Page 9

T he rain hammers against the apothecary’s windows, blurring the view of Hinsard’s main square.

Inside, Quin’s fingers glow faintly as he works his magic, threads of light spinning into crude disguises.

“These should hold,” he murmurs, his voice steady though his hands tremble slightly. “Nicostratus can help us gain entry to Thinking Hall. He’s sending Petros to bring badges that grant foreign dignitaries passage.”

My stomach tightens at the thought of Nicostratus, and the masks Quin spoke of earlier feel heavier now.

True to his word, Petros arrives within the hour, his sharp gaze cutting through the apothecary’s dim interior. His eyes flick between Quin and me before settling, suspiciously, on the badges he carries.

“The prince has asked me to report back to him directly,” Petros warns, handing us the crested badges.

My stomach tightens. Report what back? The progress on finding an antidote? Or whether I’m foolishly standing too close to Quin again? I glance at Quin, whose unreadable expression—calm and commanding—betrays nothing.

I make a clean step away from him, and he nonchalantly closes the distance again. This time, I make an excuse to cross the room, and Quin sends Petros and Vitalian Dimos ahead.

When we’re alone, he leans against the leaded windows, cane propped into the corner beside him, and curls his finger for me to come.

The air is thick with dried herbs, the floral scent of our potions, and the dust from wooden shelves on the walls.

The air in my lungs is tight.

Milky sunlight filters through the glass around Quin, outlining him in a soft halo. Struggling to keep an innocent bounce in my step, I cross to him.

I halt a few feet away and drop my gaze. Quin’s fingers wrap around my wrist, his grip firm yet deliberate as he draws me closer. The air between us sharpens, and the space I thought was safe narrows until my foot touches his.

The touch of his hand lingers as he releases me, sending a shiver down my arm that I pray he doesn’t notice. He picks up the mask he carved—meticulously, I realise, the edges smooth against my skin as he tilts my chin upward. The wood fits perfectly along the bridge of my nose, and his hands linger as he ties the ribbons into place.

My breaths falter as his gaze remains steady on me, his voice dropping to something softer, closer. “We won’t wear these forever.”

Something swells in my chest, too overwhelming to name, and I pull back quickly, forcing a smile. “Do your part at the constabulary. I’ll head to Thinking Hall.”

It’ll be Vitalian Dimos who goes on stage. It’ll be him using magic to show our progress on the antidote, him leading the discussion on how to complete it.

I know this. Quin knows this.

Others might say I don’t need to be there. Why must I take the risk? He knows I must. He understands it calls inside me, to see the sick healed. That I am deeply emotionally invested. For the sake of the refugees.

For the sake of my dream.

I ball my hands still.

Quin notices. Of course, he notices. “What is it?”

I throw out a laugh that hurts and quickly turn away from him. “I’m frustrated I can’t have what I want.”

“What’s that?” he asks quietly after me.

I pause and, at the familiar—almost comforting—sound of his cane, hurry out, away. “Magic.”

Like the Thinking Hall in the capital, the one in Hinsard heaves with the weight of stone and knowledge. The air tastes like parchment and ink, and the vaulted ceiling way, way above feels like a pinnacle of learning that is both unreachable, and aspired to by all who enter.

I feel small in here, of pitiable wisdom, yet eager to drink in more. Voices of debating scholars vibrate through my mask, a heady feeling. I slip to a lone wooden bench at the perimeter.

A figure crosses my path and seats himself next me by the adjacent wall. He’s wearing a sweet and musky perfume that has my senses sharpening.

I look at him—the man who’s also tucked himself in the corner. There are a few signs that, despite wearing local fabrics, he’s not from here. There’s his supernaturally beautiful face, and his brilliantly blonde hair—a shade lighter than my own—and while he’s not wearing adornments, his right ear is pierced in three places where he might.

His gaze slices to me and his lip curls, unimpressed at my brazen staring. I jerk my eyes away slightly and shuffle over the bench in his direction, whispering under my tongue, “You must be from the south... Iskaldir?”

“For someone wearing a mask, I’d have thought you’d understand a man’s desire not to be recognised.”

“Forgive me,” I say with an apologetic grin that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “When I saw you, I thought you might be a healer. Someone who could teach me...” Someone who could teach me to heal without magic. Someone who could show me a path... where Quin isn’t.

“I’m no healer.” The southerner turns his attention to the stage, and it’s obvious the conversation is over.

