The Fire Prince (The Cursed Kingdoms Trilogy Book 2) (61 page)

“Let’s have a look.” Justen took Prince Harkeld’s hand and turned it over.

Petrus flinched. The prince’s palm looked as if it had been flayed. The skin was completely gone. He saw pink flesh, beaded with blood.

He glanced instinctively at the anchor stone. Yes, the skin was there. A perfect handprint. He frowned and looked more closely. The skin was dissolving into the anchor stone.

“Petrus,” Justen said. “You need to heal him. Stop the bleeding, at least.”

“Yes,” Petrus said, staring at the anchor stone. “It’s eating your skin. Look.”

The prince stepped closer. “What’s going to happen at the third stone, d’you think? Maybe it’ll take my whole hand off?” Flippant words, but with an undertone of unease.

We can hope so,
Petrus thought, then quashed the thought as unworthy.

“Of course not,” Justen said firmly. “Petrus, his hand.”

CHAPTER NINETY-ONE

“M
OVE,
” B
ENNICK MUTTERED
. “Move.” His voice was hoarse with the effort of holding the bowstring taut, his breathing strained.

CHAPTER NINETY-TWO

A
CRACK APPEARED
in the anchor stone, snaking across its surface. The thick curse shadows covering it frayed, dissolving like the prince’s skin.

“Petrus,” Justen said. “His
hand
.”

“Yes, yes,” Petrus said, watching another crack spring to life. A groaning noise came from within the anchor stone, as if it was about to disintegrate.

“Petrus!”

“All
right
.” He turned and reached for the prince’s hand.

The prince grinned. “Should be a nursemaid, shouldn’t he?”

Petrus found himself grinning back. He broke their eye contact, looking down at the prince’s hand.
Rut it, I don’t want to like you
.

He gathered his healing magic and turned his attention to stopping the bleeding.

With a brief, whirring thud, an arrow buried itself in Prince Harkeld’s chest. The prince fell backwards, his hand wrenching from Petrus’s grip.

CHAPTER NINETY-THREE

“T
HE PRINCE
!” J
AUMÉ
screamed. “You shot the prince!”

Bennick, fallen on one knee, panting, with the bow on the ground beside him, grinned. “Saved our honor, Jaumé. Made the kill.”

CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR

P
ETRUS DUCKED AND
scrambled after the prince.

Justen reached him first. “Harkeld!”

The prince’s eyes were open, blinking, his mouth gasping. The arrow embedded in his chest quivered with each beat of his heart.

“We’ve got to get out of range! Take his legs.” Justen seized Prince Harkeld under his arms.

The anchor stone disintegrated behind them with a gritty sigh. Gray dust billowed outward.

Petrus grabbed the prince’s legs. They were as limp as if he was already dead.

They carried the prince fifty yards around to the far side of the island, panting, scrambling, crouching low. Petrus felt as if he had a target painted on his back. The shoulder he’d dislocated ached fiercely. He gritted his teeth and glanced back. The far bank of the Yresk had slid out of sight behind the island. “Here. This should do.”

They laid the prince down. Justen tore open his jerkin and shirt. Petrus winced at sight of the arrow impaling Prince Harkeld’s chest. There was no doubt it had gone through his heart.
It’s a killing wound
.

But the prince was still alive, his eyes still blinking, his mouth still gasping, the arrow still quivering.

Serril dropped down beside them. “Hedيn’s fetching Rand. Can you keep him alive?”

“Yes,” Justen said. His head was bowed, his hands pressed to Prince Harkeld’s chest.

Petrus caught Serril’s eye and shook his head.
He’s dead
.

“One chamber of his heart, and an artery,” Justen muttered. He raised his head. “Petrus, I need you to pull the arrow out a quarter of an inch when I say so. Just quarter of an inch, mind!”

“What?” His gaze jerked to Justen. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. The arrow’s not barbed, it—”

“No. Are you sure you can heal him?”

“Yes. Now hurry!”

