Page 7 of The King’s Man #5

O f course. That’s what we agreed. I chose this too.

My past.

I try to voice the two little words on my way out; in the middle of the bridge overlooking massive shelves of ice; while pushing my way through a drunken crowd in the square; at the table as Megaera, Zenon, and Lykos order dinner.

If I can just voice it, if I can grab the echo and spit it out of my mind, it’ll keep me grounded, fortify me, like a bubbling shield.

I’ll come and go before Quin and anything he says or does will bounce off me.

I’ll be unaffected. I’ll be able to do what I promised. Heal him, save him, let him go.

I just . . . need to get it out.

The words stay locked in my painfully tight throat.

“Cael? What do you want?”

I wave a hand for whatever and Zenon suggests extra fish for the table. Half a dozen plates get shuttled to our private room and it should be delightful, a treat—on the prince’s tab—but... I can barely squeeze a few forkfuls into my mouth.

It takes a long time to swallow and when I manage, I choke at the sounds of a drunken patron. “I, Gudmund Thriceborn, hacked off the captive king’s braids!”

Once again, I’m moving outside the private room to the balustrade, shoving my curacowl on.

Downstairs, this blonde brute Gudmund staggers onto the stage.

He has the build of a stormblade—off duty by his simple attire—but his face doesn’t carry the Skeldar allure.

His skin is bumpy and broken on one cheek and ear and it stretches down his neck under his shirt.

He burps and brandishes a small pouch.

I squeeze the railing. Gudmund pries open the pouch and pulls out a braided string of dark hair... pinched with a jewel at the end.

I’d recognise those fastenings anywhere.

“Gold pieces, I want gold!”

Someone downstairs snickers.

Gudmund swings Quin’s braid. “Spit on it, throw it in spirit flame, and the gods will bless you.”

Patrons turn back to their meals, none interested in parting with their money. I return to my table, to three sets of questioning eyes. “How much do we have between us?”

“You’re not thinking of buying those?” Megaera says in disbelief.

“How much?”

She shrugs. “You could ask Prins Lief to double his monthly stipend for you. ”

I need those braids now. I look at Lykos, who has his arms folded over his puffed chest. “You’re out of your mind. He’s pure linea.”

Zenon scowls along with him.

I’m alone.

I take what I have and descend from the upper level to the packed floor below. Gudmund is leaning against a pillar, the pouch swinging from his crooked finger while he hiccups.

“I’m interested,” I say, and he turns wonkily and holds out his hand for the gold.

I take his wrist instead, lead him around the storyteller’s table and make him sit. “You’re a strong young man. Do you have family?”

“Look at my face. You think I have family? Where’s the gold?”

“I’ll cure your skin disease if you give me the braids in return.”

He pokes my veil and laughs. “No Iskaldir healer can. The only way is to go to Lumin. Pay a vitalian.”

With my knowledge of plants, vitalian spells, and now alchemy, I can cure this in a mere few heartbeats. In fact—I do a quick inventory of what I have in my bag—I can clear his face without leaving the restaurant.

“I can heal you.”

He laughs. Patrons are starting to show interest; at the balustrade above, Megaera, Lykos, and Zenon have come to watch.

Gudmund points to his peeling skin. “Prove it. ”

I lower the curtains around the storyteller’s stage for privacy, take out the necessary potions and creams and spend the next forty minutes meticulously treating him. When I’m done, I raise the curtains and let the curious onlookers decide for themselves if I’ve fulfilled my promise.

Megaera, Lykos, and Zenon push up sharply from where they were leaning against the railing. “Sure he has no magic?” Zenon asks, tugging Lykos’s sleeve.

Patrons below gasp and admire; murmurs of speculation...

My stomach tightens and I wave a hurried hand. “Just a little healing trick. Nothing special.” I twist to Gudmund and hold out my hand.

Gudmund huffs. “I asked for proof. I didn’t agree to giving you these braids.”

My companions are a collective hiss from the balustrade, and I can hear Megaera say, “How dare he?”

Her red cloak becomes hurried, swishing movement in the side of my eye.

Lykos stops her. “What are you going to do?”

I glance over as she smiles, bats her lashes, and flicks her hair.

