Page 19

TYCHO

I tend the horses while Malin catches, then cooks, dinner. Callyn’s bakery and Jax’s forge will be sold in the coming months, but for now, they’re both deserted and set away from the main road. The bakery is boarded closed, and it’s nearer to the road anyway, so we ride on to the forge instead. The main house is also boarded up, but the forge itself is more of an open-sided shed, so we’ll have shelter with the horses—and plenty of warning if anyone ventures back this way.

While Malin is cooking, I haul water from the well for the horses, then for us, then rinse the dirt from my hair. The cold is a shock to my senses, a relief and an assault all at once, and I shiver when a few drops run down my back.

I’ve made this trip a thousand times, but I can’t remember when it’s ever seemed to take so long. I don’t know if it’s leaving Jax, or if it’s the heavy weight of everything going wrong, but every step we take seems mired in quicksand.

I flex my shoulders, my muscles aching from so much riding, my skin a bit raw from the armor. I’ve been mindful of saddle sores on the horses, but days in the rain haven’t done much for the constant friction of my own gear. I stride across the courtyard to join Malin by the fire, and then, against my better judgment, I unbuckle my weapon belts and lay the sword and dagger in the leaves beside my bow. With swift fingers, I unbuckle the breastplate and jerk it over my head.

Malin watches me with raised eyebrows. “Yeah?”

I nod. “Go ahead.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He leaves his greaves and bracers in place like I did, but the heavier pieces drop in the dirt beside the fire. He roughs up his sweat-stiffened hair and goes back to the rabbits he was turning on a spit. “For a while there, I thought we were going to push on for the palace.”

I thought about it, but I don’t say that. “Thank you for cooking.”

“Don’t thank me until you try it.”

“I’m hungry enough that I’d eat them raw.”

That’s true, but when he pulls the rabbits from the fire and I take my share, I find that the meat is tender and juicy, better than I was expecting. We eat in silence for a while, until Malin eventually says, “I didn’t mean to grab you like that. I didn’t want them to think they needed to detain you.”

There’s a careful note in his voice. Much like when he told the story about stealing Sephran’s clothes, Malin is quietly perceptive. It’s an underrated skill in a soldier—and a valuable skill in an officer. He said it was important to him to serve under the king, so I’ll have to see if I can find an opportunity to make mention of it to Grey.

I look over. “It’s all right. I’m glad we got past.”

“I forgot that they torture prisoners here.”

“Not anymore. The queen doesn’t stand for it.” But as I say the words, they sound a bit hollow. It was clear what Captain Sen Domo was offering.

“Don’t they have that torture chamber? The Stone Prison, right? Lukus Tempas ?”

“They do. But it’s just a prison now.” I peer at him, because now I’m curious. “How did you come to learn Syssalah?”

“My father was an army captain at the outpost near Willminton. During the first invasion, when Syhl Shallow’s army was driven out of Emberfall, there were a lot of soldiers who tried to infiltrate the towns. To lie in wait for more, you know?”

I nod, but I don’t really know. During the first invasion, I was barely fifteen, far south of the battles in Rillisk.

“My father would get reports and round them up,” he continues. “The outpost had a small prison at the back, so he kept them there to wait for orders on what to do with them. Willminton was nearly crushed when Syhl Shallow first attacked, so my father didn’t want me to join the army, but I was nineteen, and I’d already submitted my papers. I was just awaiting news on where to report. So he started giving me the worst kind of jobs you’d give a recruit. Cleaning latrines, shoveling horse manure, that kind of thing. But also feeding and tending the prisoners.” Malin shrugs a little. “That part wasn’t too terrible. I could tell they were afraid at first. Some of them had a lot of scars. A few were missing fingers. I remember thinking I would not be eager to join Syhl Shallow’s army.”

I nod. I remember hearing stories like this from when I was a recruit on this side of the border. “The old queen was vicious, and punished failure pretty severely.”

“Eventually they would talk to me,” he says. “At first, I picked up a few words here and there, and when I’d use them, they taught me more. I’m sure they were bored, but so was I, and this went on for months . It got to a point where we could almost have a conversation.”

“And then what happened?”

“I got my first orders. I had to report for training.” He looks over. “When I finally earned leave to visit my parents, the soldiers were gone. My father said they were released because we were at peace, but I have no idea if they went back to Syhl Shallow or if they found a place in Emberfall. I never saw them again.”

“Wow. I’m not sure that’s a very uplifting story, Malin.” I pull the last piece of meat from my meal and toss the bone into the fire.

He laughs. “I didn’t say it was uplifting.”

“You learned a lot from the prisoners.”

“It’s not all from them. I’ve picked up more over the years. I try to practice anytime I can, especially when soldiers from the Queen’s Army travel into Emberfall.”

