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’ve been surrounded by all this fencing and these colourful flags before. I snuck in to watch these games often in my youth. I’d snuck in to watch this game as well . . .
Quin tightens his vambraces and checks his bow and arrows, then steers his horse past the stands into the arena. A dozen mounted contestants are grouped at the other end, and upon spotting Calix Solin, two peel off towards him—one female, one male; both disguised.
“Son,” the woman says, and the memory of her disguise fades to reveal Casimiria’s real face.
Quin stops his horse. “Mother. Brother.”
Nicostratus’s mask dissolves around his smile. “Who’s this then?”
“Calix Solin, scholar from Hinsard.”
“Well, Calix. Let’s see how much you’ve improved.”
Quin boinks his brother over the head with the end of his bow, and Nicostratus tosses his head back with a laugh. He goads Quin into a race towards the other end of the arena but Casimiria beats the both of them and they bow graciously to her greatness.
She then proceeds to boink Quin on his head in return. “I taught you both the archer’s skill, and only one of you has beaten me.”
I can feel his laughter bubbling from him and into my chest. “Brother, do you hear that? My mother praises you.”
Casimiria grins at Nicostratus. “But you.” She hones her gaze on Quin. “Shoot ‘em straight.”
Quin exaggerates a sigh. “I might. If you ever play fair.”
After each contestant has swallowed the spell to block their magic, the games begin. It’s a feast for the eyes, now as much as it had been then. The targets are moving, the archers mounted. Each round gets progressively more challenging. Quin smacks the bullseyes with mesmerising ease, and by the eighth round, the spectators are cheering frantically—only the three disguised royals are left fighting for the Golden Bow. Nicostratus grins at Quin. “Want to bet you go out next?”
“I’m a smart man. So I’ll say no.”
Nicostratus laughs and, at the wave of a red flag, he’s off, shooting ever smaller targets with swift precision. Casimiria sidles her horse close to Quin’s, admiring the show. “I’ll get the Bow this time. Bet on me.”
“Honestly, Mother.”
She smirks and lifts her chin towards the stands. “Who’s the young man who hasn’t taken his eyes off you?”
Quin startles and searches the stands. My hands grow damp and I clutch at the folds of Quin’s cloak. I feel the precise moment he spots my younger self. His entire body tenses and stills, and I bury my face in his shoulder with a groan before bravely peeking over towards Chaos.
He’s dressed in his older brother’s wedding clothes, ‘borrowed’ so he can pass as linea and enter to watch the games. They were deep violet, lined on the inside with bright floral silk, golds and reds and greens, and they’re billowing in the wind as he stands beside Akilah, hugging a fence post at the front of the stands. It’s not the robe, though, that makes me bang my head against Quin’s shoulder in mortification. It’s the gaping mouth and unabashed stare. It’s the now-clear glimpse of vulnerability in a young man who’s on the brink of realising something.
Quin’s horse shifts under him, like it too feels how unsettling that stare is.
I recall this moment vividly—how surprised I’d been to see Calix Solin participating in the games; how impressive I’d found him, shooting those targets with barely a glance as he rode and jumped obstacles. I recall how wildly my stomach swooped; how impossible it was to let go of that post.
I also recall how itchy I’d felt, how restless; how frustrated I was with all of it. How suddenly annoyed I got . . .
Chaos scowls at Quin, lifts his chin, and looks pointedly towards Nicostratus finishing a perfect course. He cheers, loudly, for him.
When the flag waves for Quin to take his turn, his whole body is strung taut—I can feel it, the rapid pounding of his heart, the uneven bounce in his saddle. He glances towards Chaos, who is turned away from the pitch as if he doesn’t care at all.
I swallow and shake my head. “It wasn’t like that,” I murmur into a memory that can’t change. “He’s gripping that post hard. His heart is hammering. He’s aware of you.”
Quin hits the first targets, sheering through the middle of Nicostratus’s arrows. The crowd roars with excitement, but Chaos does not turn his head.
He nocks two more arrows and pulls the bowstring. Both smack neatly into the target. Bullseye. But still, Chaos doesn’t look.
Another arrow nocks, the bowstring pulled tight. But this one doesn’t fly towards the target. At the last second, with an audible grind of his teeth, Quin swings his bow and releases. The arrow arcs and thunks into Chaos’s post, pinning his sleeve to it.
At the shriek from Akilah and the crowd, Chaos whips his head around and meets Quin’s glare with one of his own. Only when Quin turns his horse at the other end of the arena do their frustrated, hate-filled gazes break. Quin doesn’t even bother finishing his round. He rides off the pitch without a word to his mother or his brother, steers towards the winding path and climbs it halfway up the cliff.