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)
It’s an easy goodbye. A fond one. I have absolute faith in her. And yet . . . I glance back. Will faith be enough?
Quin and Nicostratus flank me, silent but present. Quin’s jaw is tight, his gaze set forward, unreadable. Nicostratus glances toward him once, as if weighing a question he doesn’t ask.
We ride with purpose, the road stretching ahead, made longer as we pass burning pyres, wailing families seeing loved ones off, children orphaned, the elderly abandoned at the outskirts of the capital—waiting, hoping someone will take them in.
A knot tightens in my stomach. Skriniaris Evander.
Where is he now, amidst all of this? Is he safe? Does he have people looking after him, or is he alone—just an old man and his cat, waiting forever for us to return? Does he think we abandoned him?
The thought gnaws at me long after we’ve shared our food, used horse pus on the healthy who are willing, and made promises Quin vows to keep. It lingers as we finally reach Frederica’s estate.
She meets us in the courtyard—the very same one where, believing him to be harassing the kind woman, I leapt onto Quin’s back sparking renewed fate between us. A fate that has led us to this critical moment. We all must work together to help his people. Frederica leads us into fields that are peppered with tents as far as the eye can see. Quin’s soldiers, his men.
This is the force he’s risked so much to gather, to reclaim his throne.
“We’ve separated the sick soldiers and animals,” Frederica says. “We’ve been mostly lucky so far, but the plague has reached here too.”
Immediately, Quin summons his generals, commanders, captains, and healers to the courtyard.
There are faces I recognise among them: Commander Thalassios from Hinsard, the regent’s outcast daughter Princessa Liana, Captain Kjartan—he has Skeldar soldiers too. His negotiation in Iskaldir went exactly as planned.
Quin tells me to prepare the warding I spent the morning crafting—scraping pus from every infected horse I could find, mixing it with ground mustiva and oldeaf, and blending it into large batches of paste.
Nicostratus and I empty all the bags we rode with, the high-ranking soldiers watching on quizzically under the late afternoon sun.
Like he did in the crusader hall, Quin delivers his speech, asking his men to infect themselves for the good of the people. The resistance is quieter this time, but still present. When Quin kneels, gripping his cane-shaft tightly against the pain, the entire courtyard holds its breath. The king, begging his people.
“I will not ask of you what I am not willing to do myself.” Quin rolls up his sleeve and calls for me. And Nicostratus joins his brother on his knees, baring his arm alongside him.
The generals stir in their light armour. Whatever hesitation they had, by the time I’ve cut and smeared the horse pus into their skin, it’s vanished. His men are all on their knees too, shoving up their sleeves.
Princessa Liana rises to help me after she has been treated. I give the scription to the healers as well, and Quin orders one of his commanders to take charge of collecting infected horses and bringing them to Frederica’s estate.
“Convince as many of your soldiers as you can to take the treatment,” Quin orders. “Tomorrow, you’ll leave for all corners of the kingdom to convince the people too.”
I whip my gaze over the small sea of still-kneeling soldiers to Quin, now standing regally before them. My stomach flutters. He’s willing to scatter his power and men and everything he has suffered for to aid his people. This is what a ruler is. Sacrifice. People over power.
Under the flutter, though, I tense too. Will this make Quin more vulnerable?
Commander Thalassios steps forward. “We’ve finally consolidated significant numbers. You need us here, marching into the royal city to take back what’s yours.”
Quin stares at his generals and commanders and says simply, “The people are mine, too. They always have been.”
Quin and Nicostratus are busy well into the night, and so am I. Along with all the healers and the volunteers, we treat every willing soldier—and all but a few are willing. The news of their king kneeling and pleading has spread like wildfire, causing even the broadest, gruffest men to swallow thickly. The families they left behind—their wives, their children, their parents—will be cared for first. Before battle. Before the throne. Before everything else. They raise their drinks to King Constantinos and promise even their lives in this pursuit of peace for the people.
Other stories also spread, causing outrage and disgust: how dare the regent protect only himself, hiding from responsibility. How dare he shove the four-year-old king towards volatile unrest.
Even the Skeldar section of the king’s army share praise for the king, singing songs of glory about their battle against the Wyrds.