The Fire Prince (The Cursed Kingdoms Trilogy Book 2) (59 page)

Harkeld crouched lower. “Are you sure it was Linea? It looked an awful lot like Innis.”

“I’m sure—” Justen recoiled as a throwing star hurtled towards them.

Burn
.

A lion bellowed somewhere to their right. Harkeld couldn’t see any horses. Hew lay where he’d fallen. Petrus was gone. A dozen yards behind them, a figure crouched close to the ground. Arnod, his face white and frightened.

A lion padded through the mist, its jaws blood-stained. It shifted into Hedín. “We think we’ve got them all,” he said grimly, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. “But stay here. Don’t move yet.” He raised his voice: “You, too, Arnod. Stay put.”

They crouched for another ten minutes, while warm rain pattered down and steam rolled across the ground. A few yards to their right, a pool bubbled like a simmering pot.

After a while, Justen said, “You saved my life. Thanks.”

“You’ve saved mine often enough.”

Finally Hedín came striding back. “We’ve caught the horses. Arnod, can you help settle them?” He jerked his thumb in the direction he’d come from. “Justen, Rand wants you up front as fast as you can. And Flin...” He turned to Hew’s body and sighed. “Can you help me with Hew, please? We’ll take him with us.”

“Linea is dead, too,” Justen said, standing, but not sheathing his sword.

“What?” Hedín jerked around. “Linea?”

“Flin saw it.”

Hedín’s gaze fastened on him. “Are you certain?”

Harkeld rose from his crouch. “I saw a throwing star cut a hawk in two. A small, black one.”

The color leached from Hedín’s face. “Where is she?”

“I’ll show you.”

“Are you sure it’s safe for him?” Justen asked.

“I’ll be with him,” Hedín said. “And Oren.” He pointed upwards, where a hawk hovered.

I
NNIS HURRIED THROUGH
the steam. She saw the horses, milling nervously, and Petrus standing, clutching his right arm, his face alarmingly pale beneath the unfamiliar dark hair, and the looming shape of Serril, half-hidden by wreathing coils of steam. And Rand sitting on the ground, Cora crouched in front of him.

She cast a worried glance at Petrus and went over to Rand. “You wanted to see me—? Oh!” All the fingers on his left hand were missing. She hastily crouched, reaching for his hand.

“Not yet,” Rand said through gritted teeth. “First do the horse and Petrus.”

“But—”

“I’ve stopped the bleeding and Cora’s found the fingers. One minute on the horse and five on Petrus, then come back to me.”

“Wash the fingers,” Innis told Cora hurriedly, pushing to her feet. “Use your waterskin. Make sure you rinse them completely clean. Completely clean, mind!”

The horse was Petrus’s, and it was missing half an ear. Blood streamed from the wound. Arnod held the animal still while Innis hastily sealed the blood vessels. Then she turned to Petrus. “What—?”

“Dislocated shoulder.” His face was pale, strained. “If you can put it back, I can do the rest.”

Innis helped him out of his cloak and jerkin. “What happened?”

“My horse dumped me.”

She eased off his shirt, wincing when she saw his shoulder. “This may hurt.”

He uttered a hoarse grunt of laughter. “It already does.”

Innis gripped his wrist in one hand and extended his elbow. She let her magic flow into him, coaxing the spasming muscles to relax. “Ready?”

Petrus held his breath, his eyes tightly squeezed shut. He groaned as the shoulder joint slid into place, and swayed, as if about to faint.

“Sit,” Innis said.

He obeyed without protest, looking drained and exhausted. Innis crouched alongside him and laid her hands on his shoulder.

“You should do Rand,” Petrus said. “His hand—”

“Let me check whether anything’s damaged.” She let her magic flow into him, exploring the tissues in his shoulder—muscles, tendons, ligaments, nerves—and frowned. It wasn’t the injury that alarmed her, it was Petrus himself. The person she knew—even-tempered, patient, quick to laugh and slow to anger—was buried beneath a turmoil of bitterness and jealousy and anger.

What?

She let her magic flow more deeply into him, healing the swelling and bruising around the shoulder joint, but also searching for the source of those turbulent emotions. What had upset him so much?

But even as she asked the question, her magic told her the answer.

The depth of Petrus’s love shocked her. It was far beyond the friendly affection she’d always sensed in him.
He wants to marry me?

Mixed in with the churning, bitter emotions was shame. He was deeply ashamed of his jealousy, deeply ashamed of his behavior last night. And he was exhausted and in pain and terrified for her safety.

“Petrus...”

“What?” he said, his head bowed and his eyes closed.

I’m sorry I didn’t know.
Regret pierced her. She touched her knuckles lightly to his cheek. “You know I love you.”

Petrus opened his eyes and frowned at her.

“You’re my family.”

His frown deepened. “We’re not related.”

“It’s not about blood.” She let her magic flow into him.
Calmness. Ease. Love
. “Do you remember the day I arrived at the Academy?” It was branded in her memory. She’d been newly orphaned, scared and bewildered and grieving, painfully shy, painfully alone.

He did remember. Her magic felt the surge of protectiveness the recollection invoked.

“You’ve been my brother since then.”

“Justen,” Cora called.

Innis leaned forward and kissed Petrus’s cheek, even though she was Justen. “I will
always
love you,” she said, and then she released his shoulder and pushed to her feet and hurried back to Rand.

