Page 42 of The King's Man 3

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.

I stumble closer and the redcloaks swing the points of their swords towards me and the shadows.

I scream again and point.

My silver ribbon flutters around their faces in a breeze and the men jerk away from me, their swords shaking.

“Cael? Cael? Where are you?” Olyn emerges and upon seeing me, sighs in relief. “There you are.”

She comes closer, acknowledging the redcloaks. “Sorry. My cousin has been seeing things since his ma and pa passed away. Keeps running away, saying the spirits want peace.”

I start rocking back and forth, whimpering.

“That one’s bad luck,” one redcloak says, terrified. “We should kill him.”

Olyn gasps. “Cael, let’s go—”

“They’re trespassing. We can kill them both.”

Their swords swing towards us and stop at a hair-raising yell from the canal. Had Quin heard my scream? “I wouldn’t if Iwere you,” he warns. “Check his skin, the pallor of it. He’s sick. Spill his blood, and he’ll become another sick spirit.Ifhe doesn’t infect you first.”

The redcloaks gulp, unease flickering across their faces. One glances uneasily at the other. “I don’t like this. Spirits or not, what if this gets back to the captain?”

The other growls, gripping his sword. “Just get rid of them. Into the water.”

Their swords nudge us towards the deadly depths.

The chill of the canal seeps into my bones the moment I’m submerged. Holding my breath, I grab Olyn, who is struggling—she can’t swim; it’s what the redcloaks were counting on—but I clutch her hand and tug her with me. Above, the redcloaks’ barking voices are muffled. My pulse thunders in my ears. I swim determinedly, pulling Olyn along toward the shadow of Quin’s boat.

We surface on the far side, trying to control our spluttering, clutching at the boat’s edge. The night air feels icy against my wet skin and I cling to the rough wood, shivering. Olyn’s wide eyes meet mine, her breaths ragged. “What now?” she mouths.

Quin bows stiffly to the redcloaks, his silhouette framed by the pale moonlight. One oar rests against my shoulder, his grip firm and deliberate, while his expression—a mix of irritation and resolve—promises a lecture later. With measured ease, he dips the other oar into the water, propelling the boat forward. “Hold steady,” he murmurs, voice barely audible over the rippling canal.

Olyn and I kick to guide the boat’s path, our movements creating small splashes that feel deafening in the tense silence. My fingers ache as I cling to the boat, and the weight of the night presses heavily on my chest.

The tension in Quin’s jaw doesn’t ease. He rows in silence, each pull of the oars sharper than the last. “Reckless,” hemutters under his breath. I open my mouth to protest, but his glare silences me. “You don’t understand the cost of a single misstep, Cael.”

I swallow and look back at the scene I left behind. The redcloaks are retrieving the discarded pouch of herbs. One of them sniffs it suspiciously, but they sprinkle its contents over their fire. A faint aroma wafts through the air, mingling with the smoky tang of burning wood. Moments later, their heads droop as they yawn and slump onto their log seats.

“They’re out,” I whisper to Quin, my voice shaking—from cold and from having his displeasure levied on me.

He glances back, his grimace etched with tension. “Be quick.” His tone is clipped, but his eyes linger. “Andcareful.”

While Quin mans the boat, Olyn and I squelch through the mud toward the field. The woven mats of herbs glisten faintly under the moonlight, their scent sharp and earthy. We work in frantic silence, rolling the mats up with the herbs inside. My heart pounds with each rustle, every creak. The redcloaks could wake at any moment.

We heave the mats back to the boat; it dips dangerously under the weight, but Quin steadies it with the precise movement of his oars.

Sweat dribbles down my face despite the chill as Olyn and I run back and forth. My hands tremble as I lift the last of the mats, leaving nothing where they had been but summer-dry flattened grass. My gaze darts to the dark horizon. With the last herbs loaded, we trail a line of bracken and fallen leaves from the firepit to the plundered field, our movements hasty but deliberate. The fire flares behind us, chasing the trail to consume the evidence in a burst of orange and gold.

I crouch in the shadows, my chest heaving. Time to wake the redcloaks. I send a ripple of magic toward the firepit. Theair thrums faintly and the soldiers stir, their groggy murmurs joining the crackle of the flames.

“Water, quick!” one shouts, stumbling toward the canal.

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