Page 41 of The King's Man 4

She curtsies and leaves first, the commander close behind her. A quarter of the scholars follow, along with Eparch Valerius and lastly Vitalian Dimos, who catches my eye and nods that he has this under control.

A flash of envy sluices down my middle. I wish I could tag along, be in those chambers as the vitalians piece together the last of the antidote. It takes effort to return the nod.

I catch the southerner eyeing me, and wave a hand for him to return to frowning at the remaining crowd.

Those not specialised or interested in poisons and antidotes remain, and a pale, gaunt-looking vitalian takes the stage. “Recently we’ve been plagued with commoners asking if they too can learn healing skills, and outsiders asking if they can enter into our Medicus Contest. All becausethatpar-linea was granted permission to sit the exams and enter the palace.”

That par-linea.

He’s talking about me.

“How do we position ourselves against the barrage of requests?”

I clamp my hands down on the seat and tense as scholar after scholar stands to spout their thoughts.

“Par and non-linea should not be meddling in the art of healing! They’re born inferior, judged perhaps on their past lives—they have not been given the right. They should accept their place in society, live a good life. Perhaps in their next one they’ll be rewarded.”

“Past lives? While I don’t agree with your reasoning, I do with the premise. Par and non-linea should not dabble in these arts. It’s too risky, too easy to make mistakes. Those mistakes will cost lives. Our kingdom is built on a reputation for havingthe highest quality healing in the world. We should not risk what we are respected for.”

Two more scholars stand, agreeing with this, babbling on about the need to preserve our cultural heritage.

“Let them join in the contest, and they’ll be after more.”

“As they should be,” I mutter under my tongue, eliciting the southerner’s narrowed glance.

“It’s a slippery slope,” someone cries. “We’ll soon be overrun with healers that barely heal patients and extort them for unreasonable sums. Crime would rise significantly.”

This has dozens of scholars on their feet chiming for the ‘good of the people’. “No magic, no healing.”

The gaunt man on stage calms the crowds, gesturing them to sit. “We have a consensus. The common class has its place in society, and that place is not within Thinking Halls. To educate the masses is to dilute the sanctity of magic, weakening it and thus us as a kingdom. We must, therefore, protect it at all costs and strictly deny commoner access to education, and refuse healers from other countries trying to take part in our Medicus Contest.”

The words ring through the hall with stomach-dropping finality. The applause is deafening and each clap feels like a punch. My stomach aches, along with my throat. I feel smaller in the vast hall than when I first entered. Even the air has grown colder around me.

A part of me wants to slink out and take this ball of unworthiness with me, but another part is screaming.

It’s not only me they’re talking about.

They’re judging the vast majority of the population. They are accusing people of heinous crimes that have no base in fact, only fear. They’re attacking those who have no voice to stand up for themselves.

My jaw clenches and I stand, each breath tight, fighting against the invisible chains they’ve been forging around me with their preconceived notions of par and non-linea capabilities.

“Education is air that is meant for all to breathe, not only those deemed worthy by your biased judgments.”

There’s a collective swish as scholars turn and stare.

The gaunt man on stage smiles sickly. “And who are you?”

I ball my hands at my sides, and the southerner beside me rises too. “We are those with dissenting opinions.”

“Do you have magic? Do you have a right to be here?”

I step forward. “I have every right to be here. Even if Idon’thave magic.”

The crowd gasps, and a few shout that we’ve insinuated ourselves into this sacred hall and should be cast out immediately before we taint it.

The Skeldar snarls and declares our kingdom its own worst enemy. “...kill more of yourselves than any unrest at your borders.”

He strides past me to leave, and when I take another step to fight against the crowd, comes back and drags me along with him. “Don’t waste your breath.”

---