Chapter 61 #2
Footsteps retreat and I hear the jangle and snick as Quin’s men are locked back inside.
“What will you do with him?” Crooked Nose asks.
“You can watch as I burn him.”
I stiffen.
Goatee speaks, keeping his voice steady. “Constable Michealios won’t like that—if you burn him without officially recording the cause of death. If I were you, I’d get the coroner.”
“What would you know?”
“Up to you.”
The constable grunts, but he stomps off, footsteps clacking angrily against stone.
Goatee calls out quietly when the clacking has receded. “Be quick.”
I throw the sheet off, bow my thanks, and run.
I’m bolting across the road towards the cover of trees when I plunge into the person I’ve most dreaded plunging into, and known it’s inevitable I would. Quin’s standing at the roadside with a squeezing grip on his cane and a displeased frown. His lips are flattened and his eyes are narrowed on me.
My heart jumps in fright and I stumble to a halt.
He stares at me, his jaw flexing in the manner of a man gritting his teeth.
I don’t quite understand. I’m the one who should feel the weight of emotions seeing him, knowing I’ll have to force myself to leave again.
For all he knows, I left for only a moment.
“I watched you sneak out,” he says bluntly. “What were you running from? Or should I ask who?” His eyes search mine, daring me to answer. Even if I want to answer, the lump in my throat won’t let me.
I whip my head from side to side. We can’t do this right now. “We need to gather the vitalians. Get to the game.”
“I’ve already sent for them.”
I blink, startled and impressed.
“I bumped into Nicostratus’s head aklo on his way there. He said there’d be a thousand spectators, including the refugees.”
“That was enough for you to know they were in trouble?”
“Call it instinct. Suspicion.”
I tell him about the commander’s father, dying at the hands of the town, and Quin steers me roughly into the nearest buggy. He tells the driver to bring us to the redcloak outpost, and then an awkward silence swells between us as we rattle over cobbled roads.
Quin glowers. I fidget.
I look out the window, and back at his brooding expression. When he meets my gaze, I rip mine away, and when I sneak it back, I find his still rooted on me. I jump, and whisper-blurt, “What?”
If there’d been shadows over his face before, they were nothing to now. Quin leans forward, scrutinising me. “You don’t recall last night?”
My chest pounds wildly, and a shiver zips deep down my middle. To be looking at me this intensely . . . something significant happened. I shift on the bench, crossing an ankle, jiggling my foot, uncrossing it. Do I inquire? Can I handle it?
I’m supposed to be gone. After today, I will leave again.
“What do you remember?” he asks softly, but the kind of softly that feels like a mask.
I jerk a finger at his attire. “You’re not wearing your uniform. Why were you headed for the constabulary?”
He growls. “I told you, I saw you this morning. I followed you. Saw your arrest. I was making a plan to bring you out.”
Is he upset I left after . . . whatever significant happened last night? I swallow. “I thought the drakopagon would’ve been”—his eyes flash, and I mumble the last part—“your priority.”
We stare at one another, and then he says, “I shouldn’t be so surprised you weaselled your way out of confinement.”
“Surprised?” I choke. “That isn’t . . . what you looked like.”
He raises one tight brow. “What did I look like?”
Like you’d whisk me away and lock me up all over again. “A smidgeon upset—”
The buggy jolts over a rock, causing me to fly off my seat and into Quin. I scramble to find balance, to push myself back, but he curls an arm around me and hauls me closer. My breath puffs against his chin and I lift my gaze to deep, dark eyes.
“A smidgeon?” He presses his face so close our noses graze, and his steely focus drops briefly to my lips before rising again. “Want me to remind you what happened last night?”
Shivers bolt hard and fast through me and when he opens his mouth to speak, I clamp my palm against his lips. I shake my head wildly.
Don’t. I don’t think I should know.
Don’t make it harder for me to leave.
My hand is trembling over his face and he hums hotly against my skin.
I talk before he tries. “It’s not the time for . . . this.”
His hand comes up to mine and drags across my fingers. He’s feeling my shaking from all sides, and it . . . softens the look in his eye. He inclines his head and I slowly, slowly drop my hand.
His arm tightens around me, crushing me to his chest, and he murmurs against my ear. “Don’t you dare leave my side until we’ve talked.”
He releases his hold on me and I slink to the opposite seat.
I bite my lip and I’m first to flee the tight confines of the buggy when it stops at the bottom of the hill. I start towards the outpost and he immediately grabs my hood, reining me back to his side. “I meant what I said.”
By his side. Right.
There’s a crowd being checked at the outpost gates and entry is a slow process. Quin presents our letter of admission, and at my lingering look at it, informs me Nicostratus gave it to him yesterday.
At the mention of the prince, I steer my gaze elsewhere. Once inside, we take to lurking in the shadows as we scope out the arena and search for the commander.
A cordoned-off area of a flat expanse of grass defines the drakopagon pitch and around it mill a thousand spectators.
