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)
She curls an arm around him and kisses his forehead.
Prins Lief murmurs. “There is no winning.”
I swallow hard. Once I believed there was such a thing as clearly defined right and wrong. Good and bad. Once I threw myself towards the ultimate justice, determined to help forge a better world. But Prince Lief summarises all my experiences into a punch of reality. As a healer I know there is no one cure for all. I know not everyone can be saved. Why do I expect more of my world? More of myself?
There is no way to make everyone happy. Not everyone will be.
Quin’s men, in the mismatched leather of country skjoldmenn, escort me on horseback to Portael. The town is desolate. I can see the rush of fleeing people in the upturned buckets littering the street, the abandoned fruit and rotting fish left for wildlife, the doors banging in the wind. I shiver under the moonlight all the way to the edge of town, where tents are pitched and stormblades patrol.
Quin’s horse stops before the guards, and Captain Kjartan strides over. The two men converse and the gates open onto the camp. I’m taken straight to the healer’s tent, where two other alchemists are busy healing, and another is sleeping, preparing to relieve his fellows in a few hours.
I’m to sleep too and help tomorrow.
Except, I can’t sleep. Every time I shut my eyes, I’m back in the banquet hall—on my knees, a blade held to my neck—and he is seated watching, expressionless. I can’t distract myself by diving into my dromveske, because that’s gone. All I’m left with is raw nerves.
I throw back my thin blanket, sneak outside, and find Quin’s tent. The men standing either side of the entrance must recognise me, and they must have been given instructions, because they let me pass.
A single lantern glows on a table, its weak light casting flickers in the darkened tent. Shadows stretch over leather walls, curling their fingers for me to come deeper inside. I shiver and shuffle over wet earth towards Quin, slouched on the edge of his cot. His shoulders are hunched and his forehead rests in the palm of his hand. He doesn’t move when he hears the sound of my shuffled steps. He knows I’m here.
I drop to my knees before him. Instinctively, I reach for his knee and shakily scroll up into the tight, painful knot in his thigh. I begin to ease out the tension, a familiar rhythm that’s helped him before, but with every press into him, my chest tightens.
His leg stiffens under my fingers, muscle recognising the hiccuppy mess inside me, the heavier dig of my massage. I push deeper, my throat aching, my teeth clenching. I’m pressing too hard. It’s not hard enough. I lift my hands and strike his leg over and over, my vision blurry.
He captures me firmly in his arms, making it impossible for me to continue. My breathing thickens, making sounds where it hits the flutette, and my eyes sting against his throat. I try to hit him again but it only thrusts him back against his bed and he takes me with him. His words shiver through my hair. “Shh. I would never have let him hurt you. I promise. I will keep you safe.”
I clutch his arms and hiccup. “We have to win a war.”
“Then we’ll win it.”
I sink into his hold for a few irregular breaths then pull up, looking at him. “You would have come here without me.”
“Are you upset about being sent here, or upset about almost not being sent here?”
“It’s dangerous. You should always take . . .”
He brushes a damp spot from under my eye and gently raises his brow. “The king’s man?”
We lie there, nose to nose, staring at one another.
At Quin’s slight shift, I swallow and start to scramble off him but he laughs and pulls me back, curling us onto our sides. “Stay. Sleep next to me. I need the strength.”
“You’ll go into battle tomorrow?”
He hums.
“Will you keep up the jarl act?”
“I can’t have stormblades turning on me and my men.”
“So you won’t use magic?”
“I’ll infuse some into my bow and my sword.”
“How long can your magic last like that?”
“Long enough. It’ll have to be.”
“Why is it so important to be here?”
“When it’s revealed my Lumin soldiers fought alongside the stormblades, protecting them with their lives, King Yngvarr will owe me a public debt. He must seek an alliance with Lumin, and for that, he must back me as the true king.”
“With Skeldar backing, you’ll have enough power to face your uncle?”
“And reclaim my throne.”
“But first you must fight.”
“My brother will be here tomorrow, with our men.”
I close my eyes. “He’ll bring you the strength you need.” Not me.
He bundles me closer, strokes my hair. “Can I have both?”