Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Stiffly, I lay myself down, facing him, palm hooked on my chin, sweaty as it clamps my veil. Between us Quin picks up a piece of chalk and rubs it into the runes. Sweet, fragrant scents hit my nose and bring back the memory of the dromveske on the ship. Same sort of concoction—dried flowers—but these have been reduced to their essences and infused.
I pluck the chalk from him and inspect it. A time-consuming and costly task, though it would lengthen the effectiveness of the plants. Only the wealthy could afford this—
Quin is watching me. I quickly return the chalk.
“Finish rubbing it over the grooves of the runes.”
I take the remaining runes one by one and chalk them. “Now what?”
“We sleep.”
“I’ll take the floor.”
He catches my arm before I can roll away. “We need to be close.” When I resist, he skates his hand off me and gestures. “To the runes.”
I drop my head to the pillow. Quin moves beside me.
“This is an Iskaldir tradition,” I murmur. “How come you know what to do?”
“It’s infamous throughout all the kingdoms.”
“Really?”
“There was a time people in other kingdoms tried to mimic the tradition. Too many got trapped in turbulent, inescapable emotions, and could never find their way out.”
“What does that mean?”
“If the spirit that goes wandering gets lost, the person falls into a coma. Vitalians can’t cure this. My grandfather organised the luminists to strongly discourage the practice.”
“Here dromveskes are used trivially.”
“Skeldars are very careful about falling in love.”
“It’s falling in love. It’s uncontrolled, exhilarating, frightening. Either there’s someone to catch you, or you’re smashed to pieces.” I slam my eyes shut. “Sleep. We’ve work to do.”
Quin is one heavy breath and silence.
Sleep eventually follows, and with it the rush of falling through darkness—as if my last words are about to come true—and then:
Arms around my waist.
A controlled descent.
Darkness takes form around me. A sea of leaves. Green and shadow.
We’re dropping gently into a forest. Around us, ancient gnarled trees and . . . a hidden glade.
Our feet touch damp earth. Quin remains behind me, arms still locked around my waist, a dazzled breath skimming the top of my head.
Soft, murky light shrouds the glade and brighter sunshine falls on six massive stone arches in the centre. Each arch frames a door carved with runes. And like a path around them are vines of blooming soulflower.
I breathe in the rich scent of them and the earth and spin out of Quin’s hold, towards the babbling of a nearby brook, and beside it, a logwood cabin. “It feels so real.”
“The dromveske doesn’t just show memories—it makes you feel them. If King Yngvarr’s emotions are as volatile as his actions, you’d better be ready.”
I take in the mossy trees and the sharp tang of tannin. “This place feels familiar to me.” I swing my head to Quin.
Quin inclines his head. “Close to my aunt’s estate.”
“This is in Lumin?”
“Before he was king, he was a hostage prince. Like my aunt Frederica was in Iskaldir. When she returned, she was granted her estate for her service to Lumin.”
“And King Yngvarr? How long was he in the royal city?”
“They exchanged at ten, for eight years.”
“Eight of his formative years . . . he must have been close to your father.”
“Close but not fond.”
I gesture to the rune doors. “Will we see your family in here too?”
“Undoubtably, and not all in good light.”
“They’re King Yngvarr’s memories after all.” I blink at Quin, really taking him in. He’s in everyday clothing—a dark blue robe—simply but smartly attired, but his hair is twice the length we’d gone to sleep with and silvery-white. He looks rather like he’s come straight from our undercover money-making mission in Kastoria. I suck in a sharp breath and slap my face. My bare face.
I pivot on my heel. Quin turns me around again. “It’s your soul that enters the memories, not your body or the clothes you wore sleeping.”
He’s not even pretending to be surprised. I frown towards the grass.
“The first mention of braids, pearl heart, the way you ran off,” he murmurs, reading my mind.
I shut my eyes. He’s known for a while. Yet he hasn’t turned me away. A comfort, except . . . we’ll have to separate soon enough. Sooner, now.
I force myself to remain steady as I look at him. That silver-white hair . . . the absence of a cane . . . “Why’d your soul come dressed like that?”
“Without a cane? Why would my soul need one? I’m dressed how I most wish to be.”
“I’d have wished my face was hidden!”
“I got the impression you were loathing Haldr.”
“But at least then you could pretend it wasn’t me, and I could pretend you didn’t know it!”
I stare down at myself, frustrated, and take in my attire. Immediately, I flush. Everything I’m wearing, Quin has given me. The pants and shirt are those he lent me after the ice-bath in his dance house; the cloak is his own, that he’d thrown around me after I lost my clasp at drakopagon; the gloves, he gifted to me at the lovelight festival.