Page 13

I t splits the air—one guttural, pained roar. His breaths come out hard and jagged; three bursts that rake through him before he forces control back into place. He shuts his eyes, and by the time I catch the horse and tug it away from roadside weeds, his mask is back on. His eyes sharpen, detached and unreadable, but the slight tremor in his hand when he grips the reins tells the truth—this is a man carrying a burden too big for even his broad shoulders.

In silence, we ride back the way we came—straight for the canals.

We pass through the hidden gate and into the royal city, stopping before the checkpoint to steal behind a shifting boulder and into a dark, damp passage of rock that stretches narrowly ahead. Gritting his teeth in pain and exhaustion, Quin takes a long cane off a hook in the wall. Lanterns light the way—that, presumably, was the preparation Quin tasked his aklo with. I lift one from its hook to carry with us.

“I’m going to say it. A secret tunnel is... something.”

“You’ve a real knack for words.”

I flick his arm, halfway between a scowl and a laugh. “You want me to get philosophical?”

Quin’s cane snaps on the ground and stops. He glances sideways at me, shakes his head in disbelief, and resumes walking.

“This tunnel is... an allegory of your life. It’s cold, dark, damp, miserable, lonely, pitiful—”

“Get to your point.”

“It may feel like you’re trapped, like this is a pre-made tomb and you’ll die a miserable death in its dank, wormy embrace—”

Quin turns with a growl and feigns nipping me, only the space is narrow—I have nowhere to go and his teeth graze my ear. He pulls back, eyes narrowed on the path ahead, and I loop an arm through his, grinning.

“I could stop here.”

“I fail to see the philosophical value—”

“Let me finish—Ah. Devoured by worms.” Quin shoots me a warning look, but the barest curve of his lips suggests this is exactly the normalcy he needs. “The tunnel may feel this way, but it will surely end. At the end there will be light—everything you’ve worked towards, waiting for you.”

He grimaces and his shoulders sag; I continue, “It may feel impossible, like there’s only floundering in the dark, but if you look you’ll see lanterns lining the way. People on your side, giving their light.” I gesture to the lanterns one after the other. “Your brother. Your queen. Your son. Skriniaris Evander. Your aklos. Aklas.”

Quin’s cane and our footsteps are the only sounds for a few beats. Quin stares determinedly ahead.

He chose you.

I see Quin’s furrowed frown as he took in the conditions of Niki’s home.

I feel the weight of the king’s roar echoing around me.

I swallow a sudden flare of nerves, and mask it with a laugh. “And me of course. I’m the best kind of light. I’m... the one moving with you.”

Quin turns. Shadow and light flicker over his face, his mask failing to cover his desperation. My eyes meet his and he holds them and holds them, then pulls away, continuing through the tunnel.

I gulp in fresh air as we emerge.

A line of aklas pause to bow as they pass us, and at a few of their looks my way, I realise I’m still wearing the red cloak. And that red cloak might match the colour of my face. “Surprisingly hot in there,” I murmur, following as Quin moves towards the house ahead.

I press the backs of my fingers to my flushed cheeks and drop them when Quin turns around. “You should go”—he winces. “Leave that cloak with me.”

I take off the cloak and lay it over a low stone wall, but I can’t go yet. I encourage Quin to sit, leaning the cane next to him, and we play a game for the flutette—I try to get into the humid spaces under his shirt while he tries to bat me away. I win and he eventually gives in and plays, the thick aura of pain around him dulling with each note until it’s faded completely.

Satisfied, I step back and bid him a good evening.

“Wait.” Quin clears his throat. “Your reward.”

“Haven’t I already had it?”

Quin looks softly out towards lushly growing pearl hearts. “I think you’ve earned another one. Again.”

For a moment I’m caught on the view of his profile, serious and sad. “Ah... right. I think that deserves some... chicken.”

His head swings back. “Chicken?”

“I want to eat roast chicken. I’d like a few of them, to share with the other scholars.”

“You could ask for anything.”

“I’m asking for chicken.”

Quin blinks, baffled. “I’ll... have my cooks send some.”