There’s a betting station set up on one grassy flank, and by a large margin, the favour is for a redcloak triumph.
On the opposing flank is a welcoming station, where nobles are perhaps trying to sway guests in their favour.
Soldiers knock back the drinks, laughing, but the smirks on their faces tell me they’re still not placing their money on the opposing team.
There’s more hesitation when they’re confronted by an exquisitely dressed Sparkles, fluttering her eyelashes and swishing her skirts.
Eparch Valerius nods at her and hands out more free drinks to the drooling crowd. “Cheer on the underdogs!” Behind him, Nicostratus’s head aklo has been roped into helping, refilling quickly emptying jugs and sweating profusely as he tries to keep up.
I shield my eyes from a series of blinding flashes of reflected sunlight. “More people than I imagined.”
Quin’s hum is equally surprised. “I thought the redcloak team would be made up from the commander’s unit. My father-in-law’s soldiers are . . . unexpected.”
I look over at a large portion of the crowd. Even though they’re out of uniform, laughing and sipping their welcoming drinks, they all sport circling wyvern buttons.
Sunlight hits them, and once more I cover my eyes from the glare.
When I look again, my sight is captured by Prince Nicostratus riding onto the pitch, waving the noble team’s flag.
He rallies a cheer for his team and trots around the pitch, scanning the crowd as he rides. On the third turn he spots me—and Quin.
His jaw shifts and he churrs his horse into a vigorous canter, whipping winds around him.
The crowd becomes a murmur of appreciation at his blinding grace and power.
Guilt ripples down my spine. I take a large step away from Quin and force myself to make useful observations.
There’s something about this scene . . .
Most of the spectators are men, redcloaks both in and out of uniform, wearing circling wyverns in support of the true king. But there’s also a fiery female crowd amongst the refugees, and they’re singing folk songs of infamous drakopagon matches.
I watch their joy with a sickening ache. They’ve no idea. They think the food poisoning they had a few days before was horrible, a malicious act by the runaway king, but that they’d miraculously survived it.
My jaw clenches as I search the crowds for the sadistic culprit, who is wholly aware of the atrocity soon to happen.
“Where are the vitalians?” I ask Quin.
“I told them to come as spectators. They’ve consumed and stacked all layers of the antidote barring the last key catalyst. I ordered a trusted vitalian to smuggle in rare herbs hidden under roasted nuts.”
As he says it, I taste the strong aroma of sugared almonds. The cart is parked at the far edges of the field, partially obscured by barracks, not far from the infantry kitchens and herb garden.
I glance again at the refugees singing at the narrow end of the pitch. “Will there be enough vitalians?”
“It’ll be a challenge, but they should manage.”
Dread claws sharply up my stomach. “If we don’t discover the missing part . . .”
“They’ll use gut feeling and hope for the best.”
Gut feeling. How many refugees would make it?
“We need to search the commander’s room. Corner him. Force him to give us the missing ingredient.”
“He’s a dangerous man,” Quin says, gusts spinning around him. “I’ll find him.”
My hair whips in the sudden rough winds. I meet his gaze squarely and ignore the lurch in my stomach at his determinedly protective expression. “Either I stay by your side, or I don’t.”
His lips pinch at my threat but he hauls me along with him, past the nut cart, into the heart of the outpost. Sunshine burns over corridors and doors creak where redcloaks have hurried out of their barracks for the game; the distant cheering and hollering is a constant buzz that covers our steps.
“Should we confront him,” Quin whispers, grip flexing on his cane. “Stay behind me.”
I nod, and we slip through the commander’s cracked door, the floor immediately groaning in protest—or perhaps warning.
The chamber is lit by streams of dusty sunlight coming through the windows.
We move swiftly around the room, searching for any clue to the antidote. There’s not a single plant in sight.
“Is there anything here?” Quin murmurs, gesturing to cluttered parchment on the commander’s desk.
I join him to search through it, but these are mostly lists of army equipment, requests for funding, marked maps—
“This is . . .” I study the parchment. “A record of donations the refugees received.”
I frown over it. Why does the commander have this?
Quin looks at it and the other handwritten documents on the desk. “It’s his writing.”
“He copied it?” For what purpose?
Frowning over this, Quin crouches to the bookshelf and shakes each book like he might find a secret note with answers.
I lean against the wall behind the desk.
All I have is a list that includes his name on it as delivering sacks of oats.
Where’s he hiding his spells? The equipment he’d need to concoct poison?
Any of the essential herbs? I don’t scent traces of anything.
I scan the page and jerk at a familiar name further down the list. Ariadne Aureliana. “Quin, look at—” I push my foot against the wall to kick off it, and my heel clicks something—
Suddenly the wall is shifting with a low rumble and swinging inwards. I stumble back with the momentum and yelp as I’m deposited into a cold, dark space. Quin swings around wildly in the commander’s room, and his frantic “Cael!” is cut off as the stone slams back into place between us.