She’s ambivalent about our king, and yet she’s gliding down the staircase to possibly have this man put his paws on her. For... me?

Swallowing, I glance at Lykos. Stop her, please.

I don’t have to tell him, but he’s almost at the storyteller’s stage when he finally catches her by the arm. He pulls her around and she twirls with it, possibly about to say a sharp word or two, when she sees it’s Lykos.

She pauses, and he uses the pause, declaring before curious onlookers. “Wife. Our table is upstairs.”

Megaera stares at him, her cheeks slowly reddening.

Lykos smirks, his eye glinting. He leans in and murmurs, “I’ll lead the way.”

He hooks her arm in his; Megaera finally sucks in a sharp breath and mutters low into Lykos’s ear. “Wife?”

“You poison me every other day, you may as well be.”

They move away, and I look over at Gudmund who’s admiring himself in a brass plate. I hold out my hand again. “The braids.”

Gudmund tightens the strings of his pouch and puts a few coins on the table instead. “You said it wasn’t difficult. This is a fair.” He burps and calls for the waiter to bring him a bottle of wine for the road.

I grit my teeth and head outside for fresh air. Somehow, I need to get those braids. I’ll make a poison. He’ll think his skin disease has returned. He’ll come to me to cure him again. And this time I’ll only give him the antidote when—

“There you are,” Zenon says, spilling out of the restaurant.

Megaera and Lykos, lagging behind, frown back towards the restaurant.

Megaera, still slightly flushed, grabs Zenon’s sleeve and starts hauling him in the direction of our abode.

“Coming?” I ask Lykos, but he waves me off .

He probably needs a moment of air after his little show with Megaera. Or he’s giving her space.

Indeed, she quickly retreats to her room.

Zenon yawns and says he thought what I did was amazing. “I’d like to learn to do that.”

“Finish your reading and writing lessons with Megaera, and I’ll teach you,” I say. Anyone who wants to learn, I’ll always be willing to teach.

He goes off to bed with purpose, and so do I. I lie staring up at the shadowy ceiling. Those braids are an intimate part of him. They are not to be spat on, cast away, burned... undone .

I clench my blankets in my fist.

I wake, bolting upright in my bed to the distant clang of bells echoing through the city. Make the poison, find Gudmund, reclaim the king’s braids.

My blanket becomes a shrivelled puddle on the floor in my haste.

I suck in a hiss at the cold tiles and yank on my shirt, leggings, socks, boots, robe.

My fingers fumble at the metal clasp and I fleetingly wish it was a different one.

The one that I keep in a box beside my bed; that I can’t wear or I might be recognised by the Skeldars I sailed with.

The one I absolutely can’t wear in front of Quin .

I glance over towards the dark box and spy a pouch plonked atop it.

I snag it and yank open the ties and...

I press the open bag to my nose and breathe in deeply. They’re here.

Scurrying out into the kitchen, I find Lykos stoking the hearth. He looks over his shoulder, at the pouch I’m gripping, and returns to prodding the flames.

“You got this?” I ask quietly.

A nonchalant shrug. “Sometimes a good ol’ snatch-and-grab comes in handy. I followed him home. I was careful.”

“You did this for—”

“He cheated you.” He stuffs another piece of wood into the fire. “I don’t like cheaters.”

Silence descends between us and in it, I hear things he doesn’t admit. I murmur, “Thank you for”—he tenses—“not liking cheaters.”

His shoulders drop with relief.

It takes me an hour to inspect each of Quin’s braids.

The scent of them is faint but unmistakably Quin—earthy with a hint of pine, like the winds he magics around him.

My fingers brush the bejewelled fastenings, each one a marker of a year survived.

And against his uncle, each one must have been a battle.

I redo all loosened braids carefully and open the fastenings to lock in both ends.

I don’t like them being in the pouch, or anywhere I can’t protect them, so I loop them and slide them onto my wrists, up to the middle of my forearm.

They’re beautiful; like strange vambraces.

My sleeves hide them, and like this, I spend the day with my aunt carefully learning and experimenting.

“You still haven’t changed your voice back,” she says over our alchemy table. “What do your companions think?”

“I told them it was an experiment. Lykos and Zenon believe it. Megaera’s too smart, but she doesn’t say anything.”

“Are you sure you don’t want him to know it’s you?”

