Page 7

H urry, I must hurry.

I funnel energy into the water basin, sifting sightlessly for signs of life seeping out from the victim’s bloodied sleeve. The hum of pestis turns my magic dark purple.

My hands shake as more screams pierce the walls of the apothecary. I slam my eyes shut, breathing deeply. Concentrate.

One chance to inject this into the curative. No room for rushing and ruining.

I open my left hand and summon the spell. The layered sphere hovers, pulsing with glowing light. I spread my fingers, expanding the stacked spell. My other hand draws out a needle of pestis.

Steady, steady. This has to pierce five layers before I can release.

The first layer is as tough as cowhide, and my nape pearls with sweat. My fingers must stay perfectly steady. The second layer. A rush of water trying to push the needle wayward. I double down on my grip and plunge into the third layer, hot and burning up through the magical thread. My gloves bear the brunt of the heat. The fourth layer. Ice. My needle chips through it, rhythmic pulsing attempting to shake my fingers.

Breathe in, breathe out.

My jaw clenches, teeth chattering with effort.

There . Release!

Dark purple magic floods into the retaining layer, and I sweep my hands around the stacked spell, pushing it into a small ball.

The barrier shimmers as I near it. With a determined yell, I force the spell against the archway. The impact throws me back several steps.

I regain my balance and brace through it, hands held up, keeping my spell in place. Layer by layer, the barrier absorbs my spell. Bright colours beam from the archway, dark, to light, to dazzling as a hole pierces through it. And the barrier shrinks.

My arms and legs sag from the effort, but I pull myself upright. No mages at the gala. Need to get there.

I scoop up the mask I worked on during the night and leave my green sash coiled on the floor. Downstairs, through the apothecary, and into the rancid miasma of death outside.

The sky above the queen’s residence is a fireworks display. Magical shields smash against screeching wyverns, shattering them into water. The water reassembles as it falls, and they attack viciously again.

I grip the pouch at my belt with a shaky hand and skid down grass to the canal. A service rowboat bobs, butting up against—

My stomach turns.

I dash into the frigid water and grab the small female body, dragging her to the bank. I heave her onto her back and baulk. The pink bow at the side of her head. The young akla from King’s Island. I check her pulse. Can’t find it. Her body isn’t shredded on the inside. Wyvern poison. But it shouldn’t have worked this fast. How?

I thrum magic into her chest, hard slams to her heart.

She doesn’t wake.

This young lady, following the same tragic fate as her brother. I close her eyes and glance up from her body. My insides plummet. Half a dozen more drift lifelessly down the canal.

Wet and dripping and frightened, I leap into the boat and check them—

Dead, dead, dead.

A whisper of life. Another whisper.

I stumble out of the boat with a splash and heave two aklos onto the queen’s side of the canal. The clashing of shields and wyverns is louder here; the scent of metallic magics and blood punches into my nose. Colours flash in the sky above.

I place a hand on each aklo. Again, no internal shredding. But the poison is working fast; it’s more potent. I call up the antidote and funnel it to their inner organs.

Not enough. They need five, six times that dose.

I’ll be drained of the essential herbs soon.

How many others need help?

I scrunch my eyes shut and pour magic into their bodies. One life at a time. I still have my Poison Halting Miracle; still have my mask.

The aklos wake simultaneously, hauling in hard breaths, coughing. Their coughs turn into sobbing gags as they see their dead comrades.

“Take the boat,” I order. With wyverns congregating at the gala, the scholars’ quarters will be safer. “Bring as many bodies as you can to the apothecary.”

I press onwards. Dozens of abandoned stalls line the top of the bank. Help any wounded. Stay on the periphery of the fight, safe as possible. Being dead won’t help anyone.

Wind howls, carrying the metallic tang of blood. Magic collides in bursts of crackling light, each impact shaking the ground.

And beneath it all—the frightened cries of children.

