Page 12 of The King’s Man #5

I ’ve entered Quin’s cottage as Haldr many times now. It should have become second nature, easy. Yet not once have I pushed this door open without coiled tension in my stomach.

It’s still there as I step inside, and it coils tighter when I see him. No candlelight; only his solid form and the scent of soap, and my raw nerves made more shivery in the dark.

I should’ve come earlier. Shouldn’t have tinkered with scriptions all day while reliving King Yngvarr’s wrath over and over in my head. Of course it’s dangerous. But Quin is more important than any stake.

Get inside the memories, get out again with a plan.

My veil flutters around my face as I bend over Quin. I’m about to shake his shoulders when, without opening his eyes, he murmurs, “You’re late.”

“Your wounds are healed. I don’t need to be here.”

“Yet you’ve come.” He opens his eyes and rises on his elbows, until his face is covered by the other side of my veil. I catch my breath. His nose and his lips, I can see their grooves... I can feel his filtered breath tickling my jaw... “I’m glad of it.”

I pull back swiftly and plunk myself beside his knees. “I came for your help.”

Calmly, with the barest notes of curiosity, “Oh?”

Quin stares silently at the dromveske while I talk and, when I’m done, takes it with a grimace.

“These memories might be dangerous.”

“What does that mean?”

“Will it stop you entering?”

I shake my head. Prins Lief pushed me to look, to understand. He promised my aunt... he must have faith the King of Lumin can help me. He’s not the only one. “I have until dawn.”

Quin opens the dromveske and tips six runestones onto the mattress. He looks up to where I’m frozen and pats the space beside him. “Lie down.”

Stiffly, I lay myself down, facing him, palm hooked on my chin, sweaty as it clamps my veil.

Between us Quin picks up a piece of chalk and rubs it into the runes.

Sweet, fragrant scents hit my nose and bring back the memory of the dromveske on the ship.

Same sort of concoction—dried flowers—but these have been reduced to their essences and infused.

I pluck the chalk from him and inspect it. A time-consuming and costly task, though it would lengthen the effectiveness of the plants. Only the wealthy could afford this—

Quin is watching me. I quickly return the chalk .

“Finish rubbing it over the grooves of the runes.”

I take the remaining runes one by one and chalk them. “Now what?”

“We sleep.”

“I’ll take the floor.”

He catches my arm before I can roll away. “We need to be close.” When I resist, he skates his hand off me and gestures. “To the runes.”

I drop my head to the pillow. Quin moves beside me.

“This is an Iskaldir tradition,” I murmur. “How come you know what to do?”

“It’s infamous throughout all the kingdoms.”

“Really?”

“There was a time people in other kingdoms tried to mimic the tradition. Too many got trapped in turbulent, inescapable emotions, and could never find their way out.”

“What does that mean?”

“If the spirit that goes wandering gets lost, the person falls into a coma. Vitalians can’t cure this. My grandfather organised the luminists to strongly discourage the practice.”

“Here dromveskes are used trivially.”

“Skeldars are very careful about falling in love.”

“It’s falling in love. It’s uncontrolled, exhilarating, frightening. Either there’s someone to catch you, or you’re smashed to pieces.” I slam my eyes shut. “Sleep. We’ve work to do.”

Quin is one heavy breath and silence.

Sleep eventually follows, and with it the rush of falling through darkness—as if my last words are about to come true—and then:

Arms around my waist.

A controlled descent.

Darkness takes form around me. A sea of leaves. Green and shadow.

We’re dropping gently into a forest. Around us, ancient gnarled trees and... a hidden glade.

Our feet touch damp earth. Quin remains behind me, arms still locked around my waist, a dazzled breath skimming the top of my head.

Soft, murky light shrouds the glade and brighter sunshine falls on six massive stone arches in the centre. Each arch frames a door carved with runes. And like a path around them are vines of blooming soulflower.

I breathe in the rich scent of them and the earth and spin out of Quin’s hold, towards the babbling of a nearby brook, and beside it, a logwood cabin. “It feels so real.”

“The dromveske doesn’t just show memories—it makes you feel them. If King Yngvarr’s emotions are as volatile as his actions, you’d better be ready.”

I take in the mossy trees and the sharp tang of tannin. “This place feels familiar to me.” I swing my head to Quin.

Quin inclines his head. “Close to my aunt’s estate.”

“This is in Lumin?”

“Before he was king, he was a hostage prince. Like my aunt Frederica was in Iskaldir. When she returned, she was granted her estate for her service to Lumin.”