Petrus was alarmed by the desperation in Justen’s voice, the wildness in his eyes.
Is Innis prepared to die with the prince? Does she love him that deeply?

Justen’s voice rose. “Help me, curse it!”

“Not unless you promise to stop if he dies.”

“Petrus, there’s no time—”

“Promise me, Innis. He dies, you stop.
Promise
. Or I’m not helping you.”

“Petrus is right,” Serril said. “It would be a waste of your life.”

Justen glanced frantically from Serril to Petrus. “All right! I promise. Now help me!”

Petrus reached for the arrow.

“Quarter of an inch,” Justen said, bending over the prince. “On my say-so.”

Petrus gripped the arrow shaft. He wasn’t sure he trusted Innis’s promise.
I’m hauling you off the instant he dies,
he vowed grimly.

I
NNIS PATCHED THE
artery with rough haste. “Half an inch,” she said, her hands pressed to the prince’s chest, her magic wrapped around his heart, keeping it beating despite the arrow buried in it.

The arrowhead jerked up, blood flooded outwards, Prince’s Harkeld’s heart stuttered. Innis concentrated fiercely, mending the sliced muscle, keeping the rhythm of his heart going as best she could. This patch couldn’t be rough. It needed to be strong, robust. She poured her magic into him, encouraging the muscle fibers to knit together.

“Is the arrow still in his heart?” she heard Serril ask.

“Yes,” Petrus said. “It went through one chamber and pierced the artery underneath.” She felt his healing magic alongside hers, a faint presence, not distracting her, just monitoring. “She’s fixed the artery and she’s now onto the chamber, mending the lower hole... if that makes sense?”

Apparently it did, for Serril asked no more questions.

Innis glanced at Petrus. “All right, all the way out of his heart.”

“But not his body?”

She shook her head and turned her attention back to the prince.

Petrus pulled the arrow upwards. Blood gushed, some of the tendons anchoring the valve tore.

Innis worked frantically, sealing the wound, mending the valve, keeping his heart pumping.

Petrus and Serril were silent.

At last the muscle was healed, the valve firmly attached to its thread-like tendons, the heart beating with a strong, regular rhythm.

Innis looked up, feeling drained, and smiled at Petrus. “You can pull it all the way out now.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to wait for Rand? He’ll be here soon.”

She shook her head.

“You’re shaking, you know.”

So she was, a trembling that went right inside her body. Even her bones felt like they were shaking.

“Best wait for Rand,” Petrus said, gripping the arrow shaft. “You’ve almost reached your limit.”

Innis sat back and wiped her face. Petrus was right. She felt suddenly dizzy. Tiny lights like fireflies swooped across her vision. She closed her eyes.

“Serril,” Petrus said. “Hold the arrow, will you?”

An arm came around her, holding her, supporting her.

“Is she all right?” Serril asked worriedly.

“That was faster, stronger healing than we’ll ever see again in our lives,” Petrus said. She felt his healing magic touch her, felt a little strength trickle into her, faint and welcome. “That was amazing, Innis,” he said in her ear. “I didn’t think anyone could heal like that.”

Innis opened her eyes and leaned her head against his shoulder. “Thanks.”

The prince stirred, lifting his head, his expression dazed.

“Lie down,” Serril told him, before he could see the arrow protruding from his chest.

Prince Harkeld obediently lowered his head. After a moment his hand fumbled across his chest. Serril caught it before he could find the arrow. “And don’t move, either.”

“It hurts,” the prince said, his voice hoarse. “What happened? Have I been kicked by a horse?”

“Something like that,” Serril said. “Rand’ll be here any minute. Just lie still. You’ll be fine.”

“Where are we?” the prince said. “I thought...” He coughed, a raspy sound, his chest heaving.

“Don’t cough!” Innis cried.

H
ARKELD SWAM SLOWLY
back to consciousness. He blinked, looking up at the anxious faces clustered over him.

“Was it the arrow?” the black-bearded man said. “Did I push it in again?”