Page 12

The judge stares at my badge, face colouring, eyes narrowing. He huffs. “That still leaves the crime of theft. Of ruining my cloak.”

“Is there a law against ruining your outfit?” I pivot to block Aklo and steady my gaze on the judge. “What about your crime of assumption? The crime of no proper trial? The crime of being unjust?”

The judge laughs and holds a hand up for Aklo to wait. “A mere mage thinks he understands the law better than the head of the capital’s judicial court?”

The surrounding crowd becomes a collective murmur; the boy behind me stifles his sobs, and my rapid pulse rushes in my ears.

“There are intricacies I know nothing of,” I agree. “However. Civil laws are based on Goffridus Ethics, and Goffridus’s founding principle for judgement is the balance of good and harm. That means not only looking at the crime itself but taking in the circumstances of that crime. Who is the victim, what are their costs? Who is the perpetrator, what is their intent? The harm caused by a murderer for sweet revenge is far more egregious than an accidental death in pursuit of safety.”

“There’s more than enough evidence to prove this boy a thief—the shop owner, witnesses, the rare herbs in his hand. Losing his hands not only fits his crime, but serves to discourage other thieves. Having safer streets through punishment leads to overall good. I think you’ll find I’m a mouthpiece for Goffridus.”

The hilarity.

The judge sneers as I struggle not to laugh.

“I’m—I’m also a mouthpiece for Goffridus.”

“You—”

I catch my breath, my trapped laughter dying away. “‘All should be judged in a manner that is fair and proportionate considering the inherent inequality that comes through circumstance.’ Goffridus, the Rights of a Benevolent Kingdom .” I gesture to the shaking boy. “A boy with nothing has no choice but to steal to survive. With no choice, can it be called a crime? And if it is, is it not the crime of a kingdom: not giving the weak, poor and vulnerable a choice?”

“Insulting our kingdom is treasonous!”

“You believe it’s an insult? That what I’ve said is offensive?”

“Mightily so.”

“ Mightily . Only the defensive would be so offended; if you’re defensive, my words cannot be ignorable. If my words are not ignorable, there must be some truth to them. If there is some truth to them, this case cannot be so easily concluded.”

“I don’t have time for this drivel.”

“If you don’t have time, I have a suggestion.” I pluck a gold coin from the pouch Quin gave me and hand it to the herbal dispenser. “For those herbs.” I take the package from him. “Can we call this a misunderstanding?”

He blinks at me, grips the gold, and nods. “There—there was no crime. There’s no complainant in this case.”

The judge roars. “Spare his hands then, but he still owes me compensation for this cloak! It was hand-stitched by monks from the eastern kingdom! He can be my slave, spend his life on hands and knees. Aklo, bring him.”

Air stirs and an elegant figure descends from a window of the dance academy. Quin. He perches himself on a stall table between stacks of quality parchment, hood cast low over his eyes, shadows shielding most of his face. Gone is his aklo’s uniform, replaced with fine fabrics and shiny boots. His navy cloak is hemmed with gold ribbon.

Of the nobility, at a single glance.

Worthy of attention.

The judge hesitates.

Quin gestures towards me with the flick of a hand. “I felt compelled to interject after hearing such ear-prickling outspokenness.”

Quin, whose side are you on?

I raise my chin, hoping it hides the chaotic thumping in my chest. There’s still a boy to save.

The judge’s eyes twinkle and he prods my chest smugly. “Go, if you know what’s good for you.”

“I won’t leave until you let this boy go.”

“He must pay for his wrong,” the judge snaps.

Laughter again. The judge swivels towards Quin, frowning.

Quin directs his raised voice decidedly towards the judge. “Why do you see a rip in your brother’s clothes, but can’t see you yourself are naked?”

My breath catches.

He twists his hands and the judge lurches into the air. Quin reaches out and runs his fingers over the finely embroidered cloak. “Hand-stitched by monks from the eastern kingdom. This comes at an extravagant cost. Can your salary afford this? I’d be mightily curious to audit your accounts.”

The judge pales.

“Are you sure one must always pay for his wrongs?” Quin asks, silkily soft.

The judge stammers. “I... that is... Who would dare—”

Quin hauls him close, so close the judge must see the face in the shadows of that hood.

The judge gasps. “Your m—”

“Do you admit your wrong?”

“I admit my wrong! I admit my wrong!”

Quin lets the judge go, and he sprawls over the ground. “I can turn a blind eye to this, if...”

The judge scrambles onto his knees, whirling round urgently and ordering his aklo to release the boy. The crowds disperse as the judge slinks away, and regular marketing soon resumes. I help the shaking boy to his feet and hand him the package of verdeflora, which he hugs tightly to his chest as he bows over and over.

