Chapter 54
Ishut my eyes and give up my feeble resistance. The winds are strong, but at least they’re whipping out the worst of the rainwater from my clothes. Once we’re in the boat, Quin releases his magical hold on me and steers us along the water in silence.
He takes us to a small inn, close to the constabulary.
It’s a robust, cozy place filled with soft chatter.
The moment Quin appears in his uniform, snapping his cane, the innkeeper welcomes him back, asking if he had a busy day.
Quin barks out a bitter laugh and requests extra blankets and clothing to be brought to his rooms. He leads me through a humming dining area, where the warmth from a fire briefly warms my damp clothes.
“Come along.” We head outside and cross a yard to a small communal bathing area, the pool overwhelmingly scented with rose and lavender.
The relaxing herb has no effect on Quin. He spares a tight look at aklos pouring buckets of heated water into the bath; they and a nearby guest scurry away, leaving us alone in the dimly lit room.
A few fine strings knot low in my stomach and I cast my head down.
Quin steps close with an exclamatory snap of his cane.
He reaches out and yanks open the knot holding my cloak.
It puddles to the floor, and he pushes me to the single bench in the room.
I fall back onto it, and my boots are being pulled off.
When I’m plucked to my undergarments, he grabs me by the scruff and steers me to the bath.
I land inside with a splash and a sputter, scented water stinging my eyes.
When I’ve finally cleared them, Quin is at the other end of the bath. He rests his head back against the edge and closes his eyes.
“What are you doing?” I cough out.
“You were shivering. Warm up.”
“Why are you in here?”
He keeps his eyes closed. “Making sure you don’t drown in self pity.”
I scowl. So much for his promise only to share his bath with the person he gave his lovelight to. “You’re angry with me. Let it out.”
“I watched you refusing to help the sick.”
I stare at lavender heads and rose petals floating in the water.
“This is not the Cael I know.”
I swallow. “You’ve seen me hesitate before.”
Quin wades along the side of the bath and stops beside me. His thin undershirt clings translucently to his chest. Seeing the outline of the flutette has my stomach knotting tighter. “Before, you hesitated for your family’s safety.” He lifts my chin to meet his eye. “Why didn’t you help today?”
“I can’t.”
“Nonsense.”
My breath catches in my throat. I jerk my chin from his grasp and stare across the bath.
“You can diagnose by observation and pulse reading. You know which foods can aid health. You’ve helped those allergic to magic. You understand the healing properties of a thousand plants. The application might differ, but you have enough knowledge to give more than basic aid.”
My stomach churns, and I step back from the intensity of Quin’s observation.
“I don’t want to see you go against your principles.”
The lump in my throat is impossible to swallow.
“Y-you’re disappointed in me.”
Quin’s lips flatten, and a sudden surge of heat rushes to my eyes. I grit my teeth against it, but it’s too powerful. I twist my back to him, in time for the tear to land on the water’s surface.
I croak, “I . . . don’t know myself right now, either.” My stomach feels like it’s suffering a series of punches. “I don’t know.”
Quin’s arms come around my shaking body and he pulls me against his chest, holding tight. My tears fall thick and heavy, splashing onto his arms.
His cheek presses against the side of my head. “No matter if you are a vitalian or a healer by crude methods, as long as it’s your dream to heal, I’ll support you.”
“By being blunt?” I choke out.
“When you need it.” His arms shift slightly around me.
I clutch his forearms tightly and the punches in my stomach rise to my chest. I shove his arms open and step away, turning in his direction, my gaze cast low. He waits, unmoving.
My voice is lost somewhere in my throat, and all I can do is nod while I find it again. “You didn’t need to take me away.”
He’s quiet a moment, then he wades back to his end of the bath and resumes lounging with his head cast towards the ceiling. “Tomorrow we’ll help refugees move into huts near Thinking Hall.”
“That’s what you were organising when I tried to ‘destroy the royal seal’?”
Quin’s lips curve slightly. He knows he twisted the truth out of proportion.
I flick the surface of the water, spraying his grin.
He raises an eyebrow and sends a wave of water across the surface until it breaks over me.
I splutter, gulp in air, wipe at the drenched hair over my face, and climb out of the bath glaring daggers at his shut-eyed amusement.
Quin seats himself in the small dawn-soaked boat, and I clamber in across from him. He moves an oar out of my way, and winces. When he sets it down, he rolls his shoulder.
I recall his three bullseye shots yesterday. “You overdid it.”
