Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
I bite my lip and move slowly towards the rush of indigo and bursts of lighter purple. I touch the rough surface of the trunk, and the past comes alive. If I close my eyes, I might imagine I’m a child again, crawling in here for the night. I can almost hear our voices . . .
I duck into the hollow and step on something out of place. Hard, the wrong shape to be a protruding root. I shift my foot and crouch, and wipe away a layer of dirt.
My fingers tremble.
I rub my thumb over the riverpearl edging and over the four carved stamps inside the frame.
I sink onto my haunches, heart hammering. What if . . .
He’d lost my soldad. Here.
He’d come here.
I shut my eyes as it all slides together.
He’d called himself Prince Nicostratus, but back then, Nicostratus’s mother had wanted him dead. He’d known it. He couldn’t use his real name. His safest bet, outside, was to assume another identity. What better than pretending to be her son? Hired hands would make sure not to harm ‘Prince Nicostratus’.
My chest seizes with a flutter and the swoop of something inexpressible, the sudden dropping of my stomach. Hollowness. Something’s been torn from me. And then . . . I’m laughing.
How did I not see it sooner? How stupid. How utterly mortifying.
He’s always been wearing masks.
My laughter keeps coming. I can’t stop. It’s this or complete loss of feeling. And I have to cling on, to this at least.
I laugh so hard tears stream down my cheeks; so hard birds lift from their perches and rush crying into the sky.
I laugh so hard I won’t hear the crack of twigs where he waits, where he watches from the darkened bushes.
The prickle of his gaze skitters alongside my hectic bouts and I brandish the soldad in my firm grip as I push my feet away from the violet oak, away from the stream, away from him.
Must. Go. On.
Rain lashes against my soaked arms as they shield my belongings.
Behind me is the capital that believes I’m dead; that will kill me if I’m not. Behind me is Hinsard and vitalian magics I can no longer wield. Behind me are two royal brothers vowing loyalty to one another.
Vowing never to let me come between them again.
Steel clashes through the trees, and the tinny scent of blood pierces the damp air. The sky shudders with flashes of lightning, thunder rolling like drums underfoot, shaking the final golden leaves from the branches. An eerie screech rises from the river.
Ahead, soldiers battle. Wyverns thrash. Still, the path before me seems easier than the one behind.
Rain drips down my nape, trickling from my hood, running off my chin onto my grandfather’s books, a change of clothes, needle and thread, a few rare herbs, some food . . . I clutch my bundle tighter and hurry along the narrow path.
Keep west of the woods. Pass the Great Violet Oak and the soldiers guarding it. Descend to the coast. Find the merchant ship to Iskaldir.
His last instructions, scrawled on a note, left beside southern currency and official passes for safe passage.
The rain thickens, pelting my face. I swallow the knot in my throat, grip my bundle, and push through a tangle of bushes—
A cry shatters the storm, and a flash of movement draws my eye. A wyvern falls, its body thumping into the leaves at my feet. I freeze, breath held, searching the sky for more.
Wyverns could rip through my flesh, their venom killing within minutes. I have no magic now. Even if I have herbs to combat the poison, I don’t know the crude methods to prepare them.
I step back. The sky is a dark bruise of clouds, evening closing in. The rain patters steadily on skeletal tree trunks. Thank the Arcane Sovereign, there’s no other movement. The wyvern must have been separated from its pack.
I glance at the shimmering scales of the small creature. It’s wounded, blue blood seeping from a gash in its stomach. Its chest rises and falls with shallow, laboured breaths. It’s too hurt to shift into its watery form, to attack me.
I could leave. I should leave.
But its eyes are on me, filled with pain, exhaustion, fear.
It’s vulnerable. Afraid.
Its claws flex as it tries to move, but its wings go limp. A small, pitiful whine escapes it.
I haven’t used my voice in days, and it comes out rough. “I won’t hurt you. I’ll help, if you’ll let me.”
The wyvern can’t understand my words, but maybe it senses something in my tone. Its claws retract.
I drop to my knees on the wet leaves and fumble for my herbs. I have some that will fight infection, promote healing . . . but the gash is large.
For a sharp, painful moment, I’m back in Hinsard, beside the canal and the vitalian who died under my hands, the gash on his head too deep . . . Without magic, I hadn’t known how to save him.