I nod and my gaze sweeps over the pearl hearts.

When I glance back, expecting Quin to be watching me, he’s disappeared.

As I row towards the scholar quarters, a flicker of movement startles me; a hooded figure, leaping from the bank. His hood falls back, and the fright that had lurched wildly in my chest... doesn’t completely disappear. “Nicostratus.”

He lands on light feet. “I was worried.”

I speak rapidly. “I had a spontaneous trip into the capital. Quin—Constantinos—the king—will tell you all about it.”

He blinks and inclines his head. “I’m glad you made it back. Officials are headed towards King’s Island now. I was on my way to stall them when I saw you, I had to check...”

Despite my assurances, he looks me up and down, gently cataloguing any changes.

“In fact, I need to thank you. Your shield training saved us.”

Relieved, he takes my hand. “Only a fraction of the population can use magic to fight, so you’ll be better off knowing how to use a sword.”

I squeeze his hand and wriggle free from his hold. “I don’t want to harm. It goes against my instinct as a healer.”

“But what if—”

“I can shield now. Or use my own defences.”

Nicostratus looks intrigued.

“Sleeping spells.”

“That works?”

“Well, it won’t if you’re expecting it.”

Nicostratus laughs and leans breath-catchingly close. “Alright, alright. But I’ll teach you how to disarm an opponent at least.”

“Well, you’re very good at disarming me.”

Raindrops fall from the sky and we turn our heads up at the sudden thickening downpour. We hurriedly row under the canopy of a weeping willow.

“Veronica tells me you’re a natural at drakopagon.”

“Reluctantly,” I say. “She used to force me to side with her against her brothers.”

“I was hoping, for me, you’d be our third player? The summer game—the one in the royal belt.”

I raise a brow and he laughs. “You, the queen and me, against the mysterious black knight.”

“Black knight?”

Nicostratus inches forward and whispers, “The king, but keep that quiet. He goes to great lengths not to reveal his identity on the field. I’m not even sure Veronica knows it’s him.” I shake my head in utter disbelief.

“Is it alright you told me?” I whisper back.

“I’ll tell you everything.”

A smile pulls at my lips, but only briefly. “Why doesn’t he play openly?”

“Our uncle always sends one or two of his own men to play, and Constantinos spent the last years pretending to be sick, so...”

A drop of rain sneaks through the leaves and falls on my cloak. Nicostratus’s gaze follows it. “New clasp?”

My stomach leaps unexpectedly and I pinch the edge of the engraved silver where the raindrop landed. A high-pitched laugh trips out of me. “Oh this. I got this from... from your brother. When we were in the capital. My makeshift solutions were vexing him.”

Surprise flashes across Nicostratus’s face. He leans in to inspect the clasp, the smallest crease forming between his brows. “It’s... exquisite.”

“Is it? I haven’t really—” I swallow “—noticed.”

His frown flickers with a deepening shadow, and then voices have us glancing towards a nearing longboat of bored-faced officials.

“I have to go,” he says, then pauses. Smiles. “This game tomorrow. Consider it a date. I’ll pick you up.”

With that, he leaps out of the boat as quickly and as quietly as he came.

Drained from the last twenty-four hours, I slouch towards my cell, only to perk up again outside Florentius’s door. How has he fared?

I knock, and Florentius opens, all pristine and perfect. Ignoring his surprise, I duck into his room and flop onto his bed. Hands tucked under my head, I stare at his dark ceiling, then look across to the frogs magically suspended above his desk. “You went to the other island.”

“I tried. I got caught and sent back.”

I look at him, and feel a little more at ease. “You’re all right. At least that.”

“You weren’t in your room last night.”

“Concerned for me?”

He swishes his hands and lowers the frogs to his desk. “A mere observation. There are frogs in that pot for you to practice on.”

I swing into a sitting position and grin at his back. “How about we practice together?”

He grunts, and we spend the next forty minutes practicing side by side. “You’ve natural talent,” he says as we clean up. “Not quite as much as myself.” I snort at his sincere narcissism, and he exhales. “But close.”