“He can’t know.”

She nods, and finally shoos me off for the day.

At the temple, stormblades part for me on sight. Flutette sounds drift from the cottage—softer than before—and I stall in the blotchy light of evening-baked trees.

I stare down at my arms. The braids are light and ticklish around my wrists.

I only took these to protect a king’s dignity...

I square my shoulders and march, totally unaffected, into the cottage. He’s waiting for me, stripped to his leggings again. Stiffly, I check his pulse, pull out salves and potions and apply them. His hair is another inch longer. He flicks it from his eyes.

I hand him another pill. “Soon it’ll be long enough to braid.”

He snaps his gaze my way, tension stiffening his shoulders.

I fumble corking the glass .

He squints, his hand rising towards my veil, as if he wants to peel away this mask. My chest jumps and I step out of his reach. “Y-your body is healing quickly. Ten days, and you should be like new. Faster if I can find any pearl heart.”

“Pearl heart?”

I talk steadily through a racing heart. “A plant that increases strength and stamina.”

“I know very well what it is.” He laughs heavily.

I whirl away from the memory of us then, and from him now. “I... lost track of time. Have to meet the prince.” I rush out, immediately wishing I’d held it together.

I chastise myself all the way to the main gates, where at least my lie is made true.

Prins Lief is climbing into his carriage, and he curls a finger for me to join him.

I slip inside and jerkily remove my curacowl.

His carriage is rich, dark woods carved with runes of protection and good health, soft velvety cushions, and warmly glowing light from a bronze lantern. Comfortable. And yet I’m still on edge.

Prins Lief tips his head back against the wall and lets out a tired breath. “How’s his health?”

“Improving. He’d like you to meet with him.”

“I can’t be seen to give him that privilege.”

Too many pressures. As I’d feared. “If you do meet him, my name is Haldr.”

Prins Lief lifts his head and blinks at me. “Haldr? As in Halda from Lindrhalda?”

I wince .

He laughs. “At least you’ve accepted your fate.” He cocks his head at me. “You seem to make a game of disguising yourself.”

“Only out of necessity.”

He accepts this with a nod. “We understand this need too, of course.” He smiles and continues, “You’ve seen our wedding celebrations. The guests come masked.”

“How is this a need?”

“The allure. Our faces attract others easily, too easily. We need to make sure when we fall for someone, we fall for what’s behind their appearance. The beauty inside. We know we’ve met our soulmate once we recognise them despite their masks.”

I stare at him, his words tumbling into my chest. The masks we wear—whether made of silk or silence—are meant to protect us, yet they so often became a part of us. When Quin looks at me, will he ever see the person behind the veil? Do I even want him to?

Prins Lief looks out the window at the dazzling glacier. “How’s Asta?”

He always says my aunt’s name so softly.

“Never afraid to whack me with a wooden spoon.”

His lips twitch.

“How long have you known her?”

He takes a long time to answer. “I was seventeen when we met. I wanted to deepen my understanding of health and healing, and she was my tutor. That makes six years.”

I lean in. “Did she ever hit you with a—”

He glares at me and I shrink back .

He sighs. “I couldn’t believe it the first time. I almost had her head for it. I was too arrogant back then. She made me see myself for what I was becoming and asked who I truly wanted to be.”

“How long was she your tutor?”

“Three years. I spent three years learning from her, and three years chasing her to come back.”

“To be your personal physician.”

A huffed laugh. “Yes. To be mine.”

“She’s too independent to be caged in a castle.”

The lines of Prins Lief’s lips freeze; his whole body has stiffened, and when he unclenches, he speaks tightly. “Father’s coming early. I hope you’re prepared. I need you to stay alive—” a pause “—at least long enough to transpose all your medical knowledge into alchemy scriptions.”

“If we tell your father the truth? Maybe he’ll—”

“He hates Lumin. He’d despise the idea we value their knowledge, that we’re integrating it with our own.

One whiff of it, and he’ll not only disembowel you, he’ll ban and burn all your scriptions.

” He returns to tipping his head back against the wall and closing his eyes.

“We’ll carry on pretending you’re the one with Lindrhalda’s touch, and when we introduce the scriptions, we’ll claim they were whispered into your ear by the goddess herself. ”