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)
Quin stops suddenly, resting heavily on his cane while his other arm remains determinedly around the Wyrd. I glance over and mouth. “Use more magic.”
He grimaces and keeps moving.
We slink past the commander’s tent, where officers have gathered demanding the commander come out and explain away the rumours amongst the generals.
The commander emerges like a shadow, stern and unyielding, holding a parchment. The officers are briefly quiet as he speaks, but there’s a restlessness around them. Suspicion, fear.
Quin’s grip on the Wyrd shifts, his gaze darting to mine, a silent nod. The Skeldar camp has made their move. We don’t stop walking. We’ll need to act swiftly: get Akilah and get out.
The commander’s gaze scrolls over the soldiers and us. I stall and hurry on, and the commander shifts his attention to the Wyrds before him. “This letter seemingly warns us that the Skeldar camp is riddled with poxies. It may equally be a scare tactic. Until such time as this is confirmed, you will maintain your order and that of your men.”
“If it’s true?” someone calls out.
“Ten strokes for speaking out of turn. Another ten for inciting panic.”
That officer is dragged away and we hear his howls even as far away as the training area.
In the healing tent, a healer spots us and rushes over, thankfully intercepted by Florentius. He takes over from Quin and we drag the man to a secluded area near the river, deposit him in the shadow of a tree.
Within moments, Florentius has used his magic to seamlessly heal the dog bite. So fast, so precise. The wound vanishes beneath his spell as if there’d never been damage at all. My stitches, the ones I pushed in with needle and thread, burn away in an instant.
I look away but I still feel the throb of my clenched teeth. I gesture to Quin leaning against the trunk, watching. “Heal Quin’s hairline cut properly while you’re at it,” I mutter irritably.
Florentius looks up; Quin touches the stitches I gave him.
“Leave it,” Quin says.
“It’ll scar.”
“Let it.”
My gaze flickers to the deep cut, but Quin’s silence cuts deeper.
His voice is low and firm. “Some things shouldn’t be forgotten.”
A hollow laugh trips out of me, but it’s nervous, too. “How could you ever forget this?”
His lips twist. “Call the scar a symbol, then. Of the repercussions of war. The importance of healers—”
“The consequences of us?”
His eyes darken as he throws back, “The meaning of responsibility.”
“The need to take a step back in order to move safely forward!”
“The need to forge a path together.”
Florentius is looking between us with a crunched brow, a witness to our heated exchange. “Perhaps this lover’s quarrel can be put on hold?”
I throw up my useless hands. “We can never be lovers.”
Quin laughs darkly. “We’ve always been lovers.”
He says it like a fact, like it’s something I should know, something I should stop denying. It slams into me and I hiccup at the rawness it leaves behind. “You promised we wouldn’t talk about this.”
His gaze glitters, but there’s no humour in it. “You invited me to.”
The consequences of us.
I’d directed this conversation. I was the one burning to be clear. I was the one who wanted to hear . . .
I wrench my gaze guiltily away from his. At war, and I’m at war with myself.
Quin gives me space by refocusing the discussion. His voice is clear and decisive. “We need to take advantage of the soldiers’ unrest. Poxies in the camp will provide the distraction we need.” He looks at Florentius. “Panic will amplify the situation.”
As he continues to lay out the plan, I force my mind into formation, tamping down the conflict inside.
With my assistance, Florentius moves the dying into healing baths, where he spells them to make them more comfortable while also pushing in the poxy herbs. Their skin quickly grows rashy and forms boils and I have to look away. Their last moments, and I’m the one insisting on disrespecting their bodies . . .
If there is such a thing as fairness, as true justice, I will be made to pay for this. But . . . this plan, if it works, will save not only Skeldars, but also Wyrds. It is better overall. It’s worth it.
As planned, I stir up panic. I drop a bucket of water near the lines outside the mess tents and hold up a hand forming boils.
Soldiers turn towards the commotion, to this servant woman suddenly shrieking.
When I have enough eyes on me, I cry, “Something’s wrong with the river water!”
While they back up, leaving a ring of space around me, Wyrd Quin snaps his way over and prods the bucket with his cane. Then makes a show of prodding my hand, lifting it with his cane again for all to see. “Everyone stand back. Someone warn the commander. I’ll get her to isolation.”