I put out a hand to stop him. “What’s your name?”

“I... Aklo.”

I shake my head kindly. “If you have another name, you can tell us.”

“Mama calls me Niki.”

Quin calls out for Niki to be helped home.

The scarred aklo emerges from the shadows, and I startle. “How—”

“He knows to find me here if I don’t return to King’s Island.”

Right. Of course the king would have such contingencies in place.

At Quin’s request, the boy tells him where he lives and starts off with Aklo. We’re to follow shortly.

I palm the back of my clammy neck. “You should probably vacate this seller’s stall.”

Quin pushes off with his good foot, and suddenly I’m in his arms and we’re rising in the air and through the academy window. He drops me and I catch myself on my feet as he falls gracefully into an elegant armchair.

He sits quietly, his hood pulled back to reveal the strict, smooth lines of his face. His eyes seem especially dark, but not cold and determined as they’d been in the queen’s courtyard; dark and warm, with a strange intensity. As if he finds the world amazing and wants to study every inch of it.

My pulse still hasn’t recovered from the altercation with the judge; it skips madly in my veins. I release a shivery breath towards the view of the market. “With how often you go gallivanting, I’m surprised that’s the first time you’ve been recognised.”

“I’ve not released any public portraits. Nor is my injury known outside of the royal city. He is the capital’s high judge. I’ve had dealings with him.” He pauses. “You’re versed in Goffridus.”

“Only the basics. I was reading his views on health of the mind, body and soul.”

“Cael?”

It takes me a few beats to look at him.

“Come closer.”

I hesitate and cross the few feet between us.

“Kneel.”

The floor is cold under my knees but Quin is a solid block of warmth before me, very close.

My head is tipped up, his tipped down to study my face. There’s the gentlest amazement in his expression. He produces a pouch, one I recognise: he bought it from the jewellery stall. From it, he draws out a beautifully carved clasp. Silver, and formed in the shape of an aether petal—just like in the pictures of Saint Kyrillos, the only person in the history of our kingdom to have reached the seventh level. He used the aether petal to save the life of his beloved.

I stare at the delicate grooves in the silver. An imitation of the saint’s clasp. Surely, it couldn’t be...

I’m robbed of voice.

Quin reaches for the fraying knot of my cloak, his fingers brushing my throat as he undoes it. Carefully, he arranges the cloak over my shoulders and attaches the clasp. Again, his skin whispers over mine, and our gazes hook. My breath falters at this softness, and as if realising he’s let his mask slip, he pulls back decisively. “It was annoying me.”

Tension whooshes out of me, and I hear myself chuckle. “Maybe my boots can annoy you next.”

Quin flicks my forehead away from him and I scramble to my feet. “Order up black cumin, milk thistle, and mint tea. Let’s help this boy’s mother.”

* * *

Quin is quiet and reflective at my side as we follow the boy’s directions to the outskirts of the city. As the wealth of the inner capital fades, the solemn lines on his face deepen. Wind rattles through huts slapped together from wood and straw, and hacking coughs come through thin walls. Threadbare clothes are pegged to sagging, criss-crossing lines, and groups of thinly clad children kick at a clump of dead grass in place of a ball.

We spot Quin’s scarred aklo outside a small hut, whittling a stick of wood. Behind them, an elderly, hunch-backed man tends a pot boiling over a fire of sticks. A rich nutty scent hits the back of my nose; I steer myself to the pot and crouch beside the man.

He prods the fire. “I’ve seen you outside the gates of the scholar prefecture. My grandson wants to follow in your footsteps.”

Quin’s gaze cuts to us and then to the fire before he turns back to Aklo and Niki.

“I hope you are not an exception.” Tired eyes that have seen too much untimely death meet mine. “So many are willing to save lives—have the potential—and are yet unable. To be frank, we need to place greater importance on healers than on vitalians.”

“Vitalian spells are superior. If more par-linea could—”

A dismissive laugh. “We can’t rely on magic. I’ve prepared the verdeflora.”

My stomach tightens. I frown and quietly take the tea he’s prepared, scalding my tongue on a large gulp.

It’s damp and mouldy in the hut Niki and his mother share; the blankets covering her are coated in a film of moisture. Quin takes one look around and excuses himself, voice raspy. It takes me an hour but when I’m finally done, the mother’s condition has significantly improved.

“Air the house every day and hang the blankets outside,” I murmur. “Spend an hour each morning out in the sunshine.”

Niki throws himself onto the bed and hugs her tightly through doting kisses to his forehead.

When I leave the hut, the elderly man is still at the fire. “How did you know to drink black cumin and milk thistle before seeing her?”

