Page 13

I n the dim, musky stables, Quin leans against a beam, his cane braced at his side, while I press my weight into the wood to steady my nerves. Through a gap in the stable doors, I catch fleeting glimpses of the drakopagon pitch, where hooves thump against churned earth. A distant cheer from the spectators ripples through the stillness—and tightens the knot in my stomach.

A horn blows. Half time.

I glance at Quin with a tight swallow. This is it.

Murmurs drift from redcloaks traipsing to the privy. “They’re gonna cost me a pretty penny. S’like they’re asleep out there.”

Commander Thalassios leads Nicostratus and his horse to the stables, and he gracefully dismounts and hands the reins to a stableboy. He crosses to us, face impassive, but his eyes track both me and Quin and one of his hands—the one still wearing my armband—tightens.

I shake my head. No time for that. I pull him with haste further into our private corner; he lets me, his fingers closing around mine and lingering. Quin’s gaze drops, noticing this, and he schools his expression. The air suddenly feels stiffer and I jerkily face Nicostratus. “I need your help.”

He lets out a strangled breath. “I’ve always been willing to help you. Now is no exception.”

I tell him everything, and his eyes widen and search Quin and the commander’s faces for confirmation. He looks down at the object I’ve pushed into his hands.

“Can you do it?” I ask.

His voice drops with displeasure. “Of course. I’ll take him down.” The steely grit in his tone is reassuring, but also unsettling. He’s a man who is kind until he is pushed to the edge.

“The horn will sound soon for the second half. I’ll use the chance.”

“Wait,” I say, following him as he snaps his fingers for his horse. “Did you have a welcoming drink?”

“No matter how tempted I was today... I never drink when I play.”

I let out a relieved sigh, which elicits a frustrated expression and Nicostratus turning his back on me. As he rides out onto the pitch, the commander sets off towards his ceremonial seat, and Quin snaps over strewn hay to my side. “Are you alright?”

“No, I’m not alright.” I leave it at that and push my way through the crowd, who are again sipping drinks. My stomach rises and falls and it feels like I might throw up. They’ve no idea what’s happened to them.

Nicostratus’s head aklo trots into the centre of the arena, where each team is lined up at either end of the pitch, waiting.

He blows his horn energetically and tosses the ball high into the air.

The moment it’s released, horses charge forwards, and Petros races out of the way. But he’s not fast enough. Nicostratus gallops ahead of his team and swerves suddenly, causing two reactions: Petros’s horse startles and takes off sideways, and the horse behind him rears violently and throws off its rider.

Petros blows on his horn to pause the game, jumps off his horse and races towards the accident. But Nicostratus is already on foot, crouching beside the unconscious Eparch Valerius.

I hold my breath, heart galloping wildly as I step onto the pitch. Nicostratus glances sternly at his Petros and pulls a hidden flask from his person. He tips the contents into the Eparch’s mouth, and Eparch Valerius stirs, coughs. He spies the flask, swipes his tongue over his lip at a drop left behind, and scrambles backwards. “What did you give me?”

Nicostratus gestures to the jugs at the welcoming station.

Eparch Valerius fingers his pulse and pales. He searches his body for—

“Looking for this?” Nicostratus holds up a small vial he must have noticed and snatched.

“Return it. It’s a . . . calming concoction.”

Nicostratus tips the contents onto the churned-up grass, and Eparch Valerius lunges for the vial. Nicostratus holds it out of reach. “It’s just a calming concoction. No need to get aggressive.”

Uniformed constables have approached the fence line, waiting for orders from their leader. Constable Michealios seems hesitant to involve himself until he spots me closing in on the scene.

Suddenly he’s a roar of orders—they jump the fence and race towards me from four directions. Quin casts a shield around me, stopping their blasts of magic—and one arrow. Constable Michealios whips his head to Quin and orders him to return me to the constabulary.

“I’ll do no such thing.”

“It’s your duty.”

“I know very well my duties.”

“Insolence. Who do you think you are?”

Prince Nicostratus pushes to his feet, spins around and crosses to Quin. He stops before him and bows low.

The blood drains from Eparch Valerius’s face. The constables freeze.

“W-who are you?” It comes out a fearful whisper.

Nicostratus rises as Quin channels his magic overhead. The sky rapidly shifts from clear blue to grey as winds gather clouds over us into the symbol of chasing wyverns.

