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)
Behind the piles of wood in my shed are jars of goddess tears—peach wine—gifts from King Yngvarr when he’s been in a good mood. When he’s falsely believed his health is improving. I’ve not been able to stomach tasting it, but now guilt is overpowered by an anxious tightness in my chest and . . .
I drink.
The liquid burns down my throat and waters my eyes as I stare up at the half moon. The half moon that shimmers over all of Ragn, that witnesses all the frightened families packing their things and leaving while they still can . . .
I slosh back more wine.
Akilah and Florentius. If they ended up in Harmoria, are they safe? What does it mean, exactly, that the town had been ‘taken’?
I drop my jar onto the table. Another question for Quin. Surely I can ask this before I leave. Then, once Nicostratus sets me free, I’ll know where to head.
Quin will know where I’ve headed too.
“Ahhh.” I bang my forehead against the lip of the table. “Stop it. Stop.”
But I don’t. Instead, I’m dragging myself to my freshly dried bed. I’m rubbing chalk over his runes. I’m falling into the dromveske.
On a hiccup, I stumble around oak roots and turn my face up to the sky of violet leaves. Once more I’m dressed in everything Quin gave me, and once more I breathe in the faint echo of his scent from the cloak.
On a hollow laugh, I fall onto a rune door. It swings in and I tumble into the meditation grove behind Ragn’s temple. The first part of this memory is still shiveringly fresh. The second part, I’ve only seen through Quin’s experience. It’s the night thugs came after Chaos and he ran back to Quin—his reason: to hide behind the hundred stormblades there. Quin had been suspicious of that excuse, and he’d been right to be.
Chaos told himself he only wore the king’s braids so no one else would get them. For his dignity. But Chaos had been living on ticklish shivers all day. He was drawn back to Quin. He couldn’t help it. He knew he shouldn’t expose the truth. But he wanted to.
Chaos tries to inhibit the feeling with alcohol, but he only gets drunk.
I watch the moment, shaking my head. The seams of your mask are unravelling, Chaos. Like they still are. Look at you, just as drunk, finding it just as impossible to stay away.
I sag against the door with a hectic laugh as Chaos pours a potion against insomnia down his throat. Only, it’s not a potion to help knock him out; he’s taken something to ease his worries.
Suddenly, like me, he’s laughing. Quin, perched at the bedpost, raises a soft brow that freezes when Chaos’s veil sweeps over his cheek and he dives onto the bed.
Quin sets down his cherry wine and turns slowly towards Chaos with twitching lips. He leans over that veiled face and murmurs, “I haven’t finished my interrogation.”
Chaos laughs, puffing the veil up to Quin’s lips.
Quin snatches the edge and pinches like he’s ready to rip it off, but after a pause, he settles it carefully over Chaos’s jaw. He lowers his voice. “Are you laughing or crying?”
Chaos flings a crooked arm over his curacowl, tipping the hat to his nose as he groans. “Can it be both?”
“Tell me your story. Are you a young man lost and lonely in deep dark woods? Are you a young man flushing after falling over your feet at a dance? Or are you—”
“I’m a young man who once encountered a wounded wolf.”
Quin leans back against his post, turned towards Chaos with a pensive expression.
Chaos spills out his story. “I helped the wolf recover and he ran off again, but whenever I returned to the woods, he visited me. He was a beautiful red wolf but had lost his pack and was very lonely. I fancied myself . . . a keeper for him—someone who would always be there for him; companionship at last. The wolf, not one to trust easily, gave me that privilege, and I was deeply touched. But between visits from that dazzling wolf, I encountered a . . . beady-eyed wyvern. This wyvern was goal-driven and determined. He swooped me up and wouldn’t let go. He lifted me high into the air and flew me over great distances and demanded I help all the hurt creatures in the forest. I was afraid I would fall from such great heights, that the fall would surely kill me, but the grip of the wyvern never wavered. A promise he would never drop me.
“The wolf kept visiting and I loved that, but . . . its glossy red coat didn’t dazzle me the same way anymore. I started to anticipate the beady-eyed wyvern’s return. I wanted to keep flying with him; feeling that wild gravity-defying thrill: the wyvern saw me as someone worthy to help the little creatures, and each time I did, I loved myself more. And each time I strayed, he would clasp me around the arms and fly me back to the right path.”