Page 18

“ D on’t tell anyone it’s not what it looks like,” Kjartan warns, sending Megaera off with a flick of his hand. When she’s gone, he leans in close, whispering his plan in my ear. It’s risky, and I know that best, but it’s our only chance.

I agree, but then I whisper another thought. His brow furrows, lips pursed, before he nods and strides away, leaving me to hurriedly prepare herbs and oil.

Hakon watches with wide, fearful eyes as I get him to slather the mixture on his face and chew on ignisfern to lessen the inflammation. The boils will take until nightfall to fade, but I look him in the eye, my voice firm. “You mustn’t leave the brig until an hour after your face has healed. No matter what happens above.”

I hand him a bronze plate to check his reflection, carefully removing the incriminating dried flowers from the dromveske before I release Rurik from quarantine with a message from his captain. Then I race through the hallways, up the stairs, and out onto the deck.

The cold bites at my skin, but not as bitterly as the sight that greets me.

A half-dozen boats in all directions, cutting off any chance of escape. Each is lined with bow-and-arrow-armed brutes, their expressions hard and unyielding. Fiery braziers flicker on their decks, flames licking at the air, ready to ignite arrowheads wrapped in fuel-soaked fabric.

The boat directly at our starboard side seems to be in command, and just behind it, a larger ship looms with an imposing figure watching from the deck, his cloak billowing in the wind.

One by one, our crew steps onto the extended plank for screening, and one by one, they’re sent back. Megaera walks out too, followed by Lykos and Zenon.

“Any more?” comes a heavy shout. “All on board, including your extended families, will be sacrificed if any stowaway is discovered.”

The men stiffen. One quakes, sagging against the mast. “Our families, Captain. I don’t care about my life, but...” Panic seizes him. “There’s a sick man on board!”

Kjartan’s gaze flickers with annoyance, but his lips curl in a mix of understanding and pride. It’s a good man who chooses his family over his own life.

“And not just any sickness,” Captain Kjartan says calmly. “He carries the poxies.”

The surrounding boats erupt into frantic movement. Stormblades set arrowheads alight; bowstrings pull taut, awaiting the order to release.

I scurry to the captain’s side, and as discussed, he grabs me by my hood and drags me down the plank. The narrow wood bends and groans under our weight; my stomach lurches with each step. In my peripheral vision, I see Megaera and Lykos rush to the side of the boat, their faces drawn tight.

We all know it—the chances of winning this gambit are slim.

Snow flurries around us, but my shiver isn’t from the cold. It’s from the sight of those fiery arrows aimed right at us. Scorching heat and impending death. The stormblades’ faces are a mix of regret and ruthless determination, flickering in the firelight.

Kjartan yanks up my arm, exposing the birthmark. “This healer has Lindrhalda’s touch. The goddess has shown him how to cure this disaster.”

The stormblades exchange confused, disbelieving looks, their bowstrings tightening.

The one in command steps onto the side of his boat, his voice thick with scepticism. “I’ve seen many desperate acts. No one bold enough to claim they can cure the poxies.”

“I-I couldn’t walk from pain,” a voice calls from our ship. “He cured me with Lindrhalda’s guidance.”

The commander scoffs.

I hold up the herbs in a plain pouch. “Lindrhalda’s wisdom.”

Kjartan barks an order, and Rurik lets fly an arrow. It snatches the pouch from my hand, sending it in a neat arc to embed itself in the wood beside the stormblade’s feet.

“You dare aim a weapon at me?” he roars, his face twisting with fury.

He moves to kick the pouch into the sea, but a comrade halts him with a sharp jerk.

“What if it’s true? What if that is the cure?” He nods toward the grandiose ship, where the figure looms, watching.

The commander hesitates, his eyes locked on me and the captain, then picks up the pouch. He opens the tied end, casting a tight look at me.

Kjartan tenses beside me, and I’m ready to bow my head, to pray to any deity—even the Arcane Sovereign—to help us escape this. The only thing stopping me is the fear of taking my eyes off those sharp flaming arrows.

The commander dips his fingers into the pouch, pinches out a chunk of herbs, and sniffs deeply. His laughter is cold, cruel. He tosses the pouch to his comrades. “Nothing but the contents of a dromveske!”

He draws a fiery arrow, pulls the string taut, and lets it fly.

It hurtles toward the side of the boat —

Lykos barrels into Megaera, knocking her out of the arrow’s path. They crash to the deck, Lykos shielding her with his body. Zenon leaps to the fallen arrow, bravely stamping out the flame.

A second arrow is aimed at the ship on our other side.

