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)
The whisper has me catching my breath, “Quin . . .”
His eyes twinkle.
The carriage comes to a violent halt and I slide off Quin’s lap onto the floor. Arrows spear through the carriage, narrowly missing us, and Quin charges out to his aklo, dead by a dozen arrows. Everything moves too fast, while I’m still clawing my way out of the carriage.
We’re surrounded.
Quin tries to use magic—but nothing comes.
His leg buckles.
One of the assassins throws back his hood, and it’s King Yngvarr. He swivels my fallen Quin around by his hair, his face trained on me while Quin’s beautiful one is begging me to run, to free myself.
“Let him go,” I scream but it comes out a gurgle. I can’t move. Fear lances up my middle. I need to save him.
I can’t.
King Yngvarr unsheathes a sword and it glints in the sun. “I told you. You have to win.” And he moves his blade towards Quin’s throat—
“No!”
I wake, bolt upright, sweating.
Blankets pool around my waist. The murals on the walls are dark and strange in the cold silvery dawn seeping into the room.
It’s a dream. It’s only a dream. Just a dream. Nothing about it was real . . .
Yet no amount of telling myself this lessens my shivers. I swing out of bed into the chill of the room, and I rummage hurriedly through my things. There.
I pick up my clasp with trembling fingers, crush it into my palm and squeeze it hard. I squeeze until I feel blood. I squeeze until I feel the pounding beat of my fearful heart.
The first trial is today.
The morning is overcast, the air tense with anticipation. Crowds of spectators line the cobbled streets, cheering the teams as they head to the main square, stopping only when it’s our turn to pass. “No pressure or anything,” Olyn murmurs, “but I put my entire month’s wages on us.”
Megaera murmurs, “I did the same on the prins’ behalf.”
The prins taps a fist to his mouth and clears his throat, glancing pointedly at Megaera.
“How . . . frivolous,” I murmur, with a small, thankful quirk of my lips.
When we round a corner, we come to a sharp halt, narrowly avoid colliding with Team Orange Cloaks. We shift into single file and stiffly share the road, their leader directly across from me.
“Still time,” he mutters. “Back out.”
“Of our bet? I’d rather not.”
“Of the contest!”
He huffs and quickens his team’s stride, overtaking us to enter the square. Crowds cheer upon their arrival, and heckle at ours, and then become a deafening roar as the favourites make their way. The royal team—all solemn faces and exquisite silver glowing with infused magic. They glide into the square like ethereal beings. A mesmerising sight indeed.
In total, twelve teams, of mostly four or five members, line up in the square and face the luminarium, bathed in its light.
Darker clouds stretch over the sky in contrast, and the seat at the top of the entrance stairs seems to glow. I can’t stave off a shiver. Megaera and Olyn inch closer either side. With a rumbling groan, the ornate doors open and out of the luminarium marches a guard of redcloaks followed by the regent. All in the square bow, and he keeps us prostrated until he is seated, a lavishly dressed figure illuminated on a gilded throne. “Rise.”
He waves to the contest orchestrators—including Skriniaris Evander—arrayed at the bottom of the stairs, and one comes forward to commence the first trial.
A dozen stations have been set up in the square, each with five sick people standing on pedestals. We have five minutes to diagnose, and one to gather what we need to treat our patients from a shared stall of apothecary resources.
We hit our first hurdle here: stoves, teapots, cups, but no alchemy pots. No vials. We take the teapots to brew our potions and enough cups to store them.
When we arrive back at our station with our arms full of amenities and life-saving plants, we wait for the bell to ring before we start. The first six teams to raise their flag will move on to the second trial.
“At least there were needles,” Olyn murmurs, dabbing a line of sweat at her brow.
“This trial is to assess if we have mastered curing through the acupoints,” I murmur to her. “All these patients need accurate needling to heal.” That’s why there were needles in the stalls. Even vitalians will use them, although their needles will be wrapped in healing spells and won’t require the use of force and fingers.
“Acupoints,” Olyn murmurs with a determined gleam in her eye.
I glance between her and Megaera. “I’ll provide the scriptions. You’ll work on those. And after the needles have been dipped in them, I’ll tell Olyn the order of the acupoints, and she’ll deliver the cure.”
Megaera inclines her head and glances at our five patients. “Are you confident you understood their ailments?”