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)
I try to sit up but Florentius shakes his head. I feel for my pouch and pull out the sachet of herbs. He understands the moment he opens the drawstring and peers inside. He tightens it shut swiftly, his gaze hitting mine.
“Use them on the dying,” I murmur.
“To make it look like . . .”
“Yes.”
“They’ll come with torches!” Florentius’s whisper is sharp and he coughs to cover his sound.
“Wyrds have a deep spiritual connection to water,” I whisper under his cough. “If they see their dying soldiers bathing in the river and then hear of others falling sick, they’ll think the poxies are spreading through the water.”
“If they don’t believe it—”
“They will,” Quin cuts in, his voice quiet yet still sharp. He sits up on the neighbouring mat and Florentius rounds to his side. “A letter with the Skeldar commanding seal is coming.”
Florentius swings his gaze between us, a dark shadow clouding his face. “They’ll come to me to provide a cure. Real poxies is impossible to cure. Akilah is being held in the commander’s tent, what if they take it out on her? What if they torture her?” Florentius looks hard at me. “What if your plan kills my loved one? Again.”
The hurt in his voice plunges into me and I fist the blanket draped over me.
“Enough,” Quin says tightly. “This is my plan. Will you obey?”
“I’m sorry,” I gasp. “Lucius was a good man—”
“Don’t say his name.”
Quin keeps his whisper steady. “Akilah is his beloved sister too. We’ll save her.”
Florentius closes his eyes and swallows hard. When he opens, he looks to our king and subtly inclines his head in acceptance as he pretends to straighten his blankets.
He keeps facing Quin. “In a moment, I’ll get you a cane and release you. Come around the back of the healing tents to the laundry.”
Soon, Quin and I are exiting the tent carrying bloodied cloth and clothing. The sun hits our heads at an angle that suggests we were unconscious for many hours. It must be near midday. I whip a glance to Quin also absorbing the direction of the sun and his lips flatten. He canes swiftly along, surveying the camp. To our left is a long wooden palisade jutting up into makeshift watchtowers at regular intervals; behind us is the familiar stomp of hooves and the whinny of horses—no doubt the stables are nearby; ahead a cluster of guards surrounds dozens of large barrels and crates, rope and baskets of arrows.
A squad of Wyrds march past us and we duck our heads and turn down the side of the healing tents towards the laundry. There, many workers, mostly veiled women, are scrubbing clothes over a narrow stream while the occasional soldier tries to steal their attention.
Florentius hurries up to us with another bundle of cloth. After dumping half in the baskets, he walks behind blankets strung up to dry.
Quin snaps after him and I hurry alongside.
Florentius throws the rest of his bundle into my arms. “You’re lucky they brought you in lying down. You’re too short to be a Wyrd.”
I unravel the dress he brought me.
“I’ll spell over whatever this voice is you’re using.”
I sigh. “From Haldr’s voice, to a woman’s. I wonder when I’ll ever hear my own.”
I strip and slide into the fresh cotton, and Florentius does the rest while Quin leans on his cane, taking a moment to delight in the transaction. I send him a scathing look, and his smirk deepens.
“Beautiful,” he says after Florentius is gone.
“Quin . . .” I warn.
“A mere observation.”
“You don’t have to keep observing.”
I grip the glass bottle Florentius pressed into my hand until Quin’s dancing eyes finally look away.
A serving girl is sent thrice daily to serve the commander his tonic. I’m to be that serving girl.
We make our way slowly through the camp, taking our time to memorise the layout. It smells sweatier the deeper in we go, until we pass a training area. After this, the metallic scent of sweat is replaced by the rich aromas of cooking; long lines of Wyrds with their wooden bowls, some banging out beats and singing while they wait.
Behind the mess area are simple tents, lean-tos, and firepits set with fresh wood waiting for nightfall; finally, behind them, is the tent we’re after. It’s bigger than most of the others, and marked with blue banners and more guards.
Quin counts from behind a neighbouring tent. “A dozen outside.”
I glance at them and back at Quin. “You’d better stay out of view. I’ll take it from here.”
He catches my arm before I go; all traces of his earlier humour have vanished from his eyes. “You must be careful.”
I nod.
He holds on tighter. “That means biting your tongue. No matter how unfair you find something.”
“When have I ever—”
He tsks.
“Fine.”
I move to the commander’s tent, keeping my head bowed in subservience. Upon seeing the tonic in my hands, the guards let me pass. Inside, it’s dim and the air tastes of leather and ink. The canvas tent is worn and patched in places and the heavy folds block out most of the daylight. Only the stretch coming in from the doors allows for some glow.