Chapter 51
The entrance to Nicostratus’s Hinsard home swings wide, onto a courtyard blanketed in autumn colours. Armed guards with keen eyes patrol the shadows as attendants quickly clear leaves from the path. I drop my wrapped belongings, catching my breath at the impressive inner-city estate.
“Clearly it’s been a while since their master visited.” Nicostratus laughs, waving over an incredibly tall, thin man in an aklo’s uniform. “This is my head aklo, Petros.”
Petros. Nicostratus even respects that his aklos have actual names. I grip a handful of my cloak, comforted by the thought. A good, kind man.
Petros bows his head to me with a welcoming smile.
“Anything you need,” Nicostratus says, “he’s your man.
Oh, and this.” He touches a button pinned to Petros’s—and all of his staff’s—uniform.
Two circling wyverns around a sun—an emblem of unity—two brothers working together to cast brightness on the kingdom.
“Anyone wearing this symbol is loyal to me and my brother. They’ve vowed to protect us, and at my word, they’ll protect you, too. ”
Nicostratus, although tall, has to look up at his head aklo. “Are his rooms ready?”
I pick up my belongings as Petros leads us deeper into the house. At the closed oak doors, Nicostratus asks him to bring food and looks at me softly. “You haven’t eaten since yesterday evening . . .”
My hands close tightly around my things, mostly my grandfather’s books.
He swallows audibly.
I lift my hands, the gloves now useless, mocking. I rip them off, juggling my belongings, and stuff them into the bundle with the books.
“Take all the time you need,” Nicostratus murmurs.
He pushes the doors open, revealing a spacious room hung all around with tapestries.
They stop me cold as I follow him inside: vitalians casting, their hands aglow, as sick masses rise to their feet.
In the centre, a haloed man stands among rejoicing children, his image mirrored in another panel as he kneels to accept the apex-vitalian stamp.
Kyrillos. The name carries both reverence and a sharp pang, a reminder of everything I’ve lost.
“I have some last-century medicinal goblets somewhere.” Nicostratus flings open a cupboard, clattering around. He shuts it with a frown, waving it off. “Must’ve moved them.”
An akla enters and sets food on a table, tutting at us for studying the tapestries in such dim light. She lights a few candles, leaving us bathed in a warm glow. Nicostratus clears his throat and gestures to the table.
“Eat, please?”
His plea is soft, earnest. I drop into a chair beside him and force a grape into my mouth.
“I’m sorry,” he says after a while, lifting his determined gaze to mine. “I’ll provide for all your wants. I’ll see your family gets what they need.” His hand covers my cold, bare one. “Stay with me. I’ll always take care of you. Anything you need. Everything.”
I swallow thickly. “Do you think it’s impossible for my meridians to be healed?”
Nicostratus pats my hand. “I’ve never liked the word impossible. Perhaps there’s a healer out there who could help.”
My breath catches. “You really think so?”
“Hinsard is well known for having the most travelled healers in the kingdoms. Maybe one of them has seen something on their journeys.”
I pluck a few more grapes, chewing quickly.
Nicostratus chuckles. “Only . . .”
“Only?”
“Follow the healer’s orders and rest another week first.”
“I’m fully healed. The spell was . . . miraculous.” Yet even that healer couldn’t repair my meridians.
I shake off the disheartening thought. Hope. Stay hopeful. If I look hard enough, if I never give up, maybe the heavens will reward me. Fix me.
“Regardless,” Nicostratus says, scowling into the middle distance, “I’d feel better if we waited.” He snaps back to a smile. “That gives me time for my scouts to discern what the situation is in the city.”
Patience. I must be worthy enough.
I nod.
I wait.
I spend my days helping all over the estate—from sweeping to cooking to cleaning out privy pots.
I help the aklas change the bedding, and Petros take stock of inventory.
“You’re much too helpful,” he says, laughing.
“Take a rest. Nicostratus should be at the training grounds, now that he’s waited out the doctor’s orders. ”
I smirk and leave Petros to it, making my way to Nicostratus.
I stand at the periphery, silently observing his combat practice from the shadows.
He moves with grace and fluidity, a blur of magic and motion.
Then he picks up a crude sword and spars with his personal guards.
Steel clashes and vibrates through the air, shivering over my skin.
He is all precision, perfection. He’s lost nothing.
I swallow. If I’m a good enough person, maybe I won’t lose everything, either.
