Page 3 of The King’s Man #5

T he bark of a stormblade has me hurriedly setting on my curacowl and facing the suspicious soldier. I keep my voice quiet, between us, signing my hands in a symbol that means I’m one of Prins Lief’s guests.

Out the corner of my eye, the cage holding the captive king moves forward, following Prins Lief’s mounted guards.

If the cage is headed towards the temple, Prins Lief is still there, waiting. And if he’s still there, I must see him again.

“Prins Lief is expecting me,” I say.

The stormblade squints, “Why were you hiding behind the runestone?”

“I . . . didn’t want to disturb . . . this. Wanted to wait until you’d passed.”

“Finally someone with common sense. A tiring job, shooing away onlookers. Took us twice the time it should to get this far. ”

I feign a sympathetic nod.

“Come with me,” the stormblade says, and I accompany him at the back of the procession. We’re too far behind to glimpse the captive; I can only watch as the cage bypasses the ceremonial grounds and disappears behind the temple.

I wish I could follow, but am instead ushered to the main temple. I wait in the shadows as guards and stormblades take their turn with Prins Lief, until at last my presence is announced.

He’s exactly where I left him hours ago, warming his hands over spiritual fire, but his shoulders have sagged and his face is pensive.

“You really are bold.”

Desperate.

I come forward. “You know why I’m here.”

“Could it be more painfully obvious?”

I quietly continue until I feel the flickering warmth of the fire.

Prins Lief narrows his eyes, like he’s trying to find the answers he needs within the flames. “This gift... the people crave his humiliation.”

“You’ve been known as one who mediates; who convinces his father not to rush into war. What will you do with King Constantinos?”

“Let me be clear: I don’t care for the person; I care about what he represents.

More precisely what the consequences of harming him might be.

” Prins Lief turns his hands as if weighing something.

“There is a growing undercurrent of support for this runaway king. Somehow, he’s won the respect of the vespertines. Their network is extensive.”

I’m thrown back to Kastoria. Quin’s declaration.

“ As your king, I can promise to be with you until the end. I will eat only after all of you have eaten. I will listen to your cries and will answer them. I will wait until you have all received treatment before receiving my own. Trust in me, and I will help return your freedom.”

He followed through with his promises.

That’s what won him vespertine support.

Prins Lief casts his concerned stare to the impressive ceiling far above. “If there’s any shift in Lumin politics and we’ve humiliated or killed your king, I fear we cannot afford the repercussions.”

“Then let him go.”

He levels me a sharp look. “How did you find out about our captive?”

“I overheard—”

“Word has spread faster than the plague. Storytellers will be sharing the news of this delightful gift in inns, in public squares, sharing with their neighbours. Our people know of King Constantinos’s capture.

They crave to see him pay for denying our people access to our spiritual land; for killing us without mercy when we try. ”

“Surely there could be another way to appease them?”

A disbelieving laugh. “And what of my father? He’s never forgiven the cruelty of King Anastasius. To have his son in his grasp... ”

“You could have sent him to the castle, but you’ve had him escorted here. You’re going to imprison him on temple grounds. One of the meditation cottages, I’d guess. Simple, but humane. You won’t stop there. You’ll have his wounds tended to.”

“What are you implying?”

“You’re hedging your bets.” I drop to my knees and fist my chest over my heart. “Let me be his healer.”

“The one with Lindrhalda’s touch, healing our enemy?”

“If power does change in Lumin, you not only had King Constantinos healed, you did so using the best healer of your kingdom. This could be considered a great act of respect—”

“And if power doesn’t change?”

“Then emphasise suspecting the healer of the goddess was a fake. To treat the king with a fake is also humiliating. Say you wanted the captive healthy enough that he better feels how powerless he is. Say you wanted to flaunt everything he’s lost before him. Make him suffer in spirit first.”

Prins Lief draws a dagger and points the tip into my belt. “Are you saying you’d even let yourself be disembowelled, as long as it saves your king from physical harm?”

I lift my veil and look him directly in the eye.

He laughs and sheathes his dagger. “I’m not the benevolent prince you seem to mistake me for.

I care about overall outcomes. I keep your secret not because you intrigue me on a personal level but because I see a future for Iskaldir’s medicinal advancement.

Lumin spells translated into alchemy. I keep you so you’ll betray your kingdom’s vitalian secrets. ”

“How to heal should never be secret. I’ll give you everything willingly.”