“What are you planning to do? When you find your brother.”

Florentius stiffens, then places the vented lid over the pot holding the frogs. “The only way to leave that island is in a coffin.”

“So—”

“So I’ll kill him.”

I yelp. Florentius lifts a small clay jar from his shelf and uncorks it. He rolls a single, black capsulised spell onto the palm of his hand. “In all history, there has only been a handful of these made.”

“What is it?”

“What will kill him and bring him back to life.”

In awe, I reach for the capsule, but Florentius slips it back into the jar.

“A fake death spell?”

“He’ll appear dead for twelve hours.”

“And then?”

“He’ll wake up outside the royal city, in the dumping yard for dead aklos and aklas, read the letter I’ll send off with him, and run. Start his life anew.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll find him. We’ll live together.”

“You couldn’t live under your own name. Your soldad would be useless, you won’t be able to perform anything but simplex spells.”

“I don’t care about my soldad. I’d have saved my brother. The most important life to me.”

This man’s heart. He might have seemed snobbishly elegant, perfectly preened, strictly unsocial... but he’s also emotionally intelligent. The love for his brother is priceless.

As he raises his arm to set the jar back on the shelf, I throw my arms around his middle and hug tight. “You have too much talent to sacrifice it all.”

“You’re suffocating me.”

I loosen my hold and pull back. He looks ruffled, but at least this time he’s not running away.

I sigh. “We really need to think all this through. But probably not on an empty stomach.”

“What?”

I pat my belly. “How do you feel about roast chicken?”

* * *

There’s so much chicken left over that I have plenty to share with Mikros and Makarios the next day.

“Y-you want to talk about wards?” Makarios squeals.

I nod.

I pull off a chicken leg and tear into the meat. “My grandfather’s theory was, in preparation for a mass outbreak, we could pre-emptively infect people with weakened versions of pestilence to increase their wards against it.”

“Oh God, we’re going to die,” Makarios croaks under his breath.

Mikros clears his throat, patting his shoulder. “We’re rebels, aren’t we Makarios? We can delve into banned topics.”

“Rebels.” A gulp. “Right.”

“Your grandfather tried this?”

And died for it. “On pockets of villagers, in the last plague. His notes are extremely promising. He collected excretions from surviving animal intermediaries that were close to recovery. Pigs, goats, cows. Then he filtered it into people’s blood so they can create shields of defence against stronger variants.”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s promising, even if it were proven successful and the whole idea wasn’t banned... You’ll never get people willing to infuse themselves with pig saliva.”

“Pus.”

“Forgive me, they’ll be lining up.”

I sigh and rip another bite from my chicken leg. Which, of course, is how Nicostratus finds me. He clears his throat and my head whips to him watching from the doorway, eyes sparkling.

I drop the chicken.

Mikros and Makarios become fascinated spectators, gazes pinging towards Nicostratus—elegant in plum sporting attire from leggings to shirt to the mask dangling around his neck—to me, wiping grease off my chin.

Nicostratus frowns and then looks up, raising a bundle of more plum attire. “Pop these on and we’ll go?”

I change hurriedly, throw on my cloak, and come back out swinging the mask around my finger. “Will this do?”

“You might want to leave the cloak.”

“That’s just until we get there. It’s breezy today.”

Nicostratus is all light laughter and chivalry as he whisks me away from the bewildered stares of Mikros and Makarios. The drakopagon arena is teeming with spectators. In the middle of the stands overlooking the white-fenced, lush green space is the royal box, curtained with almost transparent silk screens; behind the screens is the shadowy, coughing figure of the king.

He sure goes all the way with his make-believe. Likely behind those screens, there is the same scarred aklo he made slink past his bedroom window.

“Honestly,” I murmur to Nicostratus, “the ‘king’ can’t see much through those screens. Why does he bother?”

He fastens his mask at the back of his head and helps me with mine. “He doesn’t care to watch the game, supposedly. But,” in a lower voice, “more people come if he’s here and they each pay a hefty price for a seat. Money my uncle generously allows Constantinos to use as he pleases.”

“As he pleases?”

