Chapter 62
Carver
Carver’s entire body throbbed with the need to reach Amryn. Every man that got in his way was an enemy. Every blade that flew for him, he met with vicious force. When Amryn was carried through the gate and he lost sight of her, he roared her name.
Ford and Ivan fought on either side of him.
The rebels fought with skill—skills they’d no doubt honed on the emperor’s own training grounds—as well as fanatical desperation.
They were fighting so their superiors could get away.
They knew they were fighting to the death. Every brutal strike proved it.
Every attempt Carver made to chase after his wife was blocked. He killed one rebel, only to have another dodge forward to take his place. Frustration collided with desperation, making him shout, “Ford!”
His friend was fighting on his left, but he instantly knew what Carver needed. He leapt into the melee and drew the rebel’s attacks. Freed from the fight, Carver swerved around them and ran for the open gate.
Movement flickered in his periphery. A rebel, charging him.
Carver gripped his sword with both hands, still running, ready to swing. Refusing to stop.
Ivan lunged between them, his sword clashing with the enemy’s. “Find her!” he yelled.
Carver ran faster. Caution meant nothing. His attention was fixed on the open gate. He trusted Ivan and Ford to guard his back. He would destroy anything that came between him and his wife.
He leaped over a woman’s prone body, recognizing belatedly it was Tam. Dead or alive, it didn’t matter to him right now. Reaching Amryn was his only goal.
He was nearly to the gate when he saw Janson in the street beyond, a blood-streaked dagger in hand, step toward Amryn. She was struggling against the large man who held her pinned from behind.
Carver’s vision narrowed.
He slammed into the chancellor’s side, blade first.
Janson stiffened as Carver’s sword thrust into him. A gasp snatched his final breath. Eyes wide, he gaped at Carver.
Vibrating with adrenaline and rage, knowing Amryn was still in the hands of a rebel, Carver jerked his sword free.
The dagger in Janson’s hand fell to the cobblestones with a clatter, a second before he crumpled to the ground.
Carver pivoted.
Amryn was pale, her eyes filled with pain and fear.
The rebel had her pulled flush against his chest. One arm was banded around her middle and one hand strangled her wrist. The ring Carver had given her flashed in the moonlight, the needle exposed.
Amryn had fought. Pride filled him, though he hated that she’d been in danger. That she was still in danger.
His bloody hand clenched around his longsword, Carver stalked forward.
The rebel cringed back, using Amryn as a shield. “Stop, or I’ll—”
Amryn doubled over as she threw up.
The rebel released her with a disgusted hiss.
A growl tore from Carver as Amryn stumbled, tripping on her skirt and crashing to her hands and knees.
The rebel bolted.
Carver burned with the need to chase him down, but the need to reach Amryn was stronger.
He fell to his knees beside her, dropping his sword so he could grab hold of her.
She was trembling, the back of one hand wiping her mouth. The other was braced against the cobblestones, fingers curled so tightly her knuckles were leeched of all color. Tears filled her eyes. She was shaking.
She was in agony.
His throat constricted, making words impossible. He simply pulled her into his arms, pressing his lips to the top of her head. Breathing her in—holding her—loosened the vice around his chest enough for him to say, “It’s all right. You’re all right. I’ve got you.”
Witnessing her pain was excruciating. Knowing there was nothing he could do to soothe it made him half-mad.
He gave her hushed words. A firm embrace.
But even as he did that, he wanted to curse.
She had the bloodstone. It was supposed to protect her.
If it couldn’t do its job and shield her from the suffering and death around them, what was the bloody point of it?
Then he tensed. What if her pain wasn’t merely emotional? He’d seen no marks, but— “Are you hurt?” he asked.
She shook her head, and some of his tension released.
He reached for the ring on her hand, gently pushing the gem back into place so she wouldn’t accidentally prick herself—or him—with the needle.
“It worked,” she croaked. “I used it on Tam.” Her breathing was uneven, and she was still too rigid in his arms. “I couldn’t let her escape, but . . .”
