Page 11 of The King's Man 4

He sees I’m not quite as lively as usual and turns on his heel to escort me back. Nicostratus, who is pacing the courtyard, rushes over the moment I step inside the gates. “I was worried.” He holds my arms and inspects me. “All in one piece. Good.”

Petros bids us good night, and Nicostratus urges him to enjoy his night off, thanking him for getting me here safely. Dinner is waiting inside for us. I force meat into my mouth while Nicostratus keeps the conversation going, and try not to think about rejecting those pleas for help. I swallow hard. Smile.

“You’re kind,” I murmur. “Consistent.”

He blinks, and a smile unfurls. Yes. I like that smile.

It leans towards me, close, closer. “Would you like—”

I push to my feet with a wince. “Sorry, I need to call it a night. Headache.”

“Do you need a vitalian? I can call one.”

My chest aches. I shake my head, and go to my room.

The next three days, I claim I’m sick and stay in bed, staring enviously at scenes of healing on the walls around me. I refuse anything but a few spoons of soup, but on the fourth day, afraid Nicostratus truly will call for a healer, I drag on clothes and walk aimlessly around the cloud-covered city.

At the canal, a dozen boats are drifting towards Thinking Hall. Eparch Valerius strides swiftly from the road to the dock, straightening his clothes, tucking away soiled cuffs, readying himself to greet some of the kingdom’s future great vitalians.

Those soldad-carrying scholars pile out at the dock and follow the eparch towards the hall, a smaller version of the one in the capital—the same ornate structure; the same promise of knowledge.

The edges of my own soldad are cutting into my palm where I’m squeezing it. A sob threatens to escape and I swallow it down painfully. Long grass snatches at my ankles as I near the edge of the canal. I hold my arm out, soldad hanging over the surface of the water.

I shut my eyes and will myself to release it. I can’t use it anymore. Why carry the weight of my lost dream?Drop it.

Drop it.

I squeeze tighter.

Drop it!

My pulse is hard and fast, echoing through the soldad like it’s a beating heart.

A heart that’s broken.Drop.

I grit my teeth. My fingers refuse to obey; I use my other hand to pry them open, one by one, until the badge shifts, and then falls—

I don’t hear the splash. Frown.

I snap my eyes open, and my breath stutters. In a small rowboat sits Quin, his stern eyes fixed on me, my soldad caught in his outstretched hand.

“Getting rid ofeverythingI gave you?”

“What are you doing here?” I choke out.

His eyes narrow.

I shrug, laugh hollowly. “My light’s gone out.”

A sudden wind lashes around me—my hair flies, my cloak flaps, and I stand through it, head downcast, uncaring.

“Enough,” he says.

I slowly raise my head and look at him, and away again.

The winds twist and spin, propelling me off my feet and plunging me onto the seat across from him. The boat rocks and water splashes us, and then gusts are thrusting us along the canal.

He doesn’t stop until we’re at the outskirts of the city, where groups of refugees from the south are huddled, drinking handfuls of water, nursing and tending to their exhausted loved ones. My chest grows heavy; there are surface injuries and sprained ankles everywhere.

---