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 watches him slip and slide down the curve of the icy bridge and into the shadowy streets. He shakes his head, smiling, as the luminist from earlier appears again, approaching at his measured pace.
The next door opens to the clearing in the woods and Quin on horseback—dressed for drakopagon, his drakopala strapped where his cane had been before. A scarred aklo shifts nervously on a horse next to him.
“Must I practice with you, your highness?”
“I’ve no one else.”
“Your brother—”
“It’s his mother’s birthday. I can’t bother him.”
“What about the redcloaks?”
“Half would use the opportunity to break my neck.”
The aklo reluctantly steers his horse alongside Quin’s and stalls. He points to a rustling overhead, and Quin sneaks his horse closer, looking up through the branches of a honey-tree. There are two figures in the tree, mostly hidden by leaves. Small flashes of magic light up the foliage. “Take this one, Akilah.”
“Must we really collect syrup here? There are trees in the city.”
“Not this kind. This tree is rare. It makes the best taffy.”
“Great. We’re not just pilfering royal syrup; we’re pilfering precious royal syrup. Have you not heard the phrase ‘off with his head’?”
“Look at all those stains, that’s years of syrup gone to waste. Years of delicious taffy that never came into existence.”
“You and your taffy!”
“Let the whole world know: I love taffy!”
“The difference between syrups is barely noticeable. Are you sure you didn’t come back here for other reasons?”
“Ha!”
At this, Quin folds his arms and clears his throat. “You love taffy more than life?”
Akilah yelps and Chaos finally makes his appearance, tumbling down a few branches only to catch himself by planting a foot on Quin’s shoulder and propelling himself back to relative safety. “Arcane Sovereign!” he gasps as he rearranges himself more securely on his branch.
Quin watches him, with pressed lips and a muddy boot-print on his cloak, as Chaos peers down from his perch and his grip on the branch falters. He steers his horse a step forward, closing the distance to barely a foot, and flicks his finger lightly against Chaos’s nose.
A laugh. “Maskios! We meet again.”
“Not my name.”
Chaos leans precariously downwards. “Who are you then? Are you really a criminal?”
He twists out of reach when Quin tries to flick him again.
“You can call me . . . Calix Solin.”
“Sure, Maskios. I’ll do that.”
“I travel here a few times a year to study,” Quin says, glaring. “From Hinsard.”
A hand reaches down to lift one of Quin’s braids. “A scholar from Hinsard.” Chaos breathes in the scent of magic. “Why hide your true appearance then?”
Quin holds Chaos’s gaze, unabashed. “I have trouble with unwanted attention. My magnetic beauty becomes problematic. Like Skeldars.”
Chaos drops Quin’s braid and bursts into a laugh. “I’m part Skeldar, does that mean I have this magnetic beauty?”
Quin regrips his reins and looks away. His horse backs up a step.
“What do you think?” Chaos says, looking up through the branches to Akilah. “Am I handsome?”
“No. You’re extremely pretty.”
“Why don’t I have trouble with unwanted attention?” he asks her.
“You scare all the girls off by ‘testing’ spells on me in front of them. They’re afraid of their own faces coming to ruin.”
“Huh.” Chaos’s brow furrows. “I haven’t even noticed any girls.” Quin shifts noticeably on his horse.
Chaos looks back at him and his aklo. “You play drakopagon? Are you any good?”
Quin scoffs. “Of course I am.”
“Veronica is forever urging me to practice,” Chaos says. “Come forward a few steps?”
“Why?”
“Three steps should do it. I can drop in front of you, or behind. Take your pick.”
Quin grabs his drakopala, moves his horse out of dropping range, and smartly taps Chaos’s rump. He looks like he’s about to stop all this in its tracks, but he pauses, glances at his aklo, and relents. “Give him your horse,” he says. “Go back.”
Chaos looks smug as he drops into the empty saddle; Quin, clearly a little bewildered by his own choices, looks apprehensive but resigned.
Chaos grips and regrips his reins. “Syrup’s a bit sticky.”
Quin flicks a lazy finger and Chaos sighs at his now-clean hands. He lifts a knuckle to his mouth. “What a waste. Should’ve been licked clean.”
Quin turns away, eyes closed, and moves his horse forward.
The hollering and laughing can be heard long before they reach the drakopagon pitch. Over the rowdiness of a half-dozen young men on horseback, tossing a tied-up bundle from player to player towards a large hoop goal at one end, comes the distinct sound of panicked meowling.
Quin’s eyes narrow. Chaos hisses and urges his horse over the low fence; Quin catches his breath, curses, and hurries after him.
“Give me that cat.”
The players turn towards Chaos, scowling. “Get off the pitch. It’s ours.”
“You’re torturing it.”
“No one wants to drop it. It adds stakes to the game. Better for practice.”
“How’d you like to be tied up and thrown around for fun?”