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)
I herd us into the dispensary, where Olyn is pacing, waiting.
I can’t introduce Quin as himself, our hunted king travelling, so . . . I wince. I really am no better . . .
Quin arches a brow in utter disbelief, but at my blushing insistence that he’s a fortune teller who may be able to see our best course ahead, he clears his throat and plays along. “I have foreseen that I am to take part.”
“Wait,” Olyn says. “You aren’t the fraud I heard about?”
I gulp. “Not a fraud! I used that as a way to return coin the people couldn’t well afford, and to steal him for our own needs. Truly, he is an all-knowing master.”
I spy a chuffed smirk at this and elbow the king’s side.
Olyn raises a brow. “Right.”
On the spot, Quin decisively outlines a plan, calling it ‘Old Man on a Boat’ after a famous painting that was crafted in the region and is deeply revered among the locals and the military. Two hundred years ago, during the Mythos Aion wars before these giant walls were built, the army was surrounded on three sides by concealed forces, about to be ambushed and annihilated. A lone man in his boat was the only one who, knowing he would die if he entered the canals, did so anyway. His death on the waters alerted the soldiers. Warned them. Saved them.
I shiver. Every time I hear this story, I’m breathless and achy at this man’s bravery. To knowingly seek his own death for the lives of a thousand others . . .
Could I do that?
I shake my head. Swallow. I’d want to, but . . .
I hope I’m never confronted with such a choice.
“Cael?”
“Hmm?”
“You heard all that, right?”
Um . . . “Uh huh.”
“Your part is to help Olyn collect the herbs.”
There seems to be some overbearingness in his tone, like he’s afraid I’ll take things into my own hands and get into trouble. I immediately trot behind him and start massaging his shoulders.
“A ‘yes’ will do.”
We gather what gear we need, and when the sun sets, Olyn and I head to the meadows and hide behind some trees. Quin quietly ‘borrows’ a dinghy and rows along the canal bordering the field.
The redcloaks have pitched a tent at a clearing next to the canal and are cooking fish over a fire. “I’ll take first shift, you take second,” one of them says. “Use the whistle to signal any trespassers.”
“Those farmers were scared out of their leggings. Doubtful they’ll try again.”
As they eat, Quin drifts into view on the moonlit waters. He stops rowing and calls to them in a crackling, old voice. “There’ll be trouble tonight.”
The men leap to their feet and rush to the edge of the canal, drawing swords.
Quin clasps his hands together and bows his head, humming, in the way travelling readers do.
The redcloaks glance at one another and back at the old man in the boat. “What are you talking about?”
“I sense disaster.”
One shifts from foot to foot. “F-Fortune tellers are only right half the time.”
“Yeah. Yeah, only . . . half the time.”
Quin bows again and picks up his oar. The redcloak flinches, tugging his companion’s sleeve. “What if he’s . . . like the Old Man on a Boat?”
Their eyes widen. “Wait. Wait.”
Quin sets his oar down again.
“What advice do you have for us?”
Quin takes a pouch of herbs we took from my box, and tosses it to them.
“What is this?” the redcloak who caught it asks.
“To cleanse the air of sick spirits.”
“S-spirits?”
“Of those who died unnecessary deaths. Sprinkle over the fire and breathe in the cleansing smoke.”
“I d-don’t believe in spirits.”
Quin bows again. “Be at peace.” He picks up his oars and dips them into the water, but while the redcloaks do seem shaky, they’re not quite convinced.
The one holding the pouch tosses it into the grass. “H-he’s a quack. Some old fool. That’s all. Let’s finish our fish.”
Despite chattering teeth, the other redcloak nods and resumes his seat on the fireside log.
My fingers are tight against the tree as I watch Quin calmly row away. He was certain that the men would give in to their superstitions and use the herbs. We wait.
Time seems to crawl and race by at once. Although they seem nervous and glance around often, the pouch of herbs remains unused—in fact it seems all we’ve achieved is to put them on high alert, ears pricked for every sound. Perhaps they were close to falling into our trap, but not close enough. They need . . . they need . . .
I suck in a breath. Unravel the silver ribbon from my wrist and tie it rapidly around my head. Olyn’s eyes widen, but she nods.
I scream and race out from the cover of trees, looking back over my shoulder and yelling into the darkness.