Page 9

I hurry into the part of the day I hate the most. It starts with a walk through dawn-blooming albesperras that leads me to the castle, along rune-etched walls of gold, to his majesty King Yngvarr’s chambers.

He greets me from the desk he huddles behind, drowning in fur. In summer.

Braziers flicker either side of his desk. The heat is stifling, but I bear it as I deliver his morning tonics. After half an hour, the layers come off, and the windows open to a refreshing breeze.

King Yngvarr closes his eyes against the stream of sunshine and I squirm.

It’s hard for me to settle on how I feel about this king.

His ever-youthful appearance lends him a mask of innocence that is far from the truth.

He’s commanded his stormblades to burn whole ships with all crew on board.

He’s silenced a Lumin in his court with a single swing of his sword.

He’s threatened to put Quin’s head on a pike.

He’s promised to disembowel me if I’m ever caught lying .

But he’s also kind to his servers; generous to his stormblades; loving towards his son.

“Come, Haldr,” King Yngvarr says. “Eat this cake.”

“Too much sweet—”

“Is bad for me. I know. So eat it and answer my questions.”

King Yngvarr is also sick.

Dying.

I haven’t told him.

I bite into the cake, struggling to swallow over the bitter truth trapped in my throat.

I hate this part of the day the most. As a healer, I want my patient to know his condition; want him to know he has less than a year left; want him to live his life accordingly.

But he thinks I have Lindrhalda’s touch. If he learns the truth...

Perhaps with this lie, I even deserve to die.

But.

I promised to hold out. I promised to look after Casimiria.

King Yngvarr might behold Casimiria with his heart in his eyes, might promise her everything in his world other than her freedom, might promise her that now , but as he gets sicker...

“This cake looks better,” he judges. “Does it taste it?”

I shake my head. “Yesterday’s was sweeter.”

“Then that shall be for the wedding celebration.”

So very loving to his son. Even when Prins Lief asked the king’s blessing to take my aunt as his wife, King Yngvarr only asked one question: do you love her ?

“Prepared your mask for tomorrow?” King Yngvarr asks.

“Casimiria made one for me, the day after she invited me,” I say.

King Yngvarr smiles. A secret smile. Perhaps he’s thinking about his own stolen moments, when he taught her how to carve— He coughs suddenly, and I take his pulse. “I’ll prepare some more tonics for you.”

“Once you’re done, take this badge and collect the wedding runes. I want them all blessed with Lindrhalda’s touch. Health and good fortune for all our guests.”

I smile over a wince. “Of course, your majesty.”

Each step through the castle grounds lessens the weight of my lies. Wind teases through my sweat-dampened hair and I tip a relieved sigh towards the sky. It’s been over a month since I’ve had permission to leave the castle confines, and I intend to savour it.

Stormblades line the streets, more than usual, but I’m unbothered; I have royal permission to be out in the town, and I swing the king’s badge as I pass.

At the dueller’s bridge, two grown men are fighting over a sack of potatoes.

A ludicrous display, yet no crowds have gathered .

And no crowds can stop me from ending it.

I knock them out with a spray of sleeping powder and divide the potatoes while they’re unconscious.

I tie a sack to each of their arms, and drag one out of sight. “It’s not worth your life.”

As soon as he rouses, the man rushes away into the blinding sunlight with his potatoes.

I shield my eyes, glimpsing Quin’s face as I blink out the blots. On a sigh, I head further into town.

But my imaginary Quin isn’t done with me yet. When his face appears behind a cloak stall, I drag a sturdy grey cloak over the rack to curtain him.

Across the street, I enter the store selling wedding runes. A little bell rings and the older man behind the counter looks relieved. “You’re here for the royal runes!”

I nod and he lifts a large black bag onto the countertop. “All made from the finest green stone, carefully carved and wrapped in silks. Nothing else like these in the entire kingdom.”

I carefully tighten the drawstring and slide the bag onto my shoulder. The storekeeper ushers me out and closes up shop after me.

I’m in no hurry. I breathe in a summery breeze and detect a sweet scent.

I eagerly follow my nose to a stall in the middle of the street and purchase two sticks of taffy.

The first, I devour on the spot with a delighted smile; the second I take with me, savouring it as I stroll aimlessly among the busy crowds.

Warm wind blows around me and I turn my face into it not to get taffy stuck in my hair. I take another bite. The sticky sweetness exploding in my mouth brings me memories of collecting syrup from the royal woods, of stepping on Quin’s shoulder, of trying to slide into his saddle.