I spend the afternoon near the kitchens, grinding grains with a quern stone, hoping soon I’ll be doing this with herbs. My eyes are covered by warm fingers, and I call out Nicostratus’s name. He pulls his hands away, and the first thing I see is his grin. “I’ve something you’ll be interested in.”
I look at his sparkling eyes.
“An invitation—for afternoon tea.”
“Afternoon tea?”
“Hosted by the esteemed Eparch Valerius, high-ranking official and philanthropist. After we’ve made an appearance, we can explore the city centre.”
I stand so fast I almost knock over all my hard work. Nicostratus laughs. “Come.”
Afternoon tea is held in a lavish hall with a grand colonnaded foyer. Exotic perfumes lace the air, and musicians play for silk-robed dancers. Nobles and rich merchants enjoy the performances, drinking and eating, and smiling stiffly.
Nicostratus murmurs in my ear, “That’s the game. Revel in the extravagance while forging connections to increase profit.”
A woman in white at the periphery catches my eye.
She’s a beautiful figure, in an intricate robe of white lace, but her hood is up, and she’s slinking toward the exit.
She glances across the room, and as she does, I catch sight of her face and the delicate pearled mask around her eyes. “Who is that?”
“She must be Eparchess Juliana,” Nicostratus murmurs, curious. “She’s become well known here, my staff mentioned. Yet no one has seen her face.”
A middle-aged man moves to the stage and commands everyone’s attention with a few hard plucks on a nearby harp.
“Valerius,” Nicostratus tells me.
Unlike the rich fabrics and regal colours his guests are dressed in, Eparch Valerius’s tunic and fitted trousers, neat and orderly, emphasise his role as a respected official with subtlety and restraint.
“I’ve invited you here today to ask for your aid in establishing an infirmary in the city.
Hinsard has some of the best healers in all five kingdoms; we should use our resources to give back to the people.
Support them with heavily subsidised medicinal spells and vitalian consultations. ”
I stand straighter and tug at Nicostratus’s sleeve, then replace the circling wyvern button that my tugging popped off.
He chuckles and raises his voice over my head. “I’ll donate.”
Eparch Valerius graciously inclines his head, and it begins a series of hollers, businessmen and nobles trying to claw for the most generous donation.
We’re about to slip away from the hall when Eparch Valerius intercepts us with a grateful, toothy smile that emphasises a scar along his jawline. He engages Nicostratus in polite small talk, and Nicostratus introduces me as his guest, and “exceptionally talented at healing.”
“Is that so?” Eparch Valerius says. “I dabble myself. We’re lucky to have so many herb fields around the city.
I see you carry a soldad—if you’re interested, there are daily workshops and weekly discussions run by the city’s most respected vitalians.
And at the end of the month, I’m hosting the healing tournament. ”
I grip my soldad, wishing desperately to feel any spark of magic. The Medicus Contest?
“This year we’ll have teams from every city in the kingdom,” he says. “See if you can’t join one.”
Nicostratus must feel my sudden tension. He clears his throat. “We’re actually on a quest to visit all the vitalians in the region. I imagine you’d know them all?”
Eparch Valerius calls for an aklo to make a list, and once we have it in our hands, he wishes us success and watches us go.
The Medicus Contest. What an opportunity for growth. If I can find someone who can heal me.
I whisk Nicostratus around the city with newfound eagerness.
The streets pulse with life: bustling merchants bartering loudly while couriers dart between stalls with messages in hand.
My gaze flits over the crowd—and snags on a constabulary uniform.
My breath hitches at the distinct rhythm of a cane tapping against cobblestones, but before I can be sure, the figure vanishes into the flow of bodies, leaving me with a suddenly racing heart.
Nicostratus gestures to the third vitaliary on our list and I hurriedly sweep up the stairs.
“You’re like a pup,” he murmurs fondly.
“This opportunity . . . to work with vitalians, to inspire teams to grow through competition . . . this is where miracles happen. To be part of that, to witness that . . .”
“I wish you had this much sparkle in your eye when you look at me.”
My step falters over the threshold. “I . . .”
“I’m teasing,” Nicostratus says, his chuckle slightly more forced than before. “Go on in. I’ll wait.”
Inside, an older vitalian peers over his magnifying glass and greets me.
I’m a rush of words as I ask him if he knows any way to mend severed meridians. “I’ll try anything, even if it affects my lifespan. So long as I can get my magic back.”
He lifts his magnifying glass and peers at me, humming. “What you need won’t come from herbs, potions, or spells.”
“What do I need?”
He sets his magnifying glass down. “Time.”
“They’ll mend on their own?”