks of the boat come distant shouts.
I wish I could jump out, race into the crumbling fortress I glimpse through the trees and snatch Nicostratus to safety. Quin, reading my mind, warns me with a shake of his head.
“You’ve been here before,” I choke out as Quin brings the boat alongside a wall of cascading vines and roots; he pulls at them, revealing a concealed entrance.
“As children,” he says with a note of pain in his voice. “We stopped here on our annual journey to Hinsard.”
“The two of you?”
“And our aklos. They played dice while we explored the ruins.” He shoves the rusted gate open. A dark tunnel stretches behind it. “It’s been many years, but I’m sure I know where they’ll be held.”
I rise quickly, wobbling the boat, and Quin pulls me back into a crouch. “Wait.”
“Nicostratus is somewhere in there.”
“Crusaders are vicious.”
“All the more reason—”
“Calm yourself. Look at me.” I look at him. His gaze is dark and steady. “As long as I stand, no one will hurt my brother.”
I swallow, and I’m hit with the memory of Quin abandoning me on the rooftops during the lovelight festival. How urgently he’d leapt onto his horse and galloped through the capital to the royal city. He’d done it to save his brother then. He’d do the same now.
I nod. “What are we—”