I glance up from my last bite and spot Quin and his cane in the crowd close by. I stare longingly for a few moments, losing myself in those dark eyes, those beautiful braids, that jaw—I laugh, shake my head, and move on.

But today my visions of Quin are more insistent. He steps out of the crowd and snaps his cane alongside me, watching me quietly. I look at him again, admiring his conjured face, the way the sunlight bathes his striking features.

“Enough now,” I murmur and speed up. I should loop around this block and visit Auntie.

Quin’s ghost follows along with an easy stride, and this time I slap my face. “She’s right. Too much dromvesking.” I peel my fingers from my face. “Sticky.”

When Quin still doesn’t disappear, when he starts to smile , I lurch to a stop and fling my taffy-covered hand before his face. “If you must haunt me, lick!”

I expect him to disappear—to see some other poor soul startled at my sudden declaration. Expect to feel a rush of embarrassment as I apologise.

What I don’t expect is for Quin’s apparition to grab my hand and lock his lips around my knuckle. Soft, warm. Too real. Heat rushes up my hand, my arm, and I stumble with a gasp. Quin secures his grip on me, pulling me forward, and I catch myself against his chest, staring up into dark eyes .

Crowds rush around us, the sun beams overhead, a light breeze blows through his hair and mine.

I stare and I stare.

He pulls my hand towards his mouth, his whisper tickling my skin. “Your fingers are still sticky, shall I...”

I yelp and snatch myself away, heartbeat in my throat. “Are you really here?”

He shifts, nose grazing my ear as he pulls my hand once more to his chest, under his shirt and flutette. “Would you like to make sure?”

“Quin!”

He laughs and I rock unsteadily on the balls of my feet before grabbing his sleeve. “Was it you earlier as well? Why didn’t you say something?”

“I was curious how long you’d keep ignoring me.”

“I thought you were in my head.”

“Is that where I’ve been these months?”

I lift a finger and wag it before his nose. “Before you start smirking like that, I’d like to inform you that you’re actually in a lot of trouble.”

“Oh?” Quin’s eyes twinkle , and it’s very hard to breathe. This is not the hardened King Quin from the later rune doors, nor the more reserved Maskios. This Quin before me is... someone who has temporarily put his stresses aside. Someone who has come for a last stolen moment .

A sudden shove to my shoulder has me stumbling sideways, and I feel the yank of the bag on my shoulder as it’s ripped off me. Quin catches me before I hit the street, but it’s not bruises I’m worried about. “The runes! ”

I yank my head in the direction of a man running off with my sack of irreplaceable green wedding stones. “Stop him,” I cry to the crowds, but all are lost in their own thoughts, their own frowns. Even the stormblades don’t try.

Quin sets me properly on my feet and I race after the culprit, only to stop abruptly, come back, and tow Quin along with me.

I squeeze his hand hard, afraid if I let go he’ll disappear and that will be the end of our last stolen moment.

He navigates the chase as best he can with his cane, but our culprit gets farther and farther away.

“Can you stop him with magic?”

“Best not to give myself away.”

“I’ve seen how skilled you are at furtive spellcasting. Pretend he’s chasing me.”

Quin laughs. “Free my hand first?”

I look down at our joined hands and up at him, shaking my head. “Use the other one.”

He shifts the hand in mine and, after my stomach drops in disappointment, he laces our fingers together. My chest hitches at the soft slide of our skin and the pressure of his tightening hold, and I watch as Quin drums the fingers around his cane handle and sends out a sneaky spell.

An overhanging branch snaps, knocks our culprit to the ground, and pins him there. My legs no longer know how to move; Quin is the one who steers us over to the trapped man.

When I shift the leaves and see his face, I startle. It’s the man whose face I healed before a restaurant of patrons. The man who conned me, who’d hacked off the captive king’s... “You!”

He doesn’t recognise me. Of course he wouldn’t. I’d been wearing a curacowl. He frowns at me as he struggles to wriggle out from under the branch.

Quin rests a foot on the wood and our culprit swears at him. “Who are you?”

I glance at Quin and to the heaving mass half buried under green leaves. He doesn’t recall the king, either?

“Never mind that,” I say, rummaging under the scratchy bark to yank the sack of wedding runes free. “That’s all we’re after. Later, when you’re free, you should go home and think about your life choices.”

“Later?” he snarls.

Quin follows my gesture and suspends our culprit by the wrists from a nearby streetlamp.

“The spell will hold for twenty minutes.”

I nod and reach up, and pull his leggings to his knees, exposing the long shirt tucked about his privates. “And that,” I say, slinging the stones onto my shoulder and turning away, “is for his braids.”