I understand what the commander is doing. He wants us to panic, to know the third arrow is meant for the captain and me—exposed and vulnerable at the end of the plank.

A shriek echoes in the distance, but no one pays it any mind.

A third arrow is nocked, this one brighter, angrier.

It’s aimed at me.

We could jump into the sea, but the icy water would kill us soon enough. It feels wrong to go that way. At least we’ve stood firm until the end. We’ve tried our best to save the lives on this ship.

The arrow is released, whizzing toward me. I clutch onto the warmth of Quin’s memory, a feeling I’m supposed to bury forever. And in a way, I’m about to—

A deafening screech.

Water shoots up from the sea—not sea water, but the water of a transforming wyvern, wings spreading as it rises majestically up and—

In a fierce, blooming spray, it catches the arrow mid-flight.

The flame extinguishes into a lone, insignificant plume of smoke.

Stormblades lower their bows, stunned, nervous, reluctant to incite the wrath of the poisonous beast.

The wyvern spits the arrow into the sea, screeches again, and circles grandly overhead.

All eyes follow the sight.

My heart leaps. On the wyvern’s flank is a pale, freshly healed scar.

My knees buckle; Kjartan steadies me with a firm grip on my arm. “What—”

Quin once said wyverns, for all their fierceness, are even more fiercely loyal. Royal blood might ultimately control them, but when not under royal influence, wyverns have a choice who they protect.

This wyvern has chosen me?

“Do we shoot it down?”

I shake my head. “She’s on our side.”

Relief floods through me, and as if she senses it, the wyvern falls like water, disappearing into the sea as swiftly as she’d come.

A frightened yelp has stormblades yanking their gazes away from the wyvern.

The stormblade commander drops his bow, his hands flying to his face in horror. The men around him flush with bumps too.

Their panic is messy, palpable, fear a living shadow on their boat. I raise my arm with ‘Lindrhalda’s touch’. “I’ve been sent to make this illness disappear. Give me six hours, and I will cure you.”

Stormblades on the other boats stir uneasily. Some set down their bows, others aim with more determination at our ship, awaiting the order. A few point their flames at their neighbours.

The commanding stormblade curses, halting his men. He tells them to lower their weapons. “Six hours. We can give them six hours. If we’re not healed... we’ll go down alongside your ship. Fellow men,” he calls out to his soldiers, “the wait will be worth it. If there is no cure, at least flames are prettier in the dark.”

I’m the only one allowed to board their vessel. I treat them with the oil I prepared. While there, I find the dromveske pouch lying abandoned in a corner, surreptitiously toss it overboard, pull out another one—seemingly identical but filled with harmless dried flowers—and declare it will solve the problem.

Oiled and chewing on herbs, they hold me hostage, staring me down, taking turns enlightening me on exactly how I’ll die if I fail.

As their voices drone on, I glance over at Megaera, Lykos, and Zenon, who watch, along with the captain. Their sombre faces are too much. I force a reassuring smile and turn away, focusing on the ornate ship lingering nearby.

The figure on the high deck is still there, watching, unperturbed by the falling snow.

There’s something about him . . .

“What are you staring at our Prins for?” a stormblade huffs in my ear.

“Prins?”

“Prins Lief of Ragn. Second only to our king.” They all slam loyal fists over their chests.

The one Kjartan wants to gift me to if we make it through the night? “If he’s so important, why is he so close to this chaos?”

“He’s been hunting for a cure. In case it slips through our net. In case it gets to shore.”

Ah. He’s in charge of the second line of defence.

I raise a hand and wave.

He watches me for a long moment, then inclines his head.

It feels like forever before the hours pass. I’m reduced to huddling into my cloak, blowing on my hands to keep them from going numb. Blankets have been passed around the stormblades, but I’m left in what I arrived in. Luckily, their tall, larger bodies block the worst of the breeze, and the brazier radiates just enough warmth to keep me from freezing—but barely.

I almost fantasise about those dozen arrows being set alight and stationed along the side of the boat.

I shake my head, gritting my chattering teeth.

The boat rocks over gentle waves, wood creaking. One of the stormblades mutters, “Almost sundown.”

I lift my head from my cocoon. The sky is low, the fading light making the drifting snowflakes glimmer. It’s beautiful. And terrifying. Only a few minutes until darkness.

What if my oil isn’t strong enough? What if it takes longer than six hours for their symptoms to fade? What if I’ve made a mistake? What if—

I’m yanked to my feet, my heart pounding, and—

Yelps and shouts come from our ship.

A Skeldar bounces down the plank in a hurry. “Lindrhalda’s touch saved me!”