The constables drop to their knees, as do all the spectators in a wave of respect for the king. Quin stares at the head constable. “I’ve deceived you. Understand I have my reasons for it.”

Constable Michealios crawls forward. “Of course, your majesty.” With a pinched glance my way, he says, “This man may mean you harm. He’s involved in these deaths.”

“Stand.” When the constable is on his feet, Quin continues, gesturing to me. “Let him prove now, to everyone, his innocence.” He projects his voice. “Let him show you all.”

The constables take one step back as Quin removes the shield around me. He nods, and halts Nicostratus by the arm when he starts to come between me and Eparch Valerius, who is now eating the grass where his ‘calming concoction’ had been upturned.

I step closer to him, the murmur of the crowd fading into the background. My voice cuts through the tension like a blade. “City philanthropist, friend to the refugees, healer of the sick—you’ve played your part beautifully. Too beautifully.” My words hang in the air, the accusation as sharp as the glare in his eyes.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snaps.

I smile grimly. “You attempted to kill and killed three of four redcloaks; you poisoned the refugees, and you murdered Vitalian Dimos.”

“Insanity.”

“You may choose to plead that after.”

“I have alibis for all those events. The last one I was almost killed myself!”

“We’ll get to that. Let’s start with your henchmen.”

“Henchmen? I didn’t know them.”

“You’ve never had any prior interaction with those deceased redcloaks? Are you sure about that?”

“Of course I’m sure. Constables, this interrogation is unwarranted. He does not stand for the law. I will not answer to these accusations.” He tries to get up but a blast of magic from Quin has him pinned to the ground. The constables don’t move.

Quin looks at me. “Continue.”

“You say you’re sure you’ve had no interaction, but you confiscated Vitalian Dimos’s soldad after they came to you demanding punishment for a medicinal spell that almost killed them.”

Eparch Valerius flushes and grits his teeth. “Indeed I’ve had a little contact with them. Quite forgotten.”

“Quite forgotten?”

Eparch Valerius’s eyes flash angrily.

I crouch to his level and spell it out for him. “They were abusing their power, forcing you to get rid of Vitalian Dimos. You realised they couldn’t be trusted, so you withheld their next dose of antidote.” He jerks his eyes to mine and I see how deeply treacherous this man is. “You poison all those who work for you. If they leave your service or become problematic, they’ll simply keel over and die. Those who remain useful will repeat your poison-antidote cycle, quite likely completely unaware.”

“Those soldiers consumed echowisp, a flower found where the prince resided before coming into the city. Perhaps you should be confronting him .”

“You know very well the prince was in the West Wind fields before coming here. You’d sent your men to scout for him after hearing rumours he’d left the capital. They recognised him, sent word, and you sent word back to pluck some echowisp flowers before returning. It’s a pity in doing so they got stung by fern bees. They’d have thought the stings a nuisance at first, but by the time they got back to the city, the stings would have become painful welts. They ducked into a nearby apothecary—Vitalian Dimos’s—and he did his job using spells he’s used a hundred times before. Only he didn’t know your men were poisoned. Didn’t know it would clash with his spell, worsening the effects of the stings.”

Eparch Valerius flattens his lips. His silence is welcome. In fact, it speaks loudly.

“Those bees are particularly drawn to echowisp pollen. They’re almost solely found in places where echowisp grows.” Something I tripped across in my grandfather’s books. I’d been so focused on snake venom I hadn’t realised its importance until today. “An investigation of the bodies can determine they were stung by these particular bees, and prove the redcloaks had been near echowisp. Your henchmen, though, they didn’t know much about flowers and poisons. They probably assumed your request was for a rare medicinal spell, and perhaps at first you too thought it useful as such. After all, you work with many of the best vitalians and dabble in herbal concoctions yourself.” I lean in. “You don’t need to deny that part. I remember clearly you telling me as much the first time we met.”

“I dabble. That proves nothing.”

“After you confiscated Vitalian Dimos’s soldad, you gave your henchmen one last mission: to kill the prince. They tried very hard, by the way. Ultimately, they returned to you in failure. But you had another idea. You gave them the flowers and told them they’d know when to use them.”

“What idiots would take flowers with such vague instructions?”

“Idiots who might’ve been told a story. Something along the lines of: Prince Nicostratus is crafty. Wouldn’t be surprising if he used underhand methods in his fight. Poison. Carry these flowers on you in case you show symptoms. Consume immediately at the first sign.”

Eparch Valerius’s hand clenches around grass. Seems I’m right.

“It looked like poisonous petals had been stuffed in their mouths and they, left to die. The real poison went undetected. This worked well, and so you used it again. This time on the refugees.”

“I organised donations for their welfare, helped set up temporary homes. Why would I harm them?”

“Why did you have men scouting for the prince? Why did you want him dead? The answer is simple. The king’s supporters have been most active in aiding the influx of refugees, and as they move on and disperse through the kingdom, they’d take their gratitude with them, spreading the word, strengthening support for the king.” I narrow my eyes on the eparch. “You wanted to destroy the true king’s remaining power.” A pawn of the high duke, wearing a mask of benevolence.

“They got sick from porridge you gave them. I didn’t donate a single oat.”

“This is true. You didn’t touch any of the oats.” I lean in. “But you donated the pots, and the poison on them seeped into the food.”

There are hisses around me as my words are repeated and passed on until there comes a cry of outrage from the spectators—the refugees themselves.

Valerius scoffs. “If my aim was to kill the refugees, why didn’t they die immediately?”

“You delayed their deaths by a few days to play the role of saviour. No one would suspect someone who came to the rescue. In fact, your popularity would soar. This is how cunning you are.”

“Stories.”

From my belt, I show the record of donations.

“My name isn’t on it.”

I glance over my shoulder and see that, as planned, Eparchess Juliana has found Sparkles and is hauling her across the field. “Hers is, though. Ariadne Aureliana.”

She stumbles onto her knees beside the eparch and stares up at me, frowning, perplexed.

I soften my voice as I address her. “Your colleagues at the dance house said you help the eparch with his donations. Have you helped him deliver to the refugees?”

Sparkles swallows and looks beseechingly at the eparch, who dares not look back. “He means well,” she says. “Anything he says, I’ll do.”

“What did you deliver on his behalf?”

“He didn’t do anything to make the refugees sick! He only donated tents, blankets, pots and such.”

I return my gaze to Valerius. “Pots.”

He says nothing.

To Sparkles, I say, “The night I came to your dance house, you helped me. Why?”

Again, she tries to seek the eparch’s gaze and fails. “I saw you bang into each other outside. I chased after the eparch to see if he was alright—I was afraid you were trying to steal his hard-earned donations. He said all was fine but to watch you for the evening. So I did.”

Quin hadn’t liked the way she’d been looking at me. I thought he’d meant in a more flattering way, but he’d sensed an ulterior motive.

“It was prudent. You were skulking around alleyways in the dark. What if you were a risk to the prince?”

“Does he often get you to watch people?”

She hesitates. “He just wants to be sure his city is safe.”

“Did he ask you to keep an eye on the commander? Eparchess Juliana?”

She swallows.

“He’s been using you.”

She calls for the eparch to deny it. He barely looks her way. “I almost died helping with the antidote. How can I be the mastermind?”

“He’s fooled everyone from the start, why would he stop at this point?” I say. “Vitalian Dimos died because I had no magic to instantly heal his injuries. Eparch Valerius, however, invited half of Thinking Hall’s vitalians to his house to resume discussions on the antidote. He bashed his own temple, knowing he would be saved. His impaired memory of the killer was believable, and ‘a very long shadow’ was enough to have everyone scrambling to find... someone else. Anyone else. Nicostratus’s head aklo.” I throw Constable Michealios a look. “Me.”

The constables shift awkwardly, looking from me to the eparch to the king. Quin keeps his eyes rooted confidently on me.

“Vitalian Dimos went to Thinking Hall to use collective knowledge to help find the antidote.” I meet the eparch’s furrow-shadowed eyes. “You jumped up on stage in an appearance of helping but you were actually taking control. Steering the discussion away from the answer. When impassioned vitalians began drowning you out, you suggested taking a break for lunch and meeting at your residence.

“I imagine when you got out of the hall, vitalians split off in different directions and you kept Vitalian Dimos close, invited him to lunch with you. You got to the canal, out of sight. And perhaps it was there Vitalian Dimos had an epiphany. Discovered the answer. You couldn’t have your plans foiled and took immediate action. You smashed his head with an oar and hurried to your residence to stage your own attack, leaving him for dead.”

Valerius laughs, but there’s a desperate quality to it.

To the constables, I say, “Prince Nicostratus has the vial the eparch so desperately wants. Investigate. You’ll find it’s the antidote. Proof he knows far more about the poison than he’s led us to believe. This—along with the donation of his pots, and his connection to the redcloaks and the flower used to frame Prince Nicostratus—is enough to have him interrogated, if not prove his guilt.”

Constables close in on Eparch Valerius and he blasts magic, bowling them, Sparkles, and me back. I’m caught by a pocket of wind and carefully set on my feet beside Quin. Nicostratus leaps towards the eparch, captures him tightly, and blocks his meridians.

He snarls wretchedly. “You think you know everything. You have no idea what’s coming.”

I square my shoulders and step up to him. “You mean all the spectators you poisoned, timed to die during the game?”

His eyes glimmer with fury. The mask of philanthropist has shed rapidly.

“Something about the audience today niggled at me,” I explain. “The poisoned refugees, the commander’s unit, five hundred invited from the king’s father-in-law’s army. And then it hit.”

Quin channels magic; his wyvern clouds rapidly disappear and sunlight streams down on us. Glints and flashes come from all directions.

I sweep my arm toward the crowd, their buttons catching the light in a dazzling array of reflections. “These aren’t just spectators,” I say, my voice rising. “These are the king’s men. And you’ve poisoned them, just like the refugees.” My words ripple through the crowd, sparking gasps and murmurs that grow louder with every passing second.

“Dying like this is better than him gaining power and warring against his uncle! More lives will ultimately be spared.”

Constable Michealios finally looks like he believes. “You thought you’d get away with it.”

A twisted laugh bursts from Valerius. “Who says I won’t?”

“Ah,” I nod. “Of course. Everyone who took welcoming drinks will die here, not to forget the refugees. Only you, the prince, and a few planted ‘witnesses’ will be left. You know Nicostratus well enough to know he doesn’t drink when he plays, so it’s easy enough to set up. Originally you intended his head aklo to be the last left standing, because he’d lead back to Nicostratus, under house arrest already under suspicion of murdering the redcloaks. But Nicostratus was released early, and you pivoted with it. How would you explain his motive? Killing the high duke’s redcloaks—that makes sense, but these are his own men.” I lean in. “You can tell me. We’re all about to die.”

“Who says he’s to be the fall person? The high duke has promised the prince’s pardon. The prince killed these rebellious soldiers to stop an uprising against the young king.”

Quin and Nicostratus hiss. The constables whip their gazes around the pitch, on the lookout for anyone keeling over, for the wave of deaths to begin. One of them squeals in fear.

“I’d never betray my brother,” Nicostratus says, a dark mutter in the eparch’s ear. “I’d sooner kill myself.”

“That also works.”

I grit my teeth and slap the eparch. “You failed.”

“I know the antidote. Once you drop dead, I’ll save myself.”

I tap my foot. “Should we wait?”

“What do you mean?” Eparch Valerius stills suddenly, like something has occurred to him.

I smile.

He struggles against Nicostratus’s binds. “You don’t have enough vitalians! You don’t know the missing component!”

Quin steps forward. “He solved those problems.”

A baffled splutter. “He? Him? His meridians have been smashed. No way an insignificant youth without magic could—”

Quin slaps him soundly.

I ask for a rock, and a gust of wind delivers my request. I catch the hefty stone two handed, lift it, and ask Quin to smash it for me.

With a soft kind of quiet, he looks at me, and sends magic hurtling the rock into the air and more to splinter it in pieces.

“It might be broken,” I say, throat and cheek prickling where Quin still watches me. “Might be impossible to put back together.” I pick up a shard and press the sharp end under the eparch’s chin. “But it still has a purpose.”

“At most you’ve delayed their demise.”

“It was the fire that didn’t make sense. Why not bash you and leave? Why go to lengths to burn your garden? Baffling. Then today I overheard constables pitying you for losing your flowers. I was preoccupied with being arrested so I didn’t think too much of this, but it came together the moment I squared away my confusions around the commander. Masks , I heard Eparchess Juliana say. I thought, what kind of mask was used to get into the eparch’s place? And then I thought, why burn the garden?” I lift his chin with the rock. “I know the properties of a thousand plants and when I cross-checked the reactions it should have with the snake venom, what do you know? Gardenia root holds the key to the antidote.”

Eparch Valerius snarls. “There’s none growing on this outpost. By the time you get it—”

“True, there’s no gardenia here, but you know what really drives the redcloak cook wild with rage? Weeds in his herb garden. Specifically, False Buttonweed.”

The eparch blanches. He understands. False Buttonweed is a part of the same madder family. It’ll work the same way.

He shakes his head. “You’ll never have enough vitalians to spell everyone in time.”

“While you were showing off winning goals in the first half, the vitalians and I worked to save the king’s men.”

“I’d have noticed a bunch of vitalians running around spelling everyone.”

“Your poison was delivered in liquid form. The antidote you carried around too.”

He jerks his head to the spectators, half of whom are still holding their half-time drinks. He shakes his head. “It was all filtered through me, weighed to perfection with my inner scales, stacked and timed precisely. You’d never have enough vitalian power to concoct enough antidote. You might save a hundred, but never a thousand.”

“I met resistance at first. The vitalians of this kingdom are raised to look down on crude healing. They believe spells to be superior. I’ve had prejudices too.” I stare at my hands that, despite having no magic, were able to save a thousand people. I recall Olyn reminding me that magic isn’t always available or enough. “A broth will stretch a cure. Will reach ten times as many patients.”

Most vitalians had brought prepared ingredients, in case their first attempts failed and they needed to consume and start over. They weren’t convinced to make a broth with it, but when I told them about the gardenias, the false buttonweed, when I asked them why they became healers, one by one they relented and tipped their bottles into the cauldron borrowed from the cook.

While the nobles scored goals on the pitch, we filled barrels with sweetened antidote, and with the commander’s aid had redcloaks doling it out under the guise of a half-time top up.

Eparch Valerius snarls, at me, at all of us. “He wants you all dead. He’ll get everyone here eventually.”

Quin barks, “Take him away.” To Constable Michealios he says, “You’ll free all of my men; exonerate them, and Caelus Amuletos.”

Constable Michealios bows and hauls the eparch off the pitch.

Sparkles, who started weeping when the eparch showed his true colours, gets to her feet and runs past me with mumbled apologies. Eparchess Juliana and the commander bow to the king, thank him for his part saving the people—including Paxos, who upon waking vowed to bear witness to take the high duke and all his men down.

They have more to discuss, and after a glance at me, Quin requests they find a place to sit.

The spectators drift away in all directions, and soon only Nicostratus, Petros and I linger on the grass. Fiddling with the horn, Petros looks for dismissal from Nicostratus and starts to slink away.

I capture his sleeve and pull him around. “Not so fast.”

Nicostratus, whose sad eyes have been on me since I entered the pitch, raises a questioning brow.

“Explain yourself,” I tell Petros.

“Wh-what do you mean?”

I crane my neck and look up at him. “It’s understandable you do so much to help him.” I recall Petros carrying the drugged prince on his back all the way to his chambers. How he’d said he’d had much practice lifting with his brother. His very sick brother. “You’ve been stealing from the prince’s residence.”

“I . . . I . . .”

I murmur gently, “You shooed me away while taking stock of inventory. I thought you really wanted me to take a break, and perhaps you meant that too, but foremost you needed space to fudge the books. Am I right?”

His head sinks.

“You took off your supporter button when you pawned items. You used the money to pay for your brother’s care.”

Petros falls to his knees and bows low, head against the ground. “Forgive me, please. I took off the button because I didn’t want any rumours about the prince’s supporters pawning for money. I know it’s little, but your reputation is important. My brother is important too. I can’t see him die. I took things you barely used, that were otherwise gathering dust.” He bangs his head against the dirt. “I’ve done wrong.”

Nicostratus takes this all in and addresses me, “How did you find out?”

“The redcloaks playing like they’re asleep. Petros didn’t know about the poison, but he slipped relaxant into the drinks the players had. To rig the game in his favour and come out with hefty winnings. I didn’t know for certain. It was mostly a story forming from things I’ve seen, and he’s now confirmed it.”

Petros’s voice cracks as tears streak down his face. “I found a vitalian who thinks he could be cured, but he was asking more than I could possibly raise.” He bangs his head against the ground again. “He’s my everything. Do what you will with me, but please—”

Nicostratus reaches down to help him up, and dusts his sleeve of dirt. “I knew what you were doing.”

He did? He’d let his head aklo—

“Why didn’t you stop me?” Petros asks. “Cast me out?”

“I understand.” Nicostratus looks across at me and his words ripple through me until I stumble backwards, turn, and leave. “Brotherly love is more important than anything.”