“And King Yngvarr? How long was he in the royal city? ”

“They exchanged at ten, for eight years.”

“Eight of his formative years... he must have been close to your father.”

“Close but not fond.”

I gesture to the rune doors. “Will we see your family in here too?”

“Undoubtably, and not all in good light.”

“They’re King Yngvarr’s memories after all.

” I blink at Quin, really taking him in.

He’s in everyday clothing—a dark blue robe—simply but smartly attired, but his hair is twice the length we’d gone to sleep with and silvery-white.

He looks rather like he’s come straight from our undercover money-making mission in Kastoria.

I suck in a sharp breath and slap my face. My bare face.

I pivot on my heel. Quin turns me around again. “It’s your soul that enters the memories, not your body or the clothes you wore sleeping.”

He’s not even pretending to be surprised. I frown towards the grass.

“The first mention of braids, pearl heart, the way you ran off,” he murmurs, reading my mind.

I shut my eyes. He’s known for a while. Yet he hasn’t turned me away. A comfort, except... we’ll have to separate soon enough. Sooner, now.

I force myself to remain steady as I look at him. That silver-white hair... the absence of a cane... “Why’d your soul come dressed like that?”

“Without a cane? Why would my soul need one? I’m dressed how I most wish to be. ”

“I’d have wished my face was hidden!”

“I got the impression you were loathing Haldr.”

“But at least then you could pretend it wasn’t me, and I could pretend you didn’t know it!”

I stare down at myself, frustrated, and take in my attire.

Immediately, I flush. Everything I’m wearing, Quin has given me.

The pants and shirt are those he lent me after the ice-bath in his dance house; the cloak is his own, that he’d thrown around me after I lost my clasp at drakopagon; the gloves, he gifted to me at the lovelight festival.

My fingers fly to the clasp. The grooves, its slight weight, the way touching it has me shivering, all feel familiar. Even the silver ribbon he once tied into my hair flutters around my shoulders.

My hand clamps over my shirt sleeve and I turn away to peek under the cuffs. My wrists. I’m still wearing his braids.

Everything on me exposes feelings. Holds stories of him... Something in me remembers how he wrapped this cloak around me. The gloves he slid onto my hands. The clasp—the whisper of his thumbs at my jaw.

I laugh through the pain and—“You really never gave me any boots.” It’s the only thing on me that’s my own.

Quin blinks.

“I mean . . .”

Thick silver hair and braids tumble around Quin’s shoulders as he leans in, and I notice the fastenings are not his but the plain ones I bought in Ragn. “Perhaps in this respect,” he murmurs, his foot settling to touch the tip of mine, “I’m most superstitious.”

I step shakily back.

He raises a gentle brow.

How will you ever survive if you can’t keep your feelings in check?

I steel myself and force my gaze to stay on his. “We need to stop. It’ll be too hard if we continue like this.”

His lips press together as he scans my face and locks onto my gaze more deeply. “Continue like what?”

I flush and grit my teeth. “You know very well.”

“I’ve yet to hear you say it.”

I’m hot and flustered and I shove his chest, pushing him away. At least, I’m supposed to be pushing him away, except I’m following; pushing with my hands balled around his shirt while stepping in closer.

His back hits a tree trunk, and he’s a long line of warmth down my flank. I feel his chest swell on a breath. It gives me butterflies, and I hate it.

“There’s nothing to say,” I mutter, squeezing my fists tight. “We’ll be strangers soon.”

He tips his face to the dappled light and closes his eyes.

When he reopens them, his expression is raw and unreadable, but too quickly he slides his kingly mask into place.

I’m almost knocked off balance when he pushes past me and strides towards the glade.

He calls out, keeping his tone polite yet firm. “Follow.”

I do, at a distance, dancing around bursts of perfume from where Quin has disturbed the soulbloom. There’s friction between us now, a forced distance. It’s hard to breathe in, but I do. “Why this place?”

“Each dromveske holds a collection of memories in a space significant to the person. King Yngvarr must consider this place important—he retreats here between each memory.”

“What about time?”

“Runs slower inside the dromveske. There might be days of memories inside, played out seemingly in real time, but waking up, not more than a night should have passed. So long as we don’t get lost.”

Quin steps next to the first door and looks over at me. “When you’re ready.”

I press my open palm to the cold door and its worn runes. If I get lost in here, there’ll be no Haldr, no Caelus, no healer left to return. I’ll vanish inside the memories of this king who wants my head on a pike.

I swallow, glance once more at Quin, and at his reassuring nod, I push.