Page 3 of The King's Man 4

“This opportunity... to work with vitalians, to inspire teams to grow through competition... this is where miracles happen. To be part of that, to witness that...”

“I wish you had this much sparkle in your eye when you look at me.”

My step falters over the threshold. “I . . .”

“I’m teasing,” Nicostratus says, his chuckle slightly more forced than before. “Go on in. I’ll wait.”

Inside, an older vitalian peers over his magnifying glass and greets me.

I’m a rush of words as I ask him if he knows any way to mend severed meridians. “I’ll try anything, even if it affects my lifespan. So long as I can get my magic back.”

He lifts his magnifying glass and peers at me, humming. “What you need won’t come from herbs, potions, or spells.”

“What do I need?”

He sets his magnifying glass down. “Time.”

“They’ll mend on their own?”

He shakes his head empathetically, and a shiver spikes through me, forcing me back a few steps. “Time to accept—”

I spin on my heel.

Nicostratus catches me in my flight down the stone steps. “What happened?”

My hands shake, but not as violently as I’m shaking my head. “No, I don’t believe—” I grab his forearms tightly. “It’s not impossible. I believe you.”

I drag him from apothecary to apothecary, healer to healer. Each visit adds a stone to my sinking gut. None are able to treat my severed meridians. Still, I forge on. Of course, a cure will be rare, or all the vitalians would know how to treat it. I must keep searching.

I try again. An overweight, middle-aged man greets my entry into his apothecary with a sneer. “Can’t you see I’m packing up?”

Indeed, there are none of the usual herbs found in a healer’s apothecary. Instead, baskets and boxes and jars are stacked against one wall. Some of them moving, probably with snakes or spiders, for the venom.

“Are you Vitalian Dimos?” I call out.

“Not any longer. Soldad confiscated.”

“Confiscated?”

“Taken away. Destroyed.” He scowls into the distance, then snaps his tight gaze to me. “What did you want?”

“I—”

He grabs my hand roughly and reads my pulse. “Severed meridians. Even if I could help you, what’s the point? You were only par-linea.” He drops my hand and returns to his violent sweeping; I’m chased out of his store by a broom.

Nicostratus, who has waited patiently outside at every apothecary, raises a brow.

“Don’t ask.”

He doesn’t. He gestures to the road ahead, and we continue on.

My steps grow heavier as the list gets shorter.

Only one left.

“On the outskirts of the city,” Nicostratus murmurs. “It’ll be dark soon. Better to try tomorrow.”

Paper crunches under my grip.

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