Page 18

I wake, as expected, to magic. Magic, and Florentius working it. His face hovers over mine and his eyes are piercing. His expression is one part barely stifled shock, and two parts unresolved pain. His jaw is tight. He makes a small motion with his head to tell me not to speak.

Out the corner of my eye is the outline of another figure. A healer perhaps. I flutter my eyes shut again, and Florentius clears his throat, speaking to the figure. “I’ve restored both to health, but I must oversee things as the spell is absorbed, in case of complications.”

The figure hums and I feel a wake of air as they move away. I ping my eyes open, and Florentius holds a “wait” finger against my chest, his gaze following the figure out of the tent. He removes his finger and whispers, “Are you insane? What are you doing? Who did you bring along?”

“That’s . . . under the jarl mask is . . .” I whisper. “Your king.”

Florentius stiffens and bows his head in respect. I’m relieved to see Quin is stirring on the mat beside me, a palm pressed to his forehead.

“The Wyrd will slaughter us all otherwise,” I rush out quietly. The tent is full of mats with injured soldiers and walled with snake baskets—poisons, one of the primary methods of Wyrd healing. “We’re here to end the war, and do it quickly.”

Florentius’s gaze sweeps towards the canvas doors and once again his finger presses on my chest. He clears his throat. “You’ll experience some tingling in your hands and feet over the next hours...” His gaze finally comes back to mine and his voice is a hush. “What are you talking about?”

I try to sit up but Florentius shakes his head. I feel for my pouch and pull out the sachet of herbs. He understands the moment he opens the drawstring and peers inside. He tightens it shut swiftly, his gaze hitting mine.

“Use them on the dying,” I murmur.

“To make it look like . . .”

“Yes.”

“They’ll come with torches!” Florentius’s whisper is sharp and he coughs to cover his sound.

“Wyrds have a deep spiritual connection to water,” I whisper under his cough. “If they see their dying soldiers bathing in the river and then hear of others falling sick, they’ll think the poxies are spreading through the water.”

“If they don’t believe it—”

“They will,” Quin cuts in, his voice quiet yet still sharp. He sits up on the neighbouring mat and Florentius rounds to his side. “A letter with the Skeldar commanding seal is coming.”

Florentius swings his gaze between us, a dark shadow clouding his face.

“They’ll come to me to provide a cure. Real poxies is impossible to cure.

Akilah is being held in the commander’s tent, what if they take it out on her?

What if they torture her?” Florentius looks hard at me.

“What if your plan kills my loved one? Again .”

The hurt in his voice plunges into me and I fist the blanket draped over me.

“Enough,” Quin says tightly. “This is my plan. Will you obey?”

“I’m sorry,” I gasp. “Lucius was a good man—”

“Don’t say his name.”

Quin keeps his whisper steady. “Akilah is his beloved sister too. We’ll save her.”

Florentius closes his eyes and swallows hard. When he opens, he looks to our king and subtly inclines his head in acceptance as he pretends to straighten his blankets.

He keeps facing Quin. “In a moment, I’ll get you a cane and release you. Come around the back of the healing tents to the laundry.”

Soon, Quin and I are exiting the tent carrying bloodied cloth and clothing.

The sun hits our heads at an angle that suggests we were unconscious for many hours.

It must be near midday. I whip a glance to Quin also absorbing the direction of the sun and his lips flatten.

He canes swiftly along, surveying the camp.

To our left is a long wooden palisade jutting up into makeshift watchtowers at regular intervals; behind us is the familiar stomp of hooves and the whinny of horses—no doubt the stables are nearby; ahead a cluster of guards surrounds dozens of large barrels and crates, rope and baskets of arrows.

A squad of Wyrds march past us and we duck our heads and turn down the side of the healing tents towards the laundry. There, many workers, mostly veiled women, are scrubbing clothes over a narrow stream while the occasional soldier tries to steal their attention.

Florentius hurries up to us with another bundle of cloth. After dumping half in the baskets, he walks behind blankets strung up to dry.

Quin snaps after him and I hurry alongside.

Florentius throws the rest of his bundle into my arms. “You’re lucky they brought you in lying down. You’re too short to be a Wyrd.”

I unravel the dress he brought me.

“I’ll spell over whatever this voice is you’re using.”

I sigh. “From Haldr’s voice, to a woman’s. I wonder when I’ll ever hear my own.”

I strip and slide into the fresh cotton, and Florentius does the rest while Quin leans on his cane, taking a moment to delight in the transaction. I send him a scathing look, and his smirk deepens.