“You should have told me.” I switch to Syssalah and add, “We could have been practicing this whole time.”

He winces a little, then responds in kind. “I tired. Bad student. But I can try.” He grins. “No more books.”

I frown, not understanding. “No more books?”

He makes a frustrated sound. “Books . . . books . . . stories . No more stories. No words.”

That makes me smile. I take pity on him and switch back to Emberish. “Tomorrow then.” I pause. “I’m glad you speak as much as you do. It helped put Jax at ease.”

I’m not sure what he hears in my voice, whether it’s longing or concern or just a note of warmth, but whatever it is, Malin picks up on it. His focus sharpens and he looks over.

I lock my eyes on the fire and wish I hadn’t said anything at all.

A flush crawls up my neck. I hope it’s dark enough that he won’t see. There’s complete silence for a long moment, and I think he’s going to let it go.

Of course he doesn’t. “You and the blacksmith, hmm?”

That flush has climbed to my jaw. “Well.”

But then I don’t know what else to say.

Apparently I don’t need to say anything else, because Malin straightens, rolling onto his knees. “I knew it! Silver hell, Sephran owes me ten coppers.”

I snap my head up. “You bet on it?” I demand.

“When it’s a sure thing, absolutely.”

I cannot believe this. “Wait—but how ? How did you know? We were hardly even together when we traveled.”

“Please. Have you seen the way he looks at you?” Malin’s face goes slack, his eyes widening, his lips parting just a bit—-

“Oh, stop it.” I shove him hard enough to knock him over.

He’s laughing, lying in the dirt, and I smile in spite of myself.

But then his laughter cuts short, and he stares up at the darkening sky. “Tycho.” He swears and scrambles for his weapons just as an ice-cold wind whips through our camp to make the fire flicker.

We haven’t seen a scraver in days, but my hand is already on my breastplate.

“Malin!” I snap. “Armor first!”

But his bow is in hand, arrows pinned in his palm. He’s firing at the sky just as an earsplitting screech peals across the small clearing. I’ve thrown my breastplate over my head, but I don’t stop to buckle it. I find the shadow between the trees, wings obscuring the stars. My bow is already in my hand, and I’m shooting, too. I want to tell Malin to stop, that I’ll cover him while he pulls on his own armor, but the scraver’s screech suddenly goes more shrill.

Malin’s eyes go wide. “We hit it!” he cries. “We hit—”

Another shriek cuts him off. The scraver crashes through branches and barely misses our fire when it lands, half in a crouch. The arrow is all the way through one muscled arm, piercing the wing behind, which now hangs crooked. Blood glistens in the firelight, the scraver’s smoky gray skin seeming to absorb the shadows. His chest rises and falls rapidly, and familiar black eyes flash in my direction. Ice forms on the rocks, melting immediately in the heat from the fire.

Silver hell.

“Magesmith,” says Nakiis, and my hands freeze on my bow.

Malin’s don’t. His next arrow snaps off the string.

“No!” I shout. “Hold!”

But the arrow drives right into Nakiis’s shoulder, tearing into the wing behind. The scraver recoils from the impact, fangs bared. Bitter wind sweeps through the campsite, nearly putting out our fire altogether. The horses spook and pull at their tethers.

Malin already has another arrow nocked, but he hasn’t fired. He’s obeyed my order.

It doesn’t matter. Or maybe it does—in the worst way. Nakiis slams right into him, claws and fangs bared. Malin doesn’t even get a chance to cry out. They go skidding into the dirt, and blood erupts on his tunic as Nakiis’s claws drive into his chest.

Malin never put his armor back on.

If I’m grateful to Grey for anything, it’s years and years of so many drills and so much training that every possible outcome to a fight feels routine—even this one. I’ve got a grip on that impaled wing and a blade against Nakiis’s throat before panic has even occurred to me.

“Let him go,” I snap.

Nakiis does—but he turns on me. He’s quick, but I have a grip on his injured wing, and it gives me leverage. Once he’s off balance, I’m able to throw him to the ground. I pin him with a knee on his chest and my sword against his neck, and then I look over at Malin.

The soldier is half crumpled on his side. Blood is everywhere : in a spray across his tunic, in a slick across his jaw, in wide streaks in the dirt. He’s not moving.

I look back down at Nakiis, and it takes everything I have not to end him right here. Ice crawls up the length of my blade, and it seems the feeling is rather mutual.

“You made a vow to me, magesmith,” he growls. “Is this how you keep your promises?”

“You attacked us !”

“No. I did not.”

I stare at him. My breath is making rapid clouds in the chilled air between us. His black eyes gleam in the firelight, and ice continues to crawl up my blade.

But he’s right. We shot first.

“If you’re going to save him,” Nakiis says, “I would think your time grows short.”