“Last year he donated to the Pavilion Libr—”

A figure on horseback draws to a stop at the fence nearby and suddenly has all my attention. Half his face is masked, enough to make his appearance indistinct, and his hair is knotted with a simple black ribbon. He’s flanked by two men on black horses. The black knight. He’s speaking to Veronica, who’s standing at the arena fence dressed in plum riding gear and jiggling a basket. “Dare to match my bet?”

I almost choke when he replies. He’s even had a mage deepen his voice. “We’ll match it.”

“And raise,” says a similarly masked rider to the black knight’s right.

“Who’s he?” I ask Nicostratus.

“That’ll be one of our uncle’s aklos.”

The aklo pours a pouch full of money into Veronica’s basket, and then urges their third player, a grim-looking giant, to do the same.

Overconfident.

Veronica looks nervously into the basket but lifts her head with a smile. “Winner takes all.” She turns her head, spots us, and comes striding over, basket extended.

Nicostratus laughs and empties his purse.

My gaze lifts from the basket to our opponents. The black knight sits silently, watching me. His eyes have a dare in them when they meet mine, and I straighten. He’s too much! So sure he’ll win; so sure he has everyone fooled.

Well, no matter how many acts he has, they can’t all be perfect.

The aklo leans in and whispers audibly into the black knight’s ear. “Hesitating.” He chuckles and my eyes sharpen on him. How brazen.

The black knight responds with a curled lip and a secret whisper. That is... that is... His wife is right here!

And he calls me shameless.

“Have you no money?” Veronica says, suddenly realising my awkward position. “I can get some on your behalf.”

Nicostratus hums and his hand slides over my shoulder. “The game is about to start. Wager with this.” With a tug, my clasp comes off in his hand and he drops it into the basket.

My hand flies to my shoulder and catches on falling fabric.

Nicostratus gently pulls the cloak free. “You’ll warm up quickly.” He smiles. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it back for you.”

I glance at the shiny clasp in the basket, then at the black knight, whose gaze is tight on the pool.

Aklo touches his arm and Quin gathers his reins. He raises his chin. “When we win, you can have my share.”

My step towards Nicostratus stutters; Veronica grabs my arm. “You’re growling.”

“This black knight isn’t anywhere near as intimidating as he thinks he is.”

“He’s been the bane of my drakopagon existence for years.” She pulls her mask down over her scowl.

“Let’s teach him a lesson.”

We jump astride our saddled horses and ride out; Nicostratus races around the arena, a graceful show that mesmerises the crowd. I jerk my finger at the black knight in the centre of the field, bouncing the game ball on end of his drakopala, twisting the mallet at each turn. “Look at him, showing off.”

“Not to everyone. More for the aklo drooling over him.”

I suck in a breath. Even Veronica sees it.

This... this is a problem. Not the core values of a good king. As the nurturer Skriniaris Evander said I need to be, I’m responsible for nipping this in the bud.

I urge my horse swiftly across the grass and catch the ball in the air on the end of my drakopala, balancing it as I ease to a stop between aklo and knight. “A ridiculous game,” I say.

“Ridiculous?”

Like that spelled voice of yours. “Hmm.” I bounce the ball, every bit as in control as the black knight had been. “Horses and drakopalas and no magic . ”

I manoeuvre the ball away from Aklo’s attempt to steal it.

“Most people don’t have magic. This is a game anyone can play.” Aklo snickers, eying me. “Just look at you .”

The black knight delivers Aklo a sharp look, but my laughter is sharper. “In what reality do ‘most people’ own horses?”

Aklo hisses. “The king is in the stands. You don’t want him hearing you talk like that about the official game of the kingdom.”

“He can hear anything I have to say. I hope he also listens.” I hit the ball in a wide arc over Aklo, forcing him to race away to retrieve it.

I turn my face to dark eyes framed with black. “A ridiculous game,” I say, and smirk when he grimaces. “But I’m finding some fun in it today.”

The black knight shifts his horse until our legs touch for a passing second. And then he halts. Looks ahead at the stands. “You know . ”

My silence is his answer.