Page 25 of The King’s Man #5

When it goes out, a rush of movement comes from the neighbouring tree, and I spy Bastion’s silhouette as he uses his whip and swings to land with quiet thud before me. “Need a hug?”

He tosses it out with a purposefully distracting leer, and I stare at him until his opened arms start falling.

Then I’m tripping over the yard between us, throwing my arms around his neck and dropping my throbbing head on his shoulder.

His breath hitches with surprise and he slowly lifts his hands to pat my back against a silent sob.

A spring breeze ruffles over us with the scent of impending rain; I’m still holding Bastion when the first drops hit.

“Holding one another in the rain,” he says, patting hands becoming roaming ones. “How romant—”

“Don’t push your luck.”

He laughs and we pull apart, and I’m grateful for his company as I drag myself back to town.

In the morning, we go over our ‘retreat plan’ in a corner of the manor where we’re sure the regent’s spies will overhear.

The real plan, we formulated the night before in the library: We—the Skeldar envoy and the prisoners on the longboat—must make it to the vespertine tunnel, the entrance to which is hidden down the narrow, western arm of the canal.

Not only must we all make it there, we must make it there without being followed.

Only then can we get out of Hinsard undetected, and part ways in the southern woods.

Our chances aren’t good.

We must try anyway.

Out in the streets, making our way to the third and final trial, the prins catches my elbow.

His face is tight with concern. A lot is riding on my performance today. That Lindrhalda’s touch will win the contest, and with the win, my chance of survival, and with my survival, his chance of a life with my aunt.

I look down at his gripping hand and past it to the ever-ticklish braids spiralling under my sleeves. I laugh out an ache. Everything rides on today. I snatch his arm back and pierce his gaze with my desperate one.

His jaw tightens in determination and we enter an alley where we meet Bastion.

Quickly and silently, his men and ours exchange clothing, and when we emerge into the next street, I’m walking beside Bastion in the prins’ gear.

We’re four in feathered masks, with two token ‘stormblades’, and when we get to the square Megaera, Olyn and I leave them in the crowd to take our place.

Like the first trial, today’s is held in front of the luminarium and the enthroned regent. And like then, the day is overcast.

But this time there’s only one stage positioned at the base of the steps, and it’s equipped with a stretcher, furnace, pots and teapots, and an entire apothecary of plants, seeds, and collected venoms.

A glance at a grim-faced Skriniaris Evander reminds me again: the regent has replaced the trial the orchestrators originally planned with one of his own design. It will not be a fair trial.

The favourite team glides into the square in their glowing cloaks and the people roar with delight. Team Orange on their other side look as though they’ve begrudgingly accepted they’re unlikely to come first, but their arrogant gazes are sharp: they don’t intend to lose to us .

My gaze washes over the show to Florentius, and my pulse hitches. Despite his dazzling cloak, he’s shrouded in shadow, his expression sickened. When he catches me looking, he stares at me hard and mouths something—

My stomach twists. “What—”

But there’s no time. The regent is rising; the square is a wave, bowing down to him .

With a wicked gleam in his eye, he announces the third and final trial. “I promised you all insurmountable difficulty. Each team will come onto this stage in turn, and will have one hour to revive a comatose patient.”

The regent sweeps his gaze across the crowd, landing for a few moments longer on our team. His lip curls and he removes a pouch from his belt, brandishing it for all to see. “All three patients have lost their souls in this Skeldar dromveske.”

There’s a collective gasp. Even Florentius pales. A patient in this kind of coma... no vitalian has ever succeeded in waking them.

When one of the orchestrators kneels to protest, the regent dances down the steps and helps him to his feet.

“Of course, I don’t expect any one of you to perform a miracle!

” He throws the dromveske onto one of the worktops on stage.

This time his gaze shifts pointedly to Florentius.

“Your trial will assess the quality of your attempts. Technique and overall patient improvement—every twitch counts!” He gestures towards Skriniaris Evander, at a board to one side. “Our judge will keep a tally.”

Each team draws a straw—orange pulls first, our team last.

Team Orange is given a two-point advantage, and the royal team, one point. This is to consider the advantage of the watching teams.

“There’s no advantage to us,” Olyn murmurs. “We can’t use magic! ”

I purse my lips. The regent took control of this trial to assure our defeat. This play of fairness is just that: an act.