They’re close. I creep around a row of stalls—

A group huddles under a table. Florentius stands protectively in front of them, one hand pouring healing magic into a bloodied child sprawled on crimson-streaked grass; the other struggling to maintain a flickering shield against a lone water wyvern.

My heart rams against my ribs.

He must have—

His shield sputters.

The wyvern soars upward, wings slicing the air. It twists mid-flight, then plunges with lethal precision.

His protection won’t hold.

I don’t know sentinian spells. But...

My eyes dart around the surrounding stalls. Brooches, scarves, umbrellas.

I lunge for an umbrella with a sharp metal tip and hurl it, spear-like, with desperate force. It pierces the liquid body of the wyvern and snaps open as it bursts apart.

It won’t stay gone for long.

I sprint toward Florentius and the children. “Focus on the shield,” I shout. “I’ll help the boy.”

He barks out instructions and my magic funnels seamlessly into the child as Florentius extracts his and thickens his shield.

The boy needs stitching up, urgently, but his poisoning is just as urgent. I keep my spell steady. Carefully pluck out my poison halting miracle. Pop it into his mouth.

The spell floods through him, freezing the poison.

Florentius grunts at another hit, buckles under the force of it. “Not strong enough. Can’t last much longer.”

I sweep my gaze around the stalls, the queen’s palace a hundred yards away. The canal is thirty. But I can’t be sure the boat is there, or that wounded wyverns aren’t recovering in those depths.

I shudder. Only one choice. “We must get to the palace.”

A vicious screech.

The boy whines and opens his eyes. He panics and scrambles to his friends under the table.

“We need to get you behind thick walls.”

They cuddle their arms and legs harder.

“Can you be brave for each other?”

One rocks on his heels and crawls out. “My mummy’s inside.”

The others follow his lead, crying for their mothers too.

“Hold hands, follow close.”

Down the long aisle of stalls we race, toward the palace. Florentius retreats with us, struggling to hold his shield. His breathing is hard, laboured. Audible over the sniffing of the children.

Close to us, to the north, the sky swarms with a dozen wyverns.

Don’t notice us.

One is terrifying enough—

It bashes against Florentius’s weakening shield and he staggers. Claws rip through the magic.

He lets out an agonised cry and falls to his knees, forcing all his power into the shield. “Get the children to safety. Wyvern water touched them.”

I whip my head towards the trembling children. Not only shaking with fear, but with the effects of poison.

Florentius is injured too.

Fear claws at my insides. I look from Florentius to the wyvern above, writhing wickedly towards us.

We’re a few dozen yards from the palace. Too far.

We have to try anyway. I urge the children into a run.

Magic blasts behind us—Florentius trying to give us a chance—

Another wyvern dips and soars between us and safety.

A shield, a shield...

The children scream as I pull them behind me and cast a measly green-hued shield.

The wyvern squalls, hail shooting from its mouth. Wingtips like ice-daggers slice the air—

The doors of the palace swing open. A female figure leaps out and twirls in the air, skirts and hair billowing as she throws a glittery silver shield. The wyvern smashes into it and splashes apart, and our saviour punches her shield towards the north.

She throws out another blast of magic. The wyvern before Florentius is hurled through stalls.

She turns to me. Big eyes, upturned nose, the gentlest of faces. Recognition, despite my mask.

A hundred feelings throttle me at once.

I nod and Veronica nods back, questions, curiosities, everything pushed aside.

“Come with me,” she says. “Your mothers are inside.”

They run, with her protection, into the palace and I return to Florentius, skidding on my knees to catch him as he loses consciousness. His body is heavy and limp. His right arm has been clawed but his organs are all intact. Poison is heading rapidly for his heart, exertion moving it faster. At most, he has fifteen minutes.

Those children might have less than ten.

Stalls shift in the distance.

I haul Florentius onto my back, fight aching muscles, and drag him to the palace.

