Chapter 6
Carver
Rain lashed Carver’s face as he spun, dodging the blade that swung for him. His own sword arced through the air, but his attacker shifted to block it. Their longswords clashed as thunder cracked overhead.
Carver had locked down his emotions the second the first arrow flew. He was wholly focused on the fight at hand. And yet a flicker of cold fear remained.
Amryn’s terror-filled eyes, her face wracked with pain—those were the images that haunted him. It had gone against every instinct he had to leave her, but the carriage was the safest place for her. Jayveh’s bodyguards had formed a perimeter, a final defense.
Carver’s job was to end the threat entirely.
Another boom of thunder, the rumbling explosion echoing all around them.
Carver attacked with furious precision. His opponent grunted as he tried to absorb the relentless blows.
As their blades continued to hit and slide, Carver studied his attacker.
No uniform, yet he fought like a highly trained soldier.
No mask, but he seemed as lethal as any assassin. A rebel, Carver assumed.
Unfortunately, the man had at least a dozen companions, and they all seemed equally skilled in combat.
Arrows were no longer flying. The Esperance guards had at least ensured that much.
The attackers had abandoned their bows for swords.
They leaped from the mist, turning the muddy jungle road into a battleground.
Small skirmishes were happening all around Carver.
He caught a glimpse of Ivan when the Sibeten Wolf had shoved Samuel aside, sending the prince sprawling to the ground—but saving him from an assassin’s knife.
Carver ducked, narrowly avoiding his attacker’s blade. Steel flashed in the rain, and his attacker hissed. The man feinted left—Carver struck, his sword driving into the man’s gut.
Before he hit the ground, another assassin jumped in to take his place.
Carver fought relentlessly. Another kill. Then another.
He sensed the man come up behind him, and he ground his teeth as he swung—
Steel struck steel. Ivan’s cool blue eyes met Carver’s through the crossed blades. “That was the last one,” he said.
Adrenaline pumped through Carver, making it hard to process the man’s words. Danger still tightened the air, and his defenses remained high. But as he glanced around, he saw the Wolf was right. Bodies from both sides of the fight littered the ground. No enemies remained standing.
Carver pulled his blade away from Ivan’s, easing out of his fighting stance. “Take two men with you and scout the area. Make sure there aren’t any others.”
Ivan dipped his chin and strode away, sword in hand.
Carver skirted around the bodies of the men he’d killed, coming to the first he’d felled.
As he’d hoped, the gut wound had delivered a slow enough end that death hadn’t claimed him yet.
Lying in the mud, the man’s hands were clasped over his sliced abdomen.
His chest rose and fell in short, painful bursts.
Carver let the man watch as he wiped the blood from his blade on the body of a nearby enemy. He allowed no expression to mark his face. He could practically feel the man’s fear.
Carver sheathed his sword and crouched beside the dying man.
Rain rolled down both their faces, but Carver knew he had the man’s attention.
He drew a dagger from his belt, letting a remote coldness take over him as he said, “I can make your death quick, or I can make you beg for the Scorched Plains with every second you have left.”
Terror ghosted in the man’s eyes. “You’re the Butcher,” he rasped.
Carver’s only response was to flip the blade in his hand, bringing it closer to the man’s face. “Are you going to answer my questions or not?” His voice was low. Dark. Nothing like Raza’s, but—
He wrenched away from that thought, refusing to follow it.
A flinch twisted the dying man’s face. His pain had to be excruciating. Carver prayed they were far enough away from the carriage that Amryn wouldn’t feel it. But if there was even a slight chance she could . . .
Carver tightened his hold on the dagger to disguise the tremor in his hand. “Last chance,” he growled.
The man’s internal struggle didn’t last long. “I’ll answer your questions,” he grunted, his eyes filled with pain.
Carver didn’t waste time; he knew the man didn’t have much left. “Are you with the Rising?”
The man’s eyes widened slightly. “No.”
The surprise in his reaction was enough proof for Carver. Especially since most of the rebels that had died at Carver’s hand tended to be fanatics who used their last breaths to spout the Rising’s motto and chant death to the empire. None of that fanaticism existed in the man before him.
That left few options. Carver started with the most likely. “You’re an assassin.”
“Mercenary,” the man gasped. As if that were any better. He still killed for coin.
“Who hired you?” Carver asked.
“Don’t know.” The man’s face was leaching of color with every beat of his heart. “Koori got the job. He recruited the rest of us. Never heard a name.”
Carver gritted his teeth. “What were your orders?”
The man’s breathing turned reedy. “To kill the Empire’s Chosen. All of them.” Agony tore across his face. He glanced at the blade in Carver’s hand. “Please . . .”
Carver leaned closer, ignoring the plea as he brandished the knife. “Were you told we’d be traveling to Zagrev?”