“Beautiful,” he says after Florentius is gone.

“Quin . . .” I warn.

“A mere observation.”

“You don’t have to keep observing. ”

I grip the glass bottle Florentius pressed into my hand until Quin’s dancing eyes finally look away.

A serving girl is sent thrice daily to serve the commander his tonic. I’m to be that serving girl.

We make our way slowly through the camp, taking our time to memorise the layout.

It smells sweatier the deeper in we go, until we pass a training area.

After this, the metallic scent of sweat is replaced by the rich aromas of cooking; long lines of Wyrds with their wooden bowls, some banging out beats and singing while they wait.

Behind the mess area are simple tents, lean-tos, and firepits set with fresh wood waiting for nightfall; finally, behind them, is the tent we’re after. It’s bigger than most of the others, and marked with blue banners and more guards.

Quin counts from behind a neighbouring tent. “A dozen outside.”

I glance at them and back at Quin. “You’d better stay out of view. I’ll take it from here.”

He catches my arm before I go; all traces of his earlier humour have vanished from his eyes. “You must be careful.”

I nod.

He holds on tighter. “That means biting your tongue. No matter how unfair you find something.”

“When have I ever—”

He tsks.

“Fine.”

I move to the commander’s tent, keeping my head bowed in subservience.

Upon seeing the tonic in my hands, the guards let me pass.

Inside, it’s dim and the air tastes of leather and ink.

The canvas tent is worn and patched in places and the heavy folds block out most of the daylight.

Only the stretch coming in from the doors allows for some glow.

Behind a large table covered in maps and parchment, a tall Wyrd with a sharp nose is bent over his quill as he scribbles in haste.

He stiffens at my approach, but barely flashes his gaze my way.

The dress is enough to tell him who I am and what I’m here for.

He taps the table next to a half-eaten meal of cured meat, cheese, and bread. “Here.”

As I set the tonic down, I scan the space. Next to the table is a low cot and a wool blanket, on a shelf are piles of books—treatises? Records? Tactical guides? In the other corner is a stand of armour—helmet, breastplate, gauntlets—ready to be donned for the next surge against the Skeldar defence.

Movement from behind the stand has the commander looking over. He taps the table where his leftover food sits. “Offer this to the girl.”

I incline my head and pick up the tray. My step almost falters when I glimpse Akilah.

She’s sitting against a post, in a blue cotton dress with her hair braided over one shoulder, and she’s bound with rope at her wrists and her ankles.

Although I will her to, she doesn’t look up when I set the tray beside her.

Instead, she lashes out with her bound hands and the bread, cheese and meats scatter over the ground .

“Feisty, aren’t you?” the commander says with a hint of admiration. He lays down his quill and crosses the room; I pick up the strewn lunch, watching from the corner of my eye. Akilah looks tense and angry, but I don’t see bruising or blood.

The commander leans against the post, crossing his ankles. “Come, you need to eat.”

Akilah turns her head to the tent wall.

“You’re upset at the situation. I understand that. But I’ve done my best in the circumstances.”

She huffs.

“I didn’t let my generals get their hands on you, nor the high-ranking officers. I even faked whipping you.”

Akilah sags at this and her gaze falls to the ground and her bound feet.

The commander lets out a weary sigh. “You’ve got to understand. Magic is irreplaceable. He is worth ten, maybe twenty, of any other healer.”

I pinch meat and flick it down onto the tray. The movement catches Akilah’s attention, and she looks over at me. Her eyes momentarily widen and she quickly snatches her gaze away, schooling her shock.

After a moment, she clears her throat. She’s speaking to the commander, but also to me. “We don’t want to be here.”

“Once we have control of Ragn, I’ll set you free.”

“You think you’re kind.”

“You could be thrown in with the other prisoners. I’m making sure you’re looked after. ”

“By making me sleep in your tent? Making others think that we—”

“Out there, other soldiers do more than think .”

I pick up the runaway bread roll and reach out, offering it to her, keeping my head bowed.

“Eat!” the commander says.

Keep your strength , I say with the push of my hand towards her. I’ll get you out soon.

She takes the bread, her fingers finding momentary connection with mine.

I don’t linger long, quickly pulling myself to my feet and heading for the door.

“Wait,” the commander calls, and I freeze.

He moves behind me and my pulse ticks up. But then he settles once more at his table. “My war hound was agitated this morning. Feed him more.”