He recognised the spell I used. “I noticed the yellowing around Niki’s eyes and suspected his mother would suffer similar malnutrition. The black cumin will help with that and the milk thistle will help the verdeflora heal her liver.”

He hums. “You knew we wouldn’t have any here.”

I look down.

Quin comes closer. “I’ll have seeds delivered to everyone in the neighbourhood.”

The hunched man glances at him, then back to the fire.

Gently, I palm Quin’s shoulder. “We should go.”

Frustrated, distraught eyes fly to mine. Quin’s jaw hardens stubbornly against the urge to speak. He snaps his cane, pivoting away. I sigh.

He keeps a harried pace, but he senses my approach.

“Why?” he barks.

“No one dares to hope anymore.”

“I thought it was the last thing to go.”

“It is.”

He looks away from me and dark shadows swallow his face. We’re quiet on our way to the canal. Once he’s seated in a rowboat, he orders his aklo away with instructions to deliver my grandfather’s books to my bedchamber, and prepare the tunnel.

“The tunnel?”

“You’ll see. Let’s go.”

Once more, my body becomes Quin’s crutch as we haul ourselves up the bank to Petros’s residence. He feels heavier today, as if the weight of the kingdom rests painfully on shoulders not quite big enough.

A dozen aklos and aklas are busy offloading luggage from carts when we pass through the iron gates. The drunken porter from the evening before spots us and hurries over.

“Has he arrived?” Quin asks.

The porter shakes his head. “The servants came ahead to get the house in order. The master’s an hour behind.”

“By which route?”

“The main roads are washed out. They’re coming via the badlands.”

Quin shifts subtly. He’s thinking, making quick plans. “Get us the cloaks you took from the soldiers and lend us a horse. One will do.”

“One?” I ask when the porter races off. Quin nods. He pulls a small dagger from inside his cloak, unsheathes it, and despite my sudden cry, slashes the back of his forearm.

“Our next act,” he says, clasping his other hand over the cut and smearing the blood over his bad leg. “I got hit in an attack. You were lucky, but lost your horse.”

Almost automatically, my hands vibrate with magic and the need to heal him.

Quin’s gaze flickers to me and away again. “It’s nothing but a scratch.”

“But you—you’re... I should’ve—”

“You’re not allowed to get hurt,” he says.

“Even if it’s just a scratch?”

“That’s an order.”

I grit my teeth. “I have an order, too. You won’t do this again.”

Quin’s eyes return to mine. “That’s not your call to make.”

“I’ll make it anyway.” I stare back, unflinching.

His lips twitch—a shadow of a smile. “Careful, Cael. You’re sounding awfully protective.”

My cheeks burn. “I’m a healer!”

Quin stares at me for a long-drawn moment before he hands me one of the passes I took from the redcloaks the day before. “Show this if you’re asked,” he says quietly. “No magic. Your talent will make him suspicious.”

We wrap red cloaks over our own, mount one of the less travel-worn horses, and ride.

The uneven road is flanked by giant sandstone rocks. Our horse’s hooves clomp and clatter over loose stone, crushing the prickly flowers growing in the cracks and kicking up dust as we go. A good stretch ahead, a simple carriage is making grooves through the rubble, moving slow, almost as if procrastinating. Perhaps its occupant suspects nothing good awaits him at home. We slow momentarily; the curtain twitches, the occupant peeking from the window. Quin digs his heels in again as the driver registers our uniforms. With a wince of pain detectable only by me snug behind him, he raises a hand, and the horses pull to a stop.

“What is this?” The freckled cheeks of a man in his thirties appear from behind the curtain. He freezes for a moment but quickly gathers his wits; he sends his driver out of earshot before he turns back to us. “Who sent you?”

Quin speaks, “We were sent on a mission, but we’ve been hunted since we left the palace.”

“Why come to me?”

“The men who attacked us mentioned you were next.”

He gulps and eyes us, frowning. “Show me your beads.”

I pull mine from my waist and toss them to him for inspection. “Do you know any vitalian magic? This man needs tending.”

We put on a show getting Quin off the horse and hobbling to the wide shelf along the side of the carriage to perch, Quin clutching his bloodied arm.

Petros sucks in a breath, his movements turning frantic. “Hunted?”

Quin delivers a flat stare and Petros’s face drains of colour. “N-no, he wouldn’t,” he stutters, “Not after all I’ve done for him. No.”

“You’re no longer of use,” Quin says, embellishing with a nice hiss of pain between his lips.

I grab my handkerchief to bind the slash on his arm, bitterly ignoring the urge to summon a spell.

Quin grabs the cuff of Petros’s sleeve, pulling him closer. “Do you have anything—documents, letters, proof of his involvement?”

Petros panics. “I burned everything, as he ordered.”

