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)
“There are scriptions to try,” I murmur shakily.
“That’s what she said, but it’s not working!”
“She?”
Silver-beard lowers his scythe, as do the others, but they continue to step closer. Nicostratus mutters a curse under his breath.
“That one seems to know scriptions,” Silver-beard calls out. “This one looks like a bleedin’ redcloak. Bring them to the luminari—”
It happens in a heartbeat.
His shoulders jerk with a sudden spasm. His breath hitches violently, and his head snaps forward.
He sneezes.
Time slows. I see the droplets shimmer in the sunlight as they arc toward Nicostratus.
“No!” My body moves before I think. I slam my hands into Nicostratus’s chest, shoving him aside—
The spray lands wetly across my profile.
My heart pounds as I swipe at my face with my cloak, but it’s no use. If this is what Grandfather’s journals described . . . it won’t matter.
“Nicostratus,” I say urgently. “Cover your mouth and nose, now.”
He hears the directive in my voice and doesn’t question it, hurriedly tying a handkerchief to his head. I do the same as I address the circling men. “I’m a healer. I’ll let you take me with you, if you leave him behind.”
“We’ll take you both.”
I grab the hilt of Nicostratus’s sword and thrust it outward, its weight almost pulling me down. “Leave. Him. Behind.”
The men hesitate, their grips on scythes and pitchforks tightening. Silver-beard flinches and raises a trembling hand. “Do as he says.”
Nicostratus steps forward carefully, his gaze locked on mine as he takes back his weapon. His voice is low, sharp. “What are you doing?”
My throat tightens as I murmur, “If this is what I fear it is, you need to meditate. Shield yourself.”
“What do you fear it is?”
I don’t answer. I can’t. The words catch in my chest, and I swallow hard as I’m dragged away. My pulse hammers; I force myself to breathe steadily. Nothing will come from faltering now.
As they shove me onward, Nicostratus stands motionless, his red cloak—blood red—whips against the grey ruins. A foreboding colour that might soon stain a kingdom.
His face is unreadable, but his grip on the sword tightens.
He won’t follow. Not yet.
I’m escorted through the greens of the gully to a boat, where I’m stuck in the miasma of their wheezing as they strain against the oars. On wet coughs, we finally glide into an eerily quiet Kastoria, not stopping until we arrive at the luminarium. Looming against the setting sun, the reflection mimics magic the dome used to have.
Lies. There is no magic here. Instead, the truth gleams over the villager’s arms, along their deadly scales.
I press a clenched fist to my mouth against what’s been racing through my mind and heart:
This might be the thing healers—magic or not—most fear.
This might be plague.
The villagers prod me into the luminarium, and a familiar fear claws at my chest. It’s the fear I thought I’d left behind after the first outbreak—only now, it’s worse. Stronger. It slams into me like a wave, cold and suffocating.
The stench of sweat hits first, followed by the low moans of patients rolling on straw mats. Steam from boiling herbs hangs thick in the air, failing to mask the decay. My eyes sweep over a dozen bodies, each one a stark reminder of Kastoria’s horrors. Last time, I barely made it through—with magic. Now I’m here again, without it.
Silver-beard barks and Olyn rises from needling a patient. Her tired gaze hits mine over the sea of sick and relief bleeds out in her long sigh.
She crosses the luminarium and speaks calmly with the men who captured me, who also hand over sacks of herbs. Once the sacks are sorted, she grabs me by the wrist with a trembling hand and hauls me outside. “Cael . . . I begged the heavens for help, and now you’re here. This has to mean hope.”
Hope . . . I glance back at the luminarium, my chest tightening. We thought this was over, but now . . . “It’s the same, isn’t it? But worse.”
Her nails dig into my sleeve as she nods. “These families—they’re from remote mountain villages.”
“Why not go to the capital? There are vitalians there.”
“They think we have a cure,” she says, her voice breaking. “They’re desperate. And when the scriptions don’t work—” She swallows hard. “They think we’re lying. That we’re hoarding cures—or worse, spreading it ourselves.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“They’re sick and terrified, Cael. People don’t think clearly when they’re scared. And . . .”
She hesitates, her voice dropping. “They’re not entirely wrong to be suspicious.”
My breath catches. “What do you mean?”
She points at herself, her expression taut with worry. “I’ve been in that luminarium for days, right beside them. Breathing the same air, touching the same patients. And I’m not getting sick.”
Her words send a chill down my spine. My grandfather’s journals flash through my mind. “Those who aren’t getting sick . . . are they the ones who survived the first time?”