Page 32 of The King's Man 1

She doesn’t move though. Instead, she moves closer and whispers in my ear. “After the earthquake, they’ll be patrolling.”

The threat of that has my stomach tightening.

I look at the distraught akla. I could never leave a person to die. “I’m not a vitalian,” I say, offering her a sympathetic smile. “But I can try.”

Quin’s brows lift and he catches my eye.

I level him a look. “Are you going to tell on me?”

He tips his head and laughs heavily.

I look over at Frederica; her gaze darts rapidly between Quin and me. “Do you have any powdered frostbloom?”

Quin cuts in sharply. “I have everything you need.”

* * *

We go by boat to the house of the akla’s master. The cottage is small, surrounded by fields of lavender; the rich scent mingles with the metallic tang of blood.

We’re greeted by a tall, fair-headed man with the forever-beauty of those hailing from the kingdom of Iskaldir. But while it’s beautiful, it’s also contorted with worry.

“Wait,” he says between sniffs, “you’re not linea?”

I pat a fist over my heart, in Iskaldir respect. “I’m not an official vitalian, but I could help your...”

Master Hrafn clears his throat. “My cousin.”

I scan the cramped room, my gaze lifting to find Quin strolling the shadowy space, watching me intently.

Master Hrafn’s expression pinches. He shakes his head. “I can’t let a par-linea treat Bjorn.”

Quin snarls, and I cut over him, “May I ask why, sir?”

“The luminists say par-linea spells are curses,” he says, hushed.

I ought to have expected this; I’d assumed Master Hrafn would care more that there is someone who could save his... cousin.

“You might cure one thing for a time,” he carries on, “but inevitably the patient dies.”

“Inevitably, we all die.”

Master Hrafn sucks in a sharp breath; I lower my gaze and try a less cutting approach. “What you are referring to are baseless folktales and preachings, propagated by official vitalians to ensure their authority doesn’t take a dive, and luminists who are afraid of being demoted in their next life. Don’t let your Bjorn suffer because of them.”

“You want me to trust you? We left Iskaldir for Lumin’s spiritual superiority. How can I risk his life on your word alone?”

“You’re not the only one afraid. I am the first anyone will blame if he does not survive.”

Master Hrafn frowns; Quin lounges against a beam, watching me shrewdly. He gives a commanding swish of his hand.

Apparently, an exquisite summer cloak and finely tailored clothes are enough to trump a luminist’s preachings.

Hrafn leads me to the next chamber. Bjorn lies on the narrow bed, his pallor waxy, his breaths fragile. The luminist threat still lingers in the back of my mind, but I push the thought down. This man doesn’t have time for my fear.

I take his pulse. Slow, unsteady.

“Close the windows,” I order. “Too much lavender’s making him drowsier. I need clean water—boiled—immediately. And Quin—” I glance over at him, lounging with infuriating calm against a doorframe. “Have Akilah bring in your apothecary chest.”

Quin raises an eyebrow but gives a sharp nod to one of his aklos outside the door.

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