I let the scraver go. My sword drops in the dirt. I pull Malin onto his back. Nakiis didn’t tear his throat out, but nearly. His teeth tore through a stretch of Malin’s jaw, and claws ripped through his shoulder, down into the muscles of his chest and abdomen. I can’t tell if he’s breathing, and there’s no time to check. I just press my hand to the injury and let the sparks and stars of my magic flare.

At first there’s nothing, and I swear.

“You cannot force it,” says Nakiis. His voice is quieter, as if he’s drawn away. “You know this.”

He’s right. I do know this. But there’s so much blood. I’m worried it’s too late, like that first man who was torn apart.

I force myself to take a shuddering breath. To let the magic slip through my fingers. And then, to my surprise, icy wind swirls around me, Nakiis lending his magic to mine. As I watch, the skin of Malin’s jaw begins to pull together, to re-form, leaving nothing but blood smeared on his skin.

I move to the tears in his chest and shoulder, and I have to draw one of my throwing blades to slice the rip in his tunic wider.

I should have started here. Bone glistens through the claw marks. A rib is cracked, maybe two. There’s so much blood that it’s soaked into the fabric underneath him.

But when I touch a hand to the deepest wound and allow my magic to flare, Malin makes a sound, his body jerking a little. His chest expands as he inhales.

“Yes,” I say. “Breathe.”

The next claw mark is easier, especially with Nakiis’s magic swirling through the clearing to share his power. This time Malin whimpers, and his eyelids flicker. That’s almost worse. His hands lift, and he tries to curl in around the pain. But the ribs straighten, the fractures healing, the skin closing. When I touch the next claw mark, his eyes snap open, and he cries out when my magic flares. He’s gained some strength, and he tries to sit up, to fight me, and I actually have to pin him down. His eyes are wide, a little panicked, but there’s still three clawed grooves under his rib cage, deep enough that they’ve nicked vital organs. Blood—and worse things—seep from them all.

I could try to coax him to settle, but I know what I’d listen to if I were panicking.

I harden my voice into an order. “ Lieutenant. Be still.”

He goes still at once, but he speaks through gritted teeth. “Did you kill it?”

“No. This will hurt at first. Don’t move.” I touch a hand to the next mark.

When the sparks and stars flicker in my vision, he hisses a breath—then lets it out slowly when the pain eases away. “Magic?”

“Yes.” I hesitate, remembering how much fear exists in both countries. It seems silly to ask when the alternative was his death, but I lift my hand. “Is that all right?”

“Yes. I didn’t—I didn’t know you—” He hisses again as I touch the next mark.

“Very few people know,” I say. I add this to the list of things the king will likely hold against me. “I’m not supposed to use it. I’d appreciate it if you kept it between us.”

He nods, then cranes his neck to look out at the darkness. “You didn’t kill it? Where did it—” He freezes, and his voice drops to a whisper. “Tycho. It’s by the trees. Get your bow.”

I glance over. Nakiis has withdrawn a good distance away, and he now sits crouched in the darkness under the trees well across the clearing. Both arrows are still driven through his arm and his wing, because one wing hangs crookedly, while the other is folded tight against his back. He’s breathing hard, and I’m sure he wants to flee, but he clearly can’t fly.

“Neither of you will be getting your hands on a bow, soldier,” Nakiis growls, and that icy wind whips through the trees again.

Malin gasps and tries to sit up.

I sigh and push him back down. “One more.”

But I look over at the scraver again. Our bows are on the ground at his feet.

I suppose I can’t blame him for that.

Malin looks at me and keeps his voice low. “They can talk.”

“Yes. They can.” I watch my magic knit the final wound back together. “And there’s no point in keeping your voice down. He’ll hear anything you say.” I point at where we stashed our saddlebags. “Go find some fresh clothes.”

Malin sits up and rubs a hand across his jaw, as if startled to find it whole. But when he stands, he looks at the scraver, and the air thickens with hostility. He might be half coated in blood, in a shredded tunic, but he’s still wearing half of his weapons.

Another cold wind rushes through, kicking up dead leaves. “Do you want me to cause an injury he can’t heal with magic?” says Nakiis.

“Go ahead and try.” Malin slips a knife out of the sheath on his bracer. “I think my odds are pretty good now.”

The scraver begins to uncurl from under the tree.

The day has been too long. I step between them. “ No. Malin. Find a new tunic.”

His eyes don’t leave the scraver. “I’m not leaving you alone with . . . ? that .”

“I’m going to heal his injuries the way I healed yours, so you should.”

Malin looks like I just told him I’m going to set myself on fire. “You’re going to what ?”

“He didn’t attack us. We attacked him .” I draw a heavy sigh and look across the clearing at the scraver. “And I was already in his debt, so I’m also going to see if I can make amends.”