I feel Quin’s disappointment in the sagging of his frame. He turns those feelings into a gasp of pain, clutching his leg this time. “Everything?”

“How do I prove that to him? Who’s involved, their families—” Petros snaps his head up, a flash of relief in his eyes. “They’re only in my head, nowhere else—”

“Then,” Quin says. “ You are also evidence.”

“No.” A trembling whisper. “This can’t be. He promised.”

“They attacked us, killed one of our horses, wounded me. They’ll be back to finish the job.”

“W-what do we—”

“We have to run. Hide.”

“Right. Alright, alright.”

“The others involved, their families...”

Petros shakes his head, gaze widening in terror.

“We have to warn them,” Quin says.

“T-this—this can’t be happening.”

Quin grips Petros’s shirt and hauls him close. “There’s no time, we have to give them a chance. Come with us.”

“Come with... no, no, I don’t know how to fight. If they...”

“Then give us a list—turn back and hide. We’ll help the others.”

A shifting shadow catches in the corner of my eye; I whip my head around. The driver? I was sure he’d gone in the other direction.

I push off the carriage and sidle cautiously round to check the craggy rocks bordering this stretch of road.

“Y-yes. Yes,” Petros’s croaky voice carries. “Help the others—”

“Names. Where?”

Where did that driver go? Wait, what’s...

A flicker of movement from the rocks facing Petros and Quin. I race around the carriage. Men in red, masked. Two men in red. Bows, with glinting arrows notched, taking aim...

“In the south. There are five.”

“ Names. ”

Fear lances through me, quick and sharp.

They release their arrows; I cry out and magic surges out of me. I force it away and it spirals before the distracted king—

The arrow meant for Quin thunks into a nest of thorny flowers.

But the second arrow whizzes past and spears into Petros’s throat. The sharp crack of it punches the air. Blood splatters the carriage wall, its metallic tang mingling with the dust my inadequate shield stirred up. Quin is grasping Petros as he gurgles and goes limp.

A haunting silence follows. I stumble. My shield flips and booms out, uncontrolled, hurling the arrow it caught towards the redcloaks, who are... who are nocking new arrows—

Panic jolts my chest, and I squeeze my fist—

Quin steps forward with a roar, pebbles lifting from the ground at his command and shooting towards the masked men. I stand frozen, caught between fear and awe as Quin’s fury shapes the winds around us and enemy bows fly from hands and smash against the rock. The masked men scramble away, into the shadows.

Madly, Quin returns to clutching Petros’s shoulders. He looks my way, desperation pinching the corners of his eyes, his lips. “Save him.”

The man is gone. No living mage in this world could revive him. I shuffle toward them, trying to calm my rampant pulse. Telling myself that at least the king is safe.

“Save him!”

I drop to my knees, shaking my head.

“You must , you...”

“Quin...”

“Try! How will I ever—If I don’t—... Why are you not trying? ”

His passionate plea is so strong, maybe he believes it can bring back the dead.

“He’s gone.”

Quin grips my arms, the blood from his hands seeping into my cloak in a way that makes me realise why the military wear red. I lift my head and look into his pained, frustrated eyes. I say it again. “He’s gone.”

He knows. He doesn’t want to accept.

He straightens and staggers past me. His torment echoes off walls of stone. He hurls rocks against the boulders over and over.

I let him release his frustrations and take care of Petros’s body, pulling him free, cleaning the wound, setting him inside the carriage to be taken back to his family. The sprawled lump I glimpsed earlier is, indeed, the driver, knocked out with a blow to the back of the head and presumably taken for dead.

I heal the damage and when he wakes to news of his master, he cries and begs to take the body home; I let them go and once the dust from their leaving has settled, I return to Quin’s side. Evening sun is quickly fading, but a glimmer of light is cast upon Quin’s face. The confidence he carries like a second skin has been shed, leaving behind slender, delicate lines that remind me he’s young. Not many years older than myself, and with an entire kingdom to protect. His pale complexion and solemn dark eyes are tinted with sadness.

Skriniaris Evander was right. He is struggling.

Every day pretending to be in control, pretending to have a plan, pretending it’ll all work out. He survives on make-believe.

How exhausted he must be. How scared.

He shuts his eyes and draws a deep breath. I want to help him expel it, along with all his worries, but I can’t. All I can do is...

I take his injured arm, pluck off the handkerchief, and press a stitching spell against his wound.

Quin’s gaze lingers on the rocks, his shoulders rigid, his breath uneven. The silence stretches between us, heavy with unacknowledged grief. I rub a calming hand down his arm.

He doesn’t turn, but I feel the tremor rolling through him, and I feel his immediate attempt to claw it back.

But it’s too powerful, too consuming.

He shudders again, and this time it tears out of him in a roar.