Team Orange step onto the stage, and when they’re presented with their comatose patient, their leader cries out and clutches the almost-lifeless body into a hug. He jerks his head towards the regent, croaking, “What’s the meaning of this?”

The regent merely smiles and motions for the hourglass to be flipped. “Motivation.”

Bile lurches up my throat as I look from the little girl prone on the stretcher to Florentius and his clenched fists. He’s taken her.

I whip around, scanning the crowd, desperate to see Akilah waiting there, watching...

When I don’t see her face, I snap to Florentius; he conjures a shield to stop me getting any closer and I’m thrown back into Megaera and Olyn’s catching arms. “Who will you choose?” he says. “Your sister or your king?”

I can barely breathe. Megaera and Olyn hold me tightly, taking my sagging weight, as Team Orange try to revive the little girl.

Attempt after attempt, to no avail. When the bell chimes the hour, they have to be dragged off the stage and held in place by sentinian spells.

The team gathers around their leader, trying to console him, but he crumples to his knees.

The little girl is moved off the stage, and though I know it’s coming, it’s still a punch to my guts when Akilah’s brought out .

I push out of Megaera and Olyn’s arms and stagger to Florentius and his team moving swiftly to her side.

“Use the dromveske,” I croak. “Maybe there’s a way. If you enter the—”

Florentius is a mighty snap of his cloak when he spins to me. “That’s why she’s in a coma to begin with. Do you want us all to end up dead?” He blasts me back to my place and Skriniaris Evander reluctantly sets two redcloaks on our team to ensure I don’t meddle.

The regent has his eyes narrowed on us and it takes all my strength to stand straight, not to give away my anxiety—and with that my true identity. Akilah’s sworn brother; the ‘executed’ royal vitalian; the king’s man.

I whisper into Megaera’s ear. “Nod. Make it seem like I’m discussing ideas with you.”

I say the same to Olyn.

They huddle around me, nodding and whispering as if we’re plotting tactics, so my intense looks at the stage are misinterpreted—

I gasp. Akilah’s arm just twitched.

My gaze pings around the four-person vitalian team.

One is preparing teas; Mikros and Makarios are drawing out blood, funnelling it through spells, and pouring it back in again; and Florentius is stepping back as he abruptly finishes a mind-revitalising spell.

He immediately downs tea and stacks another.

All eyes are riveted on him. Older vitalians are sucking in mesmerised breaths. There are astonished whispers. An elder scholar shakily points his finger .

Clever, very clever. To use dragonbane in that way.

He’s using such a complex spell—the hardest known spell to stack! Only ever achieved once, by Sacran Kyrillos himself!

We’re watching a miracle here.

He’s doing it with such grace.

With grave concentration, Florentius perfects the spell as the crowds hold their breath and then burst into cheers and applause.

Just completion of this spell is enough for Florentius to be written into lore.

The judges tallying on the board don’t even know how to rate such skill and genius.

It’s clear in all their minds—even if Akilah never wakes, he’s achieved something.

Chiron beholds his son with relief and the regent claps proudly, throwing the father a nod that suggests perhaps the royal team had an advantage.

In fact, that must be the case. The regent wishes to ride on the coattails of this historical feat; he’s pressured Florentius in every possible manner.

He’ll have made sure Florentius has the winning edge while ensuring, through this impossible-to-cure coma, that all other finalists have no conceivable chance.

In rush of rainbowed threads, Florentius trains his spell into Akilah’s chest. The spell is strong and he shakes, fighting to keep it steady. Sweat dribbles down his temples. Regardless of any advantage he’s been manipulated into taking, this is an incredible operation.

My stomach clenches. An unbeatable one?

Akilah stirs and her eyes flutter open. The crowd is silent for a moment, astonished .

Even Orange are beholding Florentius with hope. If this works, if he truly can bring his patient back to life, could he save the others?

With a final push, Florentius forces in the remaining spell and falls to his knees, holding Akilah’s hand in both of his as he calls her name with a plea to please, please wake up. I’m silently chanting the same, even as I fear what comes next.