Crowds of masked aklos and aklas are gathered in a room filled with delicate table settings, tea cups and pots and plates. Most hover at the back, but some braver ones dare to watch the battle from the windows. Mothers are crying in relief, embracing their rescued sons and daughters.

I drag Florentius to the middle of a richly patterned carpet.

One mother’s relief turns to a frightened cry. “She’s not opening her eyes.”

“They’ve been poisoned,” I say, peeling off the top layer of my mask.

“Where are the mages?” she cries.

I stare at Florentius. “He and I are it.”

Another mother screams; she rushes forward with a small boy in her arms.

The rest are soon carried forward too.

Veronica checks their pulses. “Weak, but steady.”

I slam my eyes shut. This layer of my mask is capsulised angelica root and carefully prepared mustiva. Supposed to save a dozen. But the potency of this poison...

I can treat two, or...

I manipulate the layer back to its spiritual form, absorbing the herbs, stacking them into the antidote. I hover my palm over Florentius’s chest—

“My baby’s only seven years old. Please, you must help her.”

“Treat the young ones first. You must. You must.” Pleading cries become cries of outrage as magic seeps through my palms, aimed at Florentius—

An aklo tackles me from the side, pinning me to the floor, eyes alight with anger and injustice. “That man is a vitalian. He would do anything to save others. He’d want you to save those children.”

I struggle against his determined weight.

“Help the children first.”

“I can’t,” I say quietly. “I only have enough medicine for two children, or him.”

He stiffens. “Only two?”

Veronica grabs the back of the aklo’s robe and drags him off me. I haul in air, coughing, and scramble back to Florentius’s side. He hasn’t depleted himself of the antidote. “Saving him will give all your children a fighting chance.”

I force the spell into him, thick and fast. My body screams with the effort, shaking, sweating. Must be done.

I slap his face, and his eyes ping open.

I cry as I haul him into a hug. Then I thrust him back. “Five need antidotes. I’m depleted.”

He blinks, momentarily disorientated, then catches sight of the children and their distraught mothers. He spins into elegant action.

I pace a wall of teapots, cups, and saucers. If there are any more... I dare a glance outside. The tea room looks out onto a raging battle; I grip the ledge, scouring for Quin and his cane—there, near the fountain.

I squint.

The man clutching the cane wears a wooden mask. His shoulders are broad, but his magic shield doesn’t have the right aura... A decoy.

Bait.

Two figures, back-to-back, dominate the centre of the fighting. One has his hood drawn up as he slashes a magic whip through two wyverns with perfectly timed grace. The other favours one leg, gusts swirling around him to keep him balanced. His mask is river-pearl, the mask I gave him.

Synchronously, the brothers leap into the air, shocks of gold and purple magic all around them. Wings explode into rain.

A shield stutters, the protective umbrella crumpling. Wyvern water sprays over half the redcloak formation below.

My stomach balls tightly as men race their comrades toward the palace.

“We’ve got a half-dozen poisoned coming!” I call to Florentius as Veronica flies to the doors and protects the men on their way inside.

Florentius grunts. “I’ve only enough for the children.”

I slam my eyes shut. Think. Think!

Teacups rattle at a thunderous explosion outside. I snap my gaze to the cups, the pots, the jars of tea...

I yank open corked jars and sniff, one after the other. Come on, come on. It has to be here. Veronica always kept some—

Thornwort!

I whimper relief into the jar and ground particles fly into my mouth. The bitterness is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. I race to Florentius.

He cringes at the raw taste but chews, swallows. “Thornwort?”

“It’ll give us time, delay the poison for a few hours.”

“Needling?”

“Yes.”

“That technique is ancient.”

“That technique is all we have right now.”

The infected sag against the wall in a line.

Aklos and aklas murmur, fear in their voices. “So few fighting.”

“What if they fail?”

“Those wyverns will get in.”

“Why can’t the king stop them?”

“Maybe he’s not royal blood at all.”

“He’ll be the death of us all.”