“What will your king think of that?”

“He’ll wish he’d thought of it first. Especially if it can broker peace.”

This time his laughter echoes around the stone gods. “Rise.”

When I’m on my feet, he presses a signet chain into my hands. “Use this to enter and exit at your will.” He slowly loosens his grip on the signet with a low, rumbled warning. “You won’t get far if you’re dreaming of his escape.”

Escape is on my mind, but it’s not my priority.

After I rob my aunt’s herbarium of a myriad of supplies—most of which I made alongside her—I hoof back to the temple.

I flash the prince’s signet, pass dense rows of stormblades and enter the meditation grove.

Night blooms scent the air, along with pine and the last remnants of melting ice; it should be peaceful under the dappled moonlight filtering through the canopy of trees, but each of my pounding steps is weighed down by the scrutinising stares of the guards, and the fear of what I’ll find when I reach him.

Oil lamps lead the way. I run past a half-dozen meditation cottages, none his. I know from the lack of guards on their porches, and the fact the line of stormblades continues deeper into the grove.

The final porch has two guards, illuminated by hanging lanterns either side of the doorway. Dim light seeps from the shuttered windows.

Again I flash the signet and they uncross their spears, allowing me to pass.

I come to an abrupt stop outside the door.

If fate should ever have us meet again... should I avoid you? Pretend I don’t know you?

I recall the pain of his silence.

I shouldn’t be here.

My fist tightens around my bag. This is different. This isn’t casually encountering him somewhere where he’s safe and living well. This doesn’t count.

He doesn’t have to know.

I rummage through my bag, pulling out white fingerless gloves, and, fate—my voice altering tonic. I down the liquid and make sure my curacowl is secured. Hauling in a steadying breath, I let myself inside.

It’s a simple room, split into three main parts.

A cooking area with a small stove and wooden worktop, table and chairs.

A meditation space with one large cushion on the floor that would overlook the garden if the door was left open.

And a sleeping area—a simple bed alongside a window, with a small chest at its foot.

An oil lamp hangs on a nearby hook, layering the room in a soft glow and making the gold-chased carvings in the wooden beams shine. I blink. Where is—

Movement from behind the privy partition has my focus sharpening. There’s a hiss, followed by a ripped and bloodied cloak and shirt being tossed atop the screen. Boots topple into view and skid as Quin stumbles towards the bed.

Fright has me gasping, and Quin, who’s caught himself against the side of the bed, stiffens. His bare back is a canvas of deep, painful lashes, bloody and swollen. One still has grit carpeted into it. My teeth clench. He’s hurt this badly on the outside... what’s the state inside of him?

The room is a blur and a series of creaks as I storm across it.

Quin turns his head with a tight glare, spearing me to the spot a few feet from him.

It’s the first time in months I’ve seen his face.

That sharp nose, that brow, that defined jawline.

Those penetrating eyes. I’m caught between the urge to curse those who dared touch him and the painful swoop of my stomach descending to the floor.

His braids. They’ve all been hacked off.

“Who sent you?” Quin’s voice sharpens, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “If you’re here to finish what they started, you’ll regret it.”

My voice sounds foreign to my ears. “I’m your designated healer. ”

“Leave.”

He turns his head away as if, with that, I’ll just go. My silly, arrogant king.

I huff, and when Quin looks back, his gaze is fiery.

“Enough,” I say. “Is your chest wounded?” I carefully touch his shoulder and peer down his bruised but less severely damaged torso. My gaze hitches on the flutette around his neck and I struggle to breathe. “Sit. Give me your wrist.”

“I don’t want your aid.”

He’s angry. Suspicious. He has every reason to be.

Placating words won’t win him over. There’s only one way to deal with him...

I laugh.

Dark, royal eyes flash.

“Excuse me. Sorry.” I laugh again. “I expected more. Someone who’d cling to life determined to make those who hurt them pay. Someone determined to rise from the ashes. I didn’t expect you to give up easily.”

He growls. “You insolent—”

“I don’t care how stubborn you are. Don’t care if you’re some reincarnation of a god. If your wounds aren’t treated you’ll have, at most, two days to live.”

His jaw twitches and he rips his gaze away from my veiled face. His back rises and falls with his frustrated breaths, and he steers himself into a sitting position on the bed.