As the hourglass trickles its last traces of sand, my heart bangs hard against my ribs and I push forward out of Megaera and Olyn’s supportive arms. A wall of redcloaks shoots up before me. I press against it in overwhelming, sickening relief. Akilah. She’s moving. She’s sitting up!

The redcloaks finally notice the happenings on stage and the absolute silence that has taken over the courtyard.

For a few moments, only the sound of a pigeon squawking can be heard, and then the skies alight in a fireworks of bursting magic, brighter than the luminarium dome.

The royal team have done it. They’ve brought their patient back to life.

Florentius grabs Akilah into a hug while the crowds scream the contest has been well and truly won. The regent beams and booms to the orchestrators to make it official.

My stomach roils at his words, but even more when I see Florentius pull back from his hug with a worried frown.

Amongst a celebratory crowd, he’s checking her pulse again and swallowing thickly.

He slings an arm around her and she rises, lets him lead her off the stage, but as they pass by I see the glazed look in her eye.

She’s moving, but she’s not there. She’s a mere puppet, without a soul.

While the redcloaks are distracted, I scramble past them and onto the stage, Olyn and Megaera rushing to follow me. The regent snaps his head our way and pauses. “You can’t possibly think you can beat that.”

He waves a hand to dismiss us, but I refuse to budge.

His eyes narrow.

I quickly bow. “Please.”

After a long stretch of silence, Skriniaris Evander speaks.

“Your highness, this contest has always prided itself on being a challenging but fair competition. While admittedly there is extremely little chance of surpassing the feat we just witnessed, perhaps it does no harm to allow the third team a chance?”

The crowds look on, shaking their heads, laughing.

Why humiliate themselves?

It’s these murmurings that have the regent drumming his fingers thoughtfully on the arm of his throne. With a smug smile, he raises his hands to silence the onlookers. “Indeed, the contest is known for the impartiality of its trials. Let this last team have their turn.”

I feign a thankful smile and say, “In the case we revive our patient, how will we determine the overall winner?”

The square fills with snorting, mocking laughter.

The regent is cackling too. A non-magic team really insists on competing against this spectacular display? He clears his throat. “The only way you could win is if you revive two patients within the hour!”

The crowds snicker and snort, and I haul in a deep breath. “Do I have your highness’ word on that?”

“Everyone here can attest to my word. Shall you revive two patients, not only will you win the Medicus Contest, I’ll bow down to you!”

“Just the win will do. May I request we heal the little girl?”

The regent flicks out a commanding hand and the orchestrators bring back the orange team’s patient and set her on the stage. Following this, they bring out ours.

Casimiria, her limp hand flopping over the edge of the stretcher.

I force myself not to make a sound, not to so much as squeeze my fists.

The regent says, “I’m sure your king would be on the edge of his throne if he were here.”

He means Yngvarr—his childhood beloved, almost lifeless on stage. But my king would be beyond distraught.

I whirl around to the counter where the dromveske sits and lift it before the regent. “I’ll go inside.” I have to bring her back. I have to bring all of their souls back.

For a beat, I feel the weight of everything at stake pressing against me—Quin’s life, Akilah’s soul, Casimiria’s survival, the longboat prisoners’ freedom.

If I fail here, it won’t just be me who pays the price.

It will be all of them. Everyone. Failure isn’t an option.

And yet, staring into the regent’s dark, gleaming eyes, it feels unavoidable .

The regent leans forward, his dark gaze boring into me.

His smile is savage. “No one but myself has come back from my dromveske.” He rises, moves to the large hourglass, and turns it himself.

From inside his cloak, he produces a stick of chalk that he throws to me.

I catch it as the regent addresses the crowd.

“Best none of you fall asleep. My memories could suck in the souls of the entire square.”

Sharp gasps. Mothers jostle their babes awake, and fathers shake their bored boys.

Olyn and Megaera grip my shoulders and murmur I must find a different way.

“They’re wounded inside, or lost. I have to heal their souls. To do that, I need to reach them.”

“You’ll lose yourself if you go in there!”

My hand hurts where I’ve instinctively clutched my clasp. “I’ll be just as lost if I don’t.”

I give Megaera a scription that nourishes the body, tell Olyn to needle all stimulus points, and inhale a quickly ground sleeping drug.

I curl up on the stage floor, chalk the dromveske, and to the sound of incredulous laughter, fall asleep.