Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
“What do you mean?”
“What if things had worsened? What if the spread couldn’t be contained? If the disease had altered? Spread in other, more alarming ways?”
Olyn’s lips curl in a grimace, and she frowns. “What could be done if it was worse?”
I flip the pages of my grandfather’s work and push them over to her to read. She scans the lines, flips the pages, scans more. Her eyes widen. She swallows and lowers her voice. “These types of books are banned.”
“Looking past that, what do you think?”
“I . . . I’m not sure. The ideas sound frightening. Like you’d get sicker from them. Even if they were allowed, I don’t think anyone would trust them.”
“This is its biggest disadvantage.”
“Not its biggest.”
I raise a brow. She pushes the book aside, grabs a handful of pebbles from the ground and steals a flower head from a nearby plant. She scatters the pebbles over the surface, then plucks off the five petals from the flower. She counts, and grabs another handful of pebbles.
“That’s its biggest disadvantage.” She points to the petals. “This is a rough ratio of vitalians to commoners. Even if . . .” She grabs another three flowers and scatters their petals between the pebbles. “Even if all those with magic, including par-lineas, could wield such spells, and assuming people would accept the spell . . . in the case of an outbreak on the scale we would be talking about, barely a quarter of the kingdom could receive the spell in time.” She looks at me. “Do you see? It’s impractical. It becomes useless.”
I stare at the pebbles in their masses on the table before me, the scant number of petals to reach them. This is the problem even without an outbreak. Too many people are without access to vitalians. They can only, maybe, get simplex spells from par-lineas. Mostly, they have people like Olyn, learning tricks from travelling healers from neighbouring kingdoms. Or figuring things out on their own, poisoning themselves if they get it wrong.
I pick up a petal and pinch it tightly between my fingers.
“Future husband! There you are.” Bastion waltzes across the courtyard holding up two jugs of wine. He leans between Olyn and me, sets them in spaces between pebbles, and climbs onto the bench between us with a slick grin. “Where’s the fun in your last night?”
He glances at Olyn and jumps an inch. His hand descends toward her chest. “Where’ve you been hiding those—”
She slaps his hand away with a roll of her eyes. “You never change, Bastion.”
“Why would I? I get everything I want.” He smirks at me, at her. “You know what else I want? You for my wife.” He slings an arm around my neck, and then hers. “A husband and a wife. Life would be perfect.” In my ear, “I’d have a lot of fun with you.” Turning to Olyn, “And you could carry all my babies.”
Olyn and I simultaneously grab his hands and throw him off us. He laughs and reaches for a wine jug. “Tonight, we must drink to good fortune—” he tips wine into his mouth and gulps “—longevity for all, and easy visits to the privy.”
He sets a jug before me and hesitates with the other. Olyn helps by snatching it from him and drinking deeply. “To a safe journey south,” she says to me.
I clink my jug against hers. “To peaceful days for you and Kastoria.”
We take turns with the jugs, drinking steadily. Bastion performs all kinds of tricks with pebbles and tries to get us to lay down money in bets Olyn and I know we’d lose. “You’re right, of course,” he says. “I’m best at all games.”
“All? What about games of wit?” Olyn snorts.
“How else could I trick the rich into parting with their silver?” He laughs and eyes me. “Dare to play?” He takes my jug and finishes it. “I’ll make the stakes worth your while.”
A few of his men stumble into the courtyard, and Bastion bellows at them to bring out a chess board. When it arrives, he shoos the drunken vespertines away and sets up the game between my lantern and Olyn’s.
“He’s a weasel, Cael,” Olyn says. “He wants your money.”
Bastion shakes a finger. “I will not play for money.”
I narrow my eyes on him.
He captures my foot between his under the table. “If I win, I want you to marry me.”
I kick him away.
“Fine, fine,” he concedes. “If I win, how about a kiss on my cheek?”
“And if I win?”
“You can have all the kisses you want.” I rise, preparing to leave, and he waves me back into my seat. “What do you want?”
I stare at the board, at the figures Quin has taught me to manoeuvre. I meet Bastion’s eye. “The route your vespertines take out of town.”