I sink back on my seat, slightly disappointed but unfazed. I’m not here today to make such contacts anyway.

Applause meets the end of a scholar’s monologue, and he leaves the raised platform to be replaced by masked Vitalian Dimos. I grip the edges of the bench as he invites those seated in this hall to help him with a medicinal puzzle.

Whispers start. From my corner, I have a good view of their profiles and eager expressions, and I scan the sea of scholars with a silent prayer. My gaze freezes on the familiar face of Commander Thalassios, out of his uniform and perched in the opposing shadowy corner. His eyes are narrowed on Dimos, and he shakes his head grimly when the elements of the poison are revealed.

I expected to see people I recognise here—like Eparch Valerius on a middle bench close to the stage, surrounded by wealthy vitalians he invited and will get donations from later; even the vitalian from yesterday in the speciality apothecary I’m not surprised to see.

But a redcloak commander? What is his purpose?

Is he here alone, or... I search for Eparchess Juliana’s robes, and my stomach tightens.

There, in the front facing away from me. A female figure with white hood drawn low.

Vitalian Dimos quickly has the crowds rapt, and at the plea to help identify the missing catalyst for the antidote, Eparch Valerius rises. “Fellow vitalians, believe this not to be mere curiosity. This puzzle is of utmost importance. Before we began today’s session, I was made aware that the refugees seeking help here may have ingested this poison. Please, I beseech you all to solve this. Save our guests.”

Valerius climbs onto the stage to support Vitalian Dimos, offering a monetary prize for the key ingredient. He suggests ranunculaceae to get the ball rolling, and it isn’t a terrible idea. He’s clearly dabbled in medicines and understands compound reactions. Could buttercup or hellebore extract work?

Scholars chime in with various uncertainties. Clematis, in the same family, has been known to backfire when paired with snake venoms, causing stiffness and sudden death. The risk even of trial is much too high.

Everyone is riveted, except for Petros who keeps nodding off, and after an hour of heated discussion, Eparch Valerius raises his hands to quiet the concerned ruckus. “This topic needs further dissection. Let’s part briefly for lunch, and those with relevant experience return to my private residence in two hours.” He gestures to Eparchess Juliana. “Would you be so kind as to prepare ahead for us?”

Juliana rises and—

Not Eparchess Juliana.

Sparkles, in a similar cloak.

Invited to Thinking Hall by Eparch Valerius to entertain his vitalians? Keep them happy in the hopes of larger donations? Or another reason entirely?

She curtsies and leaves first, the commander close behind her. A quarter of the scholars follow, along with Eparch Valerius and lastly Vitalian Dimos, who catches my eye and nods that he has this under control.

A flash of envy sluices down my middle. I wish I could tag along, be in those chambers as the vitalians piece together the last of the antidote. It takes effort to return the nod.

I catch the southerner eyeing me, and wave a hand for him to return to frowning at the remaining crowd.

Those not specialised or interested in poisons and antidotes remain, and a pale, gaunt-looking vitalian takes the stage. “Recently we’ve been plagued with commoners asking if they too can learn healing skills, and outsiders asking if they can enter into our Medicus Contest. All because that par-linea was granted permission to sit the exams and enter the palace.”

That par-linea.

He’s talking about me.

“How do we position ourselves against the barrage of requests?”

I clamp my hands down on the seat and tense as scholar after scholar stands to spout their thoughts.

“Par and non-linea should not be meddling in the art of healing! They’re born inferior, judged perhaps on their past lives—they have not been given the right. They should accept their place in society, live a good life. Perhaps in their next one they’ll be rewarded.”

“Past lives? While I don’t agree with your reasoning, I do with the premise. Par and non-linea should not dabble in these arts. It’s too risky, too easy to make mistakes. Those mistakes will cost lives. Our kingdom is built on a reputation for having the highest quality healing in the world. We should not risk what we are respected for.”

Two more scholars stand, agreeing with this, babbling on about the need to preserve our cultural heritage.

“Let them join in the contest, and they’ll be after more.”

“As they should be,” I mutter under my tongue, eliciting the southerner’s narrowed glance.

“It’s a slippery slope,” someone cries. “We’ll soon be overrun with healers that barely heal patients and extort them for unreasonable sums. Crime would rise significantly.”

This has dozens of scholars on their feet chiming for the ‘good of the people’. “No magic, no healing.”

