Chapter 61
Asoft groan escapes me as I open my eyes to a sharp pounding in my head. I wince at a ray of dawn streaming into my eyes, curl my face to the side, and freeze. I’m not alone. Quin must have drunk a lot too, or for certain he’d have cast me to the floor.
My gaze drops to his open shirt, the flutette that’s fallen beside his exposed shoulder. His cloak has become my blanket.
My pulse quirks as I try to piece together the night . . . but this throbbing . . .
What’s my fault?
I flush and quietly smack my forehead. How did I respond?
I close my eyes briefly. It doesn’t matter. It can’t. I’ve had my goodbye.
I quietly ease myself out of Quin’s embrace. I want him to notice I’m gone and wake. I want to hear his voice one last time. I want to see the dark eyes that have a way of fishing inside me, hooking those weirdly volatile feelings and demanding I squirm.
I want those things.
I need him to stay sleeping.
Accompanied by the throb in my head, I slide out of bed, find my things and tiptoe away.
I wince at the creak of floorboards, and only release my held breath when I reach the workshop.
I waffle as I pack my grandfather’s books into a sack and, three times, I sneak towards the sleeping nook only to turn around again.
How exactly did our goodbye go last night?
Heat stings my cheeks and I shove the question deep. With a shrivelling soul, I leave the apothecary.
Every bone in my body is heavy. I trudge through a sleeping city, shrouded by the shadows of my own frown.
It feels like I’m doing something wrong.
But what else should I do? My memories with Nicostratus, and my memories with Quin .
. . even put together they’re a fraction of those the brothers share.
How can I come between them?
My feet clack against cobblestone and, amidst the first stirrings of the marketplace, I throw my head up and glare towards the heavens. Why is this so hard? Why does it feel like losing my magic all over again?
“That’s him!”
I snap my head down. A townsman is jerking a finger in my direction, and two on-duty constables head towards me. Too late. There’s nowhere to hide and no time to run. I shrink back several steps, cursing under my breath, and am forced to give in when I’m apprehended.
“This is him,” the first constable confirms.
“Could be he killed Vitalian Dimos too.”
My stomach sinks.
“And tried to murder Eparch Valerius.” One of them shoves me. “How’d you get in? Dress up, did you? Delivery man? Aklo? Pretend to be a vitalian?”
They shake their heads in disgust. “Saw the wreckage of the garden.”
“Always more sympathy for flowers than people.”
“Can’t trust people. Flowers at least you know what you’re getting.
” Roughly, they drag me to the constabulary, where the head constable eyes me for a grimacing moment.
He vaguely recalls seeing me before, when Prince Nicostratus had been framed.
“Put him behind bars,” he tells his men.
“We’ll interrogate him after the drakopagon. ”
I’m shoved into a cell in the inner courtyard with a handful of other men—two passed out drunk, and three more with their heads resting on bent knees. I land on straw and the iron gate clangs. The snick of the lock sends a cold shiver through me.
Given the chance, I can prove I’m not involved in these hideous crimes.
It’s also explainable why I’ve been difficult to track.
But having to wait is frustrating. Not the time itself, but that it’ll give Quin the chance to discover my whereabouts.
He’ll hear it from his colleagues, and he’ll come, right after investigating at the drakopagon.
He’ll do everything to make sure I’m swiftly released, and I . . .
Will have to face him.
I scramble around on my knees and stare wistfully at the keys dangling from the belts of the constables crossing the courtyard. Come back. I shake the bars, testing their might, hopeful one might bend and let me escape.
Someone snickers. I glance to the three men sitting against the back wall, heads raised to watch me, and gasp.
I recognise them, from the morning doling out porridge to refugees. “You’re—”
“You’re wasting your time.”
I look at the bars I’m gripping and let them go, sagging against the adjacent wall with a deep sigh. “You’ll be acquitted soon,” I tell them. At least someone should get good news. “You won’t be here much longer.”
None seems particularly surprised by this. “You don’t seem surprised by this.”
The man who snickered strokes his goatee with a warm smile. “We believe in our king. He’s asked for our patience; promised our freedom.”
I stare at each of them—the goatee, the crooked nose, the frowner. “Why do you believe in him?”
Crooked Nose in the middle, polishing his circling wyvern button, answers, “We schooled with him. Knew him before he was poisoned, and after. We’ve seen him stand up for classmates bullied by the high duke’s allies, we’ve seen him pretend to be a merchant and donate his personal monies to orphanages and aid.