Cora had washed all the fingers. Three of them lay on a scrap of cloak looking—grotesquely—like scrawny brown sausages. Rand held the forefinger in place on its stump.

Innis sat on the muddy ground and reached for the middle finger.

“Justen’s not a healer, is he?” Cora asked.

“No.” Innis hesitated, holding the finger. “Flin’ll be here shortly. If he sees this...”

“You’re helping me hold them in place,” Rand said. “While I do the healing. Cora doesn’t have the stomach for it.”

Cora snorted and stood. “How’s Petrus?”

Upset
. “His sword arm’s weak.”

“How weak?”

“Fine to ride, but he won’t last long in a fight. He’ll need more healing before he’s fully recovered.”

Cora grimaced. “Can’t be helped.” She strode over to help Arnod with the horses.

Innis carefully fitted the finger into its place. “Throwing star?”

“Mmm.”

She explored the damage, then bent her attention to repairing it—mending the blood vessels and coaxing blood to flow again, repairing the severed bone, encouraging the flesh to knit together. She was aware of Rand’s healing magic working alongside her own.

“Leave the tendons and nerves, I’ll do those later.”

“Are you certain? Your dexterity—”

“We haven’t the time.” Rand reached for the last two fingers and gave her one. “Hew’s dead?”

“Yes.” She fitted the little finger into place. “And Linea.”

Rand’s mouth twisted. He said nothing.

Innis released her healing magic, exploring, assessing. “How many Fithians were there?”

“Two.”

Innis rotated the little finger a fraction of an inch, until the sheared edges of bone matched perfectly. “How did they survive the breathstealers?”

“Only the All-Mother knows that. Though they must have been weakened by them. If they’d been at full strength, our losses would be greater.”

Prince Harkeld and Hedín came out of the steam, carrying Hew’s body. “Over here,” Cora called, beckoning them, holding the reins of Hew’s horse.

Innis mended Rand’s little finger as swiftly as she could while Hedín and the prince slung Hew over the horse’s saddle and lashed his body in place.

Cora came over and crouched. “How’s it going?”

“They’re not going to fall off again,” Rand said. “But I can’t use my hand yet.” He raised his voice slightly as the prince came to join them. “Thanks for holding them in place for me, Justen.”

“What happened?” the prince asked.

Rand displayed his left hand. “Fingers came off.”

The prince grimaced. “Ouch.” He bent, took Rand’s elbow, and helped him to his feet.

Innis stood and glanced around. Steam rose curling from a pool on her left, and behind that—

She flinched back a step, reaching for her sword, before realizing the sprawled man was dead.

Prince Harkeld jerked round. He drew his own sword. “What?”

“Sorry,” Innis said, while her heart beat thunderously with fright. “A dead Fithian. Over there.”

The prince slid his sword back into its scabbard. “Must be from Issel. Look at the color of his skin.”

“The other one’s a big blond brute,” Rand said. “Took two lions to bring him down. Let’s go. Get this over with.” He headed for the horses, Prince Harkeld at his heels.

Cora touched Innis’s arm, halting her. “How are you? You were up all night, and now this healing...”

“I’m fine,” Innis said. “Better than Rand and Petrus, anyway.” She rubbed her forehead. She was tired, even if she didn’t want to admit it. “Are you worried there’ll be more of them?”

“Aren’t you?”

Innis blinked, and looked at her uncertainly. “But, surely just one ambush...?”

“Fithians always turn up when you least want them to.” Cora looked towards the horses, where Arnod and Prince Harkeld were helping Rand to mount. Her gaze followed the prince as he went to his horse and swung up into the saddle. “Stay close to him.”

“I will.”

Cora nodded, took a step towards the horses, and turned back. “Oh, and—”

A throwing star buried itself in the back of Cora’s skull, knocking her sharply forward. Her head struck Innis’s chest, directly over her heart.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

I
NNIS FELL BACKWARDS
, clutching Cora. She hit the ground hard and thrust the body from her, rolling, shouting, reaching for her sword. A hawk shrieked overhead. She heard the muffled detonation of Prince Harkeld’s fire magic. The ground shook; Serril was charging. A lion roared to her right. Fire magic flashed.

Innis scrambled to her feet and ran for the horses, sword in hand. “Flin!” she bellowed. “Petrus!”

Fire magic flashed again. The prince was alive.

She thrust her way through panicked, riderless horses. There was Rand, crouched low on the ground. And Arnod. And Petrus standing with his sword drawn, and behind him, Prince Harkeld, his hand raised to throw fire.

Petrus’s gaze snapped to her. His face flooded with relief.

Innis ran to them. “You all right?”

“Get down,” the prince said brusquely. “You, too, Petrus. Give me space to see.”

Innis grabbed his left arm, hauling him to his knees. “You, too.”

The prince shook her hand off, but didn’t stand again.

They waited, crouching. Innis strained to hear past the patter of rain and the faraway bubbling of boiling water and the hard hammering of her heart. Beneath the alertness was knowledge:
Cora’s dead
.

They all tensed as a figure strode out of the steam. Hedín, his face grim. “We got him.”

“I thought you had them all last time,” Rand said tersely. “How do we know there aren’t more?”

“We don’t. Now hurry. Help me with the horses. We’ve got to get out of here. This place is a cursed trap.”

Innis stood. “Cora’s body—”

“We’ll take her with us. Arnod, Petrus, Flin—the horses. Justen, help me with Cora.”