“I did what I needed to.” He says it as a matter of fact, and my next breath slides along knotted threads in my stomach.
I focus on the winding canal, and then the approaching makeshift sanctuary.
Bordered by the water, the back of Thinking Hall, cobbled streets, and a weathered luminarium is a large grassy area filled with patchwork tents and quickly constructed shelters.
Bright fabrics are layered over the tents along with banners from refugee villages.
We rope the boat and step into the sanctuary.
I was expecting to see a similar scene to yesterday—groups of people huddled together, sharing their stories over eager mouthfuls of porridge.
Instead, moans grow louder as we near the centre, each one twisting tighter in my chest. The air is heavy with the scent of unwashed bodies and bile.
A child cries nearby, clutching at his mother’s sleeve as she slumps against a tent post.
Quin’s cane hits the ground with a sharp tap, but his usual air of command is muted. He rests on his cane and observes the scene, frowning.
Something’s not right.
Ahead, in the shadows of Thinking Hall, Quin’s allies are sharing worried looks as they speak in hushed tones. They’re interrupted by a deep cry from a nearby tent. They race towards it, asking if anyone needs help, and a young man emerges carrying an elderly woman.
He drops to his knees and cries over her body.
I’m frozen a few tents away, a knot lodged in my throat.
If I’d done more yesterday . . . would Nannan still be alive?
I force myself to look away, but his grief is seared into my mind. Is this . . . my fault?
I glance at Quin, horrified, and he quietly wraps an arm around me, pulling me behind one of the tents.
Best he not see you and lay unfair blame.
Unfair? Would it be?
With a tight lump in my throat, I observe the man crying for his nannan while Quin’s allies bow their heads in silence.
“This is your fault,” he yells at them. “Your porridge took her life!”
Porridge? Quin and I share a sharp frown.
One of Quin’s supporters tries to calm him, but he is lost in his grief; other refugees are crawling out of their tents and hobbling over, moaning and clutching their stomachs.
“Look,” he says, jerking his finger around. “I thought you represented King Constantinos, thought he cared.”
Quin grinds his teeth and white-knuckles his cane. I stiffen. I’d told them the porridge was the king’s caring deed. “Quin—”
“This is not your fault.”
Before us, Quin’s nobles defend the king. “He’d be devasted to learn of this.”
The young man shakes his head. Others shout for answers. Healers. They’re sick, weakening by the hour.
“We’ve sent for constables and vitalians,” a noble says. “They’ll be here soon; they’ll investigate the source of this.”
I glance at Quin. “Are they expecting you?”
“Perhaps they think they’ve sent for me. But I won’t receive that message. Others will come—” He gestures towards two constables marching from the street towards the commotion, Eparch Valerius in his official uniform close behind.
At the sight of the eparch, Quin pulls his hat further down, casting more of his face in shadow.
Fair. Not only would his cover be blown, there’d be more commotion and unrest among the sick. We remain veiled by tents and banners, peeking through gaps.
“What’s all this?” Eparch Valerius says, face pinched in concern as he takes in the moaning refugees around him.
Fingers point at the nobles, along with more murmurs of accusation.
The eparch grimaces and raises his hands, calling for quiet. He commiserates with the refugees and promises to send the vitalians due at Thinking Hall to them. “In the meantime, until we’ve determined the cause, I’ll have food brought here from my manor and cooked under redcloak supervision.”
The crowd is a collective sigh of relief and gratitude, and the young man, cradling his dead nannan, pleads for investigation, retribution.
Eparch Valerius casts the nobles a sympathetic look. “I’m sure these men will cooperate with the constables?”
Quin sets his lips in a grim line as his allies allow themselves to be led away for questioning.
The remaining constable calls for someone to gather yesterday’s leftover food for inspection, and for a stretcher.
He insists the nannan’s body be handed over for an autopsy, and the young man begrudgingly accepts.
“You volunteered yesterday,” Quin whispers. “Best you avoid the constabulary.”
I think it through, and nod. Soon they’ll look for those who handled the porridge—my connection with Nicostratus, already under suspicion for murder . . . I’d be thrown into prison. Interrogated.
It’d definitely worsen things for the prince.
“Let’s figure out what’s going on,” I say. Clear Quin’s supporters—and myself—of any doubt.
“Careful. I must speak to my men.”
We slink off in different directions.
Healers swarm into the sanctuary, and I follow the scent of steaming herbal teas towards the cooking area.