We’ve seen him pick himself up after countless falls.
If he makes a promise, he fulfils it. He’ll get us out of here. He’ll get his kingdom back.”
Frowner cocks his head and eyes me sharply, “Do you believe in him?”
I laugh painfully against a reel of flashing memories. I don’t know exactly the moment it happened, but somewhere along the way I not only began believing in him, but became someone who would die for him.
I swallow hard and turn my face away from them. My focus quickly locks onto an unaccompanied figure traipsing through the courtyard. His short, hacked hair gives him away immediately.
As if by recognising him I’ve summoned him, he looks up and his gaze clasps onto me.
His step falters, and then he’s storming towards the cells, fists balled at his sides.
“You.” He grabs hold of the iron bars and glares down at me.
His anger seeps around him like charcoal smoke. He’s par-linea like I am—like I was.
“You poisoned my nannan.”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry for your loss. I promise you, I didn’t harm her.”
His anger swells along with his uncontrolled magic, like plumes now. “She shouldn’t have gone like this. Shouldn’t have suffered. Shouldn’t have had to stay so many days here.”
I sink my head. He’s here to retrieve her body for burial. Of course his reasoning will be affected today; forcing him to believe in my innocence would be fruitless. Selfish. “May she rest in peace,” I murmur.
He shakes the bars and the lock rattles. “Why did you do it? Were you in on it with them?” He jerks his finger towards the goatee, the crooked nose, the frowner. “Were you all under orders from—”
He stops speaking abruptly.
“From whom?” I ask, frowning.
His jaw twitches. “She should be having a grand funeral. All her friends and neighbours, sending her off into the heavens. Instead, she’ll only get me.” He sneers. “Did he invite all the refugees to a stupid drakopagon to spite us?”
Tiny hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I throw out my suspicion. “The commander?”
His anger is swirling now, his hands keep shaking the bars. He shouts, “My nannan didn’t deserve to die. His father did.”
His father did.
The commander grew up at the border. The townspeople took care of me growing up, it’s only right I repay them.
How exactly did they take care of him? What did repaying them mean?
A shiver races down my spine. Is this the motivation for poisoning the refugees? “Your nannan killed his father?”
He doesn’t seem to be hearing me. “Why her?” He sags against the bars, sobbing. “The whole town was in on it.”
“The whole town . . . did you tell this to the constables?”
“I shouldn’t have said, shouldn’t have said. Promised Nannan . . .” He rips himself away from the bars with a snarl and leaves with a promise we’ll all pay.
The hairs at the back of my neck are still standing. A shivery sense of foreboding tightens my gut.
If the commander did poison their town, why invite the refugees to the drakopagon?
Unless . . . I suck in a sharp breath. Could they be part of a big show of revenge? A town witnessed his father die, now others should witness the town dying?
The more I think about it, the more nauseous I become. We’ve been wondering how long they have. A big event like this . . . “They’ll die today.”
Goatee, Crooked Nose, and Frowner jerk their heads to me, and I shove to my feet. “I have to warn them.” Vitalians need to get to the drakopagon with the best hope of an antidote they have.
I yell for a constable, and one marches over with a growl. “Quiet. Should be at the game, not babysitting you lot.”
I tell him he needs to send vitalians to the drakopagon; needs to tell the constables the refugees are in trouble.
The constable hears my fervent pleas as a threat and turns his back, muttering. Goatee, Crooked Nose, and Frowner stare grim faced into the courtyard as he leaves. “If we could break you out, we would.”
I turn slowly, Goatee’s words forming an idea. “When do they open the cell?”
“When they put someone in, or take someone out.”
“Take someone out?”
“To be executed or—”
“Or?” I ask hopefully.
“If they’re already dead.”
I grimace and plant hands on my hips. No time to waste. The game must be starting soon. “Looks like I have to die again.”
Frowner’s eyebrows shoot upwards, and I explain. Ten minutes later, Crooked Nose hits my acupoints, immobilising me prone on the floor. My whole body is stiff and, to anyone not knowledgeable in healing and the body, I look the part.
Goatee and Frowner shout for help and make a great scene to the constable that I suddenly keeled over, clutching my chest.
“He died just like that?”
“See for yourself.”
The constable kicks my legs and curses. “You two, carry him out to the courtyard. No funny business.” I’m lifted and trundled to the courtyard where, subtly, Frowner hits my acupoints again as a sheet is laid over me. “Back into the cell.”