He ran a hand over her hair, trying to soothe her. And perhaps himself. “I don’t care about that. I’m just glad you’re safe.”
She grabbed his wrist, her eyes sharp. “Carver, she knows.”
His brow furrowed—then ice shot through his veins. Tam knew Amryn was an empath. The second she regained consciousness, she could begin telling anyone who would listen.
“Carver! Amryn!” Ford skidded into the alley, eyes wide. He paled at the sight of them on the ground. “Is she—?”
“I’m fine,” Amryn broke in. Her voice sounded stronger.
Carver was still grappling with the imminent threat Tam posed when Ivan arrived, his expression a mask of lethal intensity.
Ford spotted Janson’s body. “Did Jamir escape, then?”
“He’s in the wagon,” Amryn said. She swallowed hard, her revulsion clear as she said, “Janson killed him.”
Ivan moved to look in the wagon while Ford gave a low whistle. “No loyalty among rebels, apparently.”
“Jamir knew the identity of the rebel leader,” Amryn said, her expression grim. “As soon as Janson realized escape wasn’t possible, he killed Jamir so the secret would die with him.” She looked at Carver. “Janson was Bram’s superior. He’s been a rebel all this time.”
Carver had pieced that together. One thing he didn’t know was—
“Why did he wish to take you, il mishka?” Ivan asked, stealing Carver’s question.
The skin around Amryn’s eyes tightened. “Apparently, the leader of the Rising wanted to see me.”
Carver stiffened. “Why?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“The Rowan,” Ivan murmured. “It is a title the leader of the Rising adopted.”
“Yes.” Amryn’s brow furrowed. “How did you know . . .?” Her eyes suddenly widened. “The guard in the prison. He’s still alive?” Worry and hope warred in the desperate question.
“Yes,” Carver said. “Samuel stayed with him so he wouldn’t be alone. I’m sure a physician is with him by now.”
“He’s the one who told us which way you’d gone,” Ford added. “Without him, we might have been too late.”
Carver’s gut twisted at the mere thought.
The way Amryn slipped her hand around his made him certain she’d felt his fear. He squeezed her hand in return.
When she moved to stand, he rose with her, helping to draw her to her feet. He looped an arm around her waist, keeping her close. Then he focused on Ford. “I want you to get Tam secured in a cell. She got a dose of voralis but should otherwise be fine.”
Ford glanced at Amryn. “Well done.”
She gave him a small smile, but Carver could feel the tension in her.
He tightened his hold. “Ford? No one talks to Tam but me. Don’t let anyone into her cell.”
Curiosity flickered in Ford’s eyes, but he dipped his chin before striding back toward the palace yard. Carver could hear voices as reinforcements arrived. They were too late to help with the fight, but they could help clean it up.
Glancing at Janson’s body, Carver angled Amryn toward the gate. “Let’s get you inside. Ahmi can draw you a bath, and—”
She laid a hand on his chest, halting him. “We need to tell Jayveh that Jamir is dead. And that we have Tam.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Carver said, though the thought of leaving Amryn made his stomach knot.
Her palm pressed more firmly against him. “I want to come with you.” The look in her eyes made it clear that she was just as reluctant to separate.
He brushed a kiss to her temple. “All right.”
She relaxed against his side.
Ivan strode over to collect Carver’s dropped sword. “I will clean this and return it to your room.”
“Thank you,” Carver said. He had a couple other knives, just in case. But taking care of his sword right now would mean letting go of Amryn, and that was something he wasn’t willing to do.
“Did everything go all right in the treasury?” Amryn asked.
Bram’s face was suddenly all Carver could see.
“We arrested the rebels,” Ivan said, tone neutral.
Amryn’s lips pressed into a line. “Was Bram very upset?”
Ivan looked to Carver.
He knew the truth would cause her pain—but he could not keep this from her. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Bram is dead.”
Amryn’s focus cut to him, surprise, grief, and horror rising in her sea-green eyes. “H-How? The plan—”