Each murmur twists my stomach. I whirl towards them, squeezing the jar of thornwort. “Quiet.”

They jerk their heads up.

“The king is out there,” I jerk a finger towards the courtyards, “risking his life to protect you.”

Veronica glances at me, surprised by my outburst. She crosses the room, about to speak when a young child comes running in; harried aklas chase after him, calling him back.

Veronica swoops the child into her embrace and a sharp ache lurches up my throat. Her son. Quin’s.

“Where’s F-father?” the boy cries into Veronica’s neck. “They s-said he’s fighting wyverns.”

Veronica delivers a tight look at the aklas and they cower, mumbling apologies.

A small sob. “Is father going to die?”

“Probably,” someone dares to mutter.

“Enough,” I say, voice cracking.

Big brown eyes look at me over Veronica’s shoulder. He has his father’s eyes.

“Your father is clever,” I tell him. “And I won’t let him get hurt.”

Veronica lifts her son, glancing back at me. “I’ll take him somewhere safe.” Her eyes beg mine. “Keep your promise.”

The aklas follow her out.

Florentius finishes flooding antidote into the last child and hurries to the redcloaks.

Urgency is making my throat sting. This poison works ten times as fast. It’s ten times as strong.

A normal wyvern would be exhausted. A normal wyvern couldn’t even poison a person if it didn’t change into its water form. It should take at least a dozen to have so many victims... but the adapted strength of the poison, not needing to plunge through a body to kill...

These wyverns are different.

Icy, bone-deep shivers slice through me.

The jar slips from my hands and smashes against the floor. I race through the shards to the windows. The remaining redcloaks, Nicostratus, Quin... Once they deplete their spiritual energy...

They have no chance. Their uncle has fed the wyverns his own blood.

They’ll only obey him.

Unless...

“Florentius, can you take care of the redcloaks alone?”

His gaze slices to me, to the fight outside the windows, back again. “Why?”

“Can you manage?”

“Of course.”

I nod, move to the jars of tea and open the one filled with chamomile. I grind a dried flower between my teeth and move to one of the men who helped move the poisoned.

“What are you planning?” Florentius demands. “You’re drained. Your hands are shaking.”

I ignore him and face the redcloak. “Everyone here will die, unless you can get me to the king.”

Outside, gale force winds have me staggering. I brace an arm at my face, curtaining the view of the writhing wyverns overhead. The redcloak obediently covers me as I force my way to the centre of the courtyard. Each breath is a mouthful of tinny metal and blood. A feisty wyvern is slammed away and I flinch.

Keep it together.

In a whirl of cloaks and grassy daggers, Nicostratus and Quin land before me, back to back.

Quin barks, “You’re unbelievable.”

Nicostratus lets his whip fly. “Take him to safety.”

The redcloak grabs the back of my cloak—

I jerk out of his grasp, onto my knees, and snatch a handful of each royal robe. “The wyverns are modified. Your uncle must be growing them with his blood. You have no chance to control them.” I look up. Nicostratus is focused on a couple of spiralling wyverns. Quin’s gaze is hard on mine, listening. “Unless you have more blood in the pack leader.”

“How much?”

“Half what’s running through him.”

“Sacrifice myself, you mean.” Quin says it as if he’s... considering it.

I pull myself up hurriedly, scowling. “Slashing your wrists won’t work.”

“How then?”

“Transfusion.”

My glare hardens on Quin as his becomes darker with resolve.

“Let me do it,” Nicostratus says. “I’m expendable.”

“No!” I say firmly. Quin lifts his gaze sharply from mine, settling it tightly over my shoulder. I glance at Nicostratus. “You’re stronger. You have to lead an attack, separate the pack from its leader. Shield us during the procedure. We’ll be vulnerable. At my signal,” I say, “you need to weaken the shield around the pack leader. I’ll need twenty, maybe thirty seconds to get the blood into it.”

Nicostratus hesitates.

