Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
How can I tell her I can’t help myself? How can I tell her I’ve been inside the memories so often now that I’m seeing Quin everywhere, in everything. Like a ghost, he appears around me. In the water of the pond; in a passing aklo; in anyone with a cane. My mind conjures his face so clearly, I’ve even reached for him, only for the illusion to shatter. Even looking at Casimiria now, I see him.
I squeeze my arms around my wet blanket and force a grin. “You’re right. And it’s all your son’s fault.”
She laughs but I can see she does it to spare me from the full weight of her words. “Looks like he’ll be in some trouble when he returns.”
“So much you’ll have to hold me back.”
“I’ve grown quite attached to you these last months,” she says, moving for me to finally pass. “So if it’s a small beating, I’ll even help you.”
My laugh borders on a hiccup. “Not for this one. This confrontation I’ll have to do myself.”
Ihurry 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.