“N-No. Supposed to sneak into the temple, but . . . saw you here . . . perfect place to . . .” He was fading.
Carver bit back a growl. “Where did you come from? Xerra? Craethen? How long ago were you hired?”
The man gazed at him with glassy eyes. His trembling lips parted. “Please . . . Mercy . . .”
Something stirred in Carver’s chest. Memories he didn’t want but could never forget crowded in. Other eyes, glazed with unspeakable anguish. Other broken whispers, begging him for help.
Carver’s breathing thinned. His hand flexed around his dagger.
A fractured rasp. “Mercy . . .”
Carver buried the blade in the man’s heart.
One exhale, and the assassin’s body sagged against the mud. Lifeless.
Carver jerked his knife free and swiped the blade over the man’s cloak, cleaning away the blood.
A gag sounded behind him. A quick look over his shoulder revealed Samuel standing there, his eyes wide. “He . . . He begged you for mercy.”
Carver’s jaw tightened. “That’s what I gave him.”
The prince of Wendahl’s throat bobbed as he struggled to swallow.
“Prince Samuel! General Vincetti!” Ahmi, drenched in rain and streaked in mud, ran toward them.
Carver shoved to his feet, sheathing his dagger as he scanned Amryn’s maid. Thankfully, he found no sign of injury. Amryn would have been devastated if she’d come to harm.
Ahmi was breathing hard when she reached them. Her foot slid in the mud, and Carver grabbed her arm to steady her.
The woman barely seemed to notice. “You must come quickly,” she gasped. “Princess Sadia was injured. She’s in the carriage with Princess Jayveh—”
Samuel bolted.
Ahmi’s gaze shifted to Carver. The distress in her watery eyes made his stomach drop. “Something’s wrong with Amryn,” the maid said. “We can’t find any wound, but she lost consciousness. She won’t wake.”
Dread pooled inside him. A curse fell from his lips as he darted after Samuel, Ahmi right behind him.
Samuel reached the carriage first. Sadia was on the floor, pale but breathing.
Jayveh held a makeshift bandage to the young woman’s shoulder, and she assured Samuel that a needle and thread had been sent for.
One of Jayveh’s bodyguards was kneeling near Sadia, but he immediately exited the carriage to make room for Samuel to jump inside.
The prince gently cradled his wife, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
A single tear rolled down his cheek as he murmured soft words of comfort.
The bloody arrow that had once been inside Sadia lay in two pieces at Zacharias’s feet.
The high cleric sat on one of the cushioned benches, silent, for once.
Amryn was lying on the opposite bench. She was always pale, but at the moment she was completely colorless.
With her eyes closed and her body slack, she might have been dead.
Carver’s lungs compressed. He jumped into the crowded carriage, ignoring everyone else as he crouched at his wife’s side.
One hand settled on her brow, the other dropping to check the pulse in her neck.
Strong. Steady.
His head bowed in abject relief, though panic still writhed inside him. He had no idea what was wrong with her. Didn’t know how to help her. There was still too much he didn’t know about empaths. He knew violence caused her pain, but she’d never lost consciousness from being around a fight.
“I think it was Sadia,” Jayveh said softly.
Carver’s pulse quickened, ice sliding into his veins. Sadia’s injury. Blazing Saints. His wife had healed Sadia. That’s why she was unconscious. She’d used her gift of healing, draining her own energy to save her friend’s life.
And Jayveh had seen.
“I think the blood made her feel faint,” Jayveh continued. “The moment the arrow was pulled out, she fell.”
Carver’s heart still beat too fast, but some of his alarm faded. Jayveh thought Amryn had fainted at the sight of Sadia’s blood. Of course that’s all she thought. It wasn’t common knowledge that some empaths could heal, and Jayveh didn’t even know that Zacharias suspected an empath had—
Zacharias.
Carver’s breath ground to a halt. Zacharias had been in the carriage when Amryn had healed Sadia.
The high cleric wasn’t a knight, so he had no way of discerning empaths, but he knew they had the ability to heal.
According to Felinus, it was the supernatural healings at the Feast of Remembrance that had convinced Zacharias to send for knights to come to Esperance.
Zacharias had also been standing with them when Amryn had grabbed Carver, trying to warn him of danger before the ambush. There was no way the high cleric had heard their words over the rain, but . . .
“I don’t know how that arrow didn’t pierce your lung,” one of Jayveh’s bodyguards said to Sadia, awe in his voice. “You’re blessed by the Divinities, that’s for certain.”
Tension bracketed Carver’s spine. He angled a look over his shoulder, just catching Jayveh’s relieved smile as she squeezed Sadia’s hand. “It’s a miracle,” the imperial princess said.
“Yes,” the high cleric murmured, his eyes sliding between Sadia and Amryn. “Miraculous.”