The gaunt man on stage calms the crowds, gesturing them to sit. “We have a consensus. The common class has its place in society, and that place is not within Thinking Halls. To educate the masses is to dilute the sanctity of magic, weakening it and thus us as a kingdom. We must, therefore, protect it at all costs and strictly deny commoner access to education, and refuse healers from other countries trying to take part in our Medicus Contest.”

The words ring through the hall with stomach-dropping finality. The applause is deafening and each clap feels like a punch. My stomach aches, along with my throat. I feel smaller in the vast hall than when I first entered. Even the air has grown colder around me.

A part of me wants to slink out and take this ball of unworthiness with me, but another part is screaming.

It’s not only me they’re talking about.

They’re judging the vast majority of the population. They are accusing people of heinous crimes that have no base in fact, only fear. They’re attacking those who have no voice to stand up for themselves.

My jaw clenches and I stand, each breath tight, fighting against the invisible chains they’ve been forging around me with their preconceived notions of par and non-linea capabilities.

“Education is air that is meant for all to breathe, not only those deemed worthy by your biased judgments.”

There’s a collective swish as scholars turn and stare.

The gaunt man on stage smiles sickly. “And who are you?”

I ball my hands at my sides, and the southerner beside me rises too. “We are those with dissenting opinions.”

“Do you have magic? Do you have a right to be here?”

I step forward. “I have every right to be here. Even if I don’t have magic.”

The crowd gasps, and a few shout that we’ve insinuated ourselves into this sacred hall and should be cast out immediately before we taint it.

The Skeldar snarls and declares our kingdom its own worst enemy. “...kill more of yourselves than any unrest at your borders.”

He strides past me to leave, and when I take another step to fight against the crowd, comes back and drags me along with him. “Don’t waste your breath.”

But I do. I yell back, “You’re all afraid. You’re afraid you aren’t good enough. Afraid there will be others that surpass you with less.”

The words feel like Quin’s, sharp edged and unyielding. But they feel good in my mouth. Because it’s the truth.

The hall erupts into outraged shouts.

The Skeldar continues to haul me alongside him.

We leave the hall with warning shouts at our backs: not to think we can be healers; that we’ll only cause death if we try. “Sooner or later you’ll see.”

My stomach roils, and I glance at the Skeldar’s hold. The sun is strong outside, shining on red and golden trees along the canal and glinting brightly off the shock of blonde before me. “They’ll be the ones who should wait and see,” the Skeldar says. And, without another word let alone explanation, he lets go and leaves.

I leave too, an ickiness to my step. Born inferior? Should accept our place?

I rub my temples and make my way down stone steps to the canal. Nestled between bobbing boats sits Quin’s borrowed dinghy. The bright sun from before is blocked by the stone wall casting a cool shadow over half of the water, and it takes my eyes a moment to adjust to both the shadows and the glare.

I step into the boat and it bobs sharply, pushing water around the other boats. A flash of fluttering fabric catches my eye a few vessels down. I look over to wood and spilled blood, and a crumpled figure lying face down in the boat.

I leap from dinghy to dinghy to get to him, pulse racing. The man is moaning and blood seeps from his skull. I throw my hands on impulse—nothing but air wakes over my hands, and the drop in my stomach feels like losing my magic all over again.

I choke back a curse, ripping at my cloak and pressing the fabric against the man’s wound to staunch the bleeding. “Hold on, hold on,” I say, mind racing how to treat him.

Quin’s words from days before echo faintly in the back of my mind: “ You can save without magic. ” But he’s wrong. I can’t. I’m not enough anymore.

Get him to Thinking Hall. To the vitalians.

But moving him, even lifting my hand off his head, will kill him.

I yell out for help, my voice deep and urgent, but no one responds. A gash this deep, bleeding out this fast— “Hold on, hold on,” I demand.

But I’m trembling now. I’m stuck here. Useless. No equipment, no one to help.

The victim’s hand twitches, sparks briefly and fizzles. He has magic; maybe I can get him to heal himself. “Listen,” I murmur. “Channel it to your head to stop the blood—”

I lose my voice.

Under me, the man has gone limp.

With my free hand I grab for his wrist, feel for his pulse. Then feel harder for it. It must be there. Has to be.

It’s not.

I sink away from the body, hands shaking, covered in blood that seeped through the fabric of my cloak and my gloves. Sooner or later you’ll see.

No magic, no healing.

If a vitalian had been here, this man would have lived.