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“The tunnel?”

“You’ll see. Let’s go.”

Once more, my body becomes Quin’s crutch as we haul ourselves up the bank to Petros’s residence. He feels heavier today, as if the weight of the kingdom rests painfully on shoulders not quite big enough.

A dozen aklos and aklas are busy offloading luggage from carts when we pass through the iron gates. The drunken porter from the evening before spots us and hurries over.

“Has he arrived?” Quin asks.

The porter shakes his head. “The servants came ahead to get the house in order. The master’s an hour behind.”

“By which route?”

“The main roads are washed out. They’re coming via the badlands.”

Quin shifts subtly. He’s thinking, making quick plans. “Get us the cloaks you took from the soldiers and lend us a horse. One will do.”

“One?” I ask when the porter races off. Quin nods. He pulls a small dagger from inside his cloak, unsheathes it, and despite my sudden cry, slashes the back of his forearm.

“Our next act,” he says, clasping his other hand over the cut and smearing the blood over his bad leg. “I got hit in an attack. You were lucky, but lost your horse.”

Almost automatically, my hands vibrate with magic and the need to heal him.

Quin’s gaze flickers to me and away again. “It’s nothing but a scratch.”

“But you—you’re...Ishould’ve—”

“You’re not allowed to get hurt,” he says.

“Even if it’s just a scratch?”

“That’s an order.”

I grit my teeth. “I have an order, too. You won’t do this again.”

Quin’s eyes return to mine. “That’s not your call to make.”

“I’ll make it anyway.” I stare back, unflinching.

His lips twitch—a shadow of a smile. “Careful, Cael. You’re sounding awfully protective.”

My cheeks burn. “I’m a healer!”

Quin stares at me for a long-drawn moment before he hands me one of the passes I took from the redcloaks the day before. “Show this if you’re asked,” he says quietly. “No magic. Your talent will make him suspicious.”

We wrap red cloaks over our own, mount one of the less travel-worn horses, and ride.

The uneven road is flanked by giant sandstone rocks. Our horse’s hooves clomp and clatter over loose stone, crushing the prickly flowers growing in the cracks and kicking up dust as we go. A good stretch ahead, a simple carriage is making grooves through the rubble, moving slow, almost as if procrastinating. Perhaps its occupant suspects nothing good awaits him at home. We slow momentarily; the curtain twitches, the occupant peeking from the window. Quin digs his heels in again as the driver registers our uniforms. With a wince of pain detectable only by me snug behind him, he raises a hand, and the horses pull to a stop.

“What is this?” The freckled cheeks of a man in his thirties appear from behind the curtain. He freezes for a moment but quickly gathers his wits; he sends his driver out of earshot before he turns back to us. “Who sent you?”

Quin speaks, “We were sent on a mission, but we’ve been hunted since we left the palace.”

“Why come to me?”

“The men who attacked us mentioned you were next.”

He gulps and eyes us, frowning. “Show me your beads.”