“I will not let your brother die.”

He hears the vow in my voice; he calls his men into a new formation and leads them into the fray.

Quin is staring at me, gaze steeling up around a flicker of surprise. His leg is aching; I can taste the pain pulsing from him. I fan my fingers over his chest and push him three steps back, to the edge of the fountain. “Sit. Bracing your leg is depleting you too fast.”

He thrusts out his arm, rolling up his sleeve. “Take it.”

“You’ll feel—”

“You can’t kill me,” he warns. “You’ll be beheaded.”

“If you die, I’ll go right along with you.” I say it fast and foolishly, and hurriedly qualify. “Blood loss is a much better way to go.”

Dark eyes lock onto mine, unreadable, but the faintest twitch of his lips betrays trust beneath his stoic mask.

My chest tightens as I sink to my haunches before him and latch our wrists together with a spell. Quin grunts as I draw his blood, and I gasp as it flows into me, potent and warm, full of life, like protection against the cold of death surrounding us.

I add a second spell and my blood drains out, slowly, to replace it.

His eyes ping open. He looks from one arm to the other. “You’re giving me your blood.”

“Half as much as I’m taking.”

“Stop.”

“You’ll be fine. It’s channelling through a compatibility spell.”

“That is not what I meant,” he says quietly.

Stone bites into my knees as I shift, my focus locked on the flow of blood between us. It’s an exchange that takes from our deepest selves and shares it; it feels too intimate amongst the roaring chaos. “I promised your brother,” I say, my voice cracking. “Your wife. Your son. If I fail—” I grip his wrist like an anchor. “I won’t fail them.”

In the subsequent quiet, the clangs and crashes of magic become deafening. His blood continues flowing into me, rich, thick, and warm. Mine leaving me, earthy, with echoes of a thousand herbs.

Nicostratus shouts and I whisk around; he’s luring the lead wyvern closer.

I cut off the spells and immediately ready the royal blood for reversal.

Quin captures my shoulder as I rise, squeezing through my shakiness. His gaze steels my stomach with determination.

“If you dare die on me, Cael,” he says, voice edged with steel but betraying a flicker of something, “I’ll drag you back, just to behead you myself!”

“Charming,” I mutter, fingers trembling. “Royal blood and empty threats. How could anyone resist?”

The pack leader’s shriek pummels around us in waves. Giant wings flap at thinning shields.

“Can’t get any closer,” Nicostratus grunts.

I try, but the leader moves too wildly. A dozen feet too far. Even if I do manage a link between us, if it breaks halfway through, the transfusion will fail. I need—

Hands curl around my hips and I fall back against Quin’s chest as he thrusts us upwards, forceful winds pillowing us.

“I’ll hold you steady,” he says at my ear. “Deliver the spell.”

“You’ve lost too much blood.” I’m already forming the tubing spell. “You’ll exhaust yourself to death.”

“Get on with it.”

I aim at the underside of the wing, where it meets the body. Nicostratus’s shield is an obstacle, but I needle through it and—

The shimmering line tightens. The wyvern’s pulse drums into me.

“Keep him from splashing,” I call to Nicostratus. I can smell his sweat from here, sense the weakening of overspent muscles.

Quin is also fatigued. I feel the dampness of his skin, the shuddering vibrations of his limbs, the rasp of his breath into my hair.

His blood flows from me, a stinging suction, pulling all the warmth from my veins. Cold, colder. Nicostratus and the wyvern blur. I see double. Shake my head. Concentrate.

I cough, chest so hollow.

Dizzy.

King’s blood. Need to transfer. Every ounce.

Faster. Nicostratus and Quin are swaying.

I force the blood with a spiritual shove—

My breath fogs, mingling with his.

A blurring curtain rises. Unyielding, merciless.

But through it is the faint but steady pulse of Quin’s heartbeat at my back.

I focus on it until it’s the only thing I’m aware of.

Until even that disappears.