“Commander!” a stormblade gasps. “Your face. And his, look!”

Around me, men shout in awe and relief, dropping their weapons—and my sore arms.

Lykos and Zenon entangle themselves in a joyous, relieved hug.

Megaera gazes at me, her eyes shimmering with respect.

Cheers ripple from the Skeldars, echoing across the surrounding boats.

The commanding stormblade mutters and then laughs, a sound of bitter relief.

A chant begins, “Praise Lindrhalda’s mercy! Praise Lindrhalda’s mercy!”

And I sag to my knees, finally allowing myself to shake.

I’m pulled up, yanked triumphantly onto shoulders, and amidst blonde hair and leather vests, I’m steered onto a bridging board, up a ladder—

And over the side of the ship to a lantern-lit deck—

This is not the ship I snuck onto with my companions.

The ship’s sides are studded with hand-painted Skeldar shields, bearing emblems of their gods. The sailors here are dressed in finer wool tunics. Somewhere close someone is playing the flute, and wafting up from below is the rich aroma of cooked chicken.

Stormblades hustle me to the bow of the ship and drop me to the deck, where I catch myself on all fours.

I’m pushing myself up when two boots come into view.

I stare at my foggy breath bouncing off the deck as I wait for permission to rise.

Laughter. “Do you prefer conversations staring at feet?”

I hurriedly stand and let out a most undignified splutter. “It’s you!”

To be fair, he looks equally taken aback, seeing me up close—but he holds his response in better check. “Ah. The one who dared to speak up in Hinsard’s famous Thinking Hall.”

In Hinsard, he’d tried to fit in, wearing our fabrics and taking off his adornments. Here, he wears a cloak lined with fur, three studs of gold pierce his right ear, and an intricate golden chain extends around his head like a crown.

“You were trying to find healers to fight this supposed outbreak?” I say, rapidly putting things together.

“Vitalians are too proud, too vain. There’s no working with them.”

“Dangerous, to go yourself. You might’ve been captured; taken hostage.”

“Risks must be taken.”

“Others could have gone in your stead.”

“We are unlike you. We lead our men; we don’t hide behind them.” He pauses, analyses me with a long scrolling look from face to feet and back again. “Lindrhalda’s touch? You, too, have quite some nerve.”

I’m quiet.

He folds his arms. “What do you mean, ‘supposed’ outbreak?”

I tell him the truth of the poxies, and why we pretended our way through it.

Prins Lief barely bats an eye. “Your captain is right. This must be kept quiet. But rest assured, I’ll have the weed eradicated. We shouldn’t protect anything that masks itself.”

His words sit uncomfortably. I frown. “It only mimics the look of common strawberry so that it doesn’t get destroyed.”

“That might be a good thing for the plant, but what about anyone coming in contact with it?”

“If prepared properly, the roots can save lives.”

“What are you saying?”

“The answer isn’t simply to burn them all to the ground. Those coming close to it need to sharpen their eyes and understand what’s beneath the surface.”

“Are we still talking about the plant?”

“Don’t burn them. Educate. Have the thistle prove its worth.”

He grimaces, but lets this lie. “You’ll have to bear the role of the one with Lindrhalda’s touch.”

I stiffen. The ruse had been necessary in the moment, but it’s not a role I wish to live.

Dread is a terrible clawed fist in my belly. “Expectations from you will soar. You might have saved your life for now, but every procedure hereafter will be a throw of the dice of fate. Should you fail...”

If I’m discovered a fraud, they’d make a public show of it to warn anyone off trying anything like it again.

I drop to my knees on the deck. “Please. Take me to Ragn and let me disappear.”

“I’m rather curious how far you’ll go as a healer.”

“I have much to learn. I came here to find my mother’s systra and further my healing knowledge.”

“Who is your mother’s systra?”

“Asta Nightshade.”

“Of course you’d be related to her.” A heavy, pained laugh. “Your aunt has thrice refused to become my... personal physician. She prefers to heal those outside the castle.”

I hide a small sigh of relief. ‘The ones the world looks past are the ones most in need of saving,’ she’d written to Mother. I like that she stands with this philosophy rather than bowing to a prince.

But the fact royalty lets her get away with it... “You respect her.”

He looks at me sharply, curiously. “What makes you think that?”

“She could refuse.”

“Think I’ll let you go as easily?”

I pump my fist over my heart. “Let me learn from her, and I will come to you whenever you call for aid.”

“Your name?”

“Caelus Amuletos.”

He smiles.

I mask a shiver crawling up my spine.

I’m a healer. Not a god. I will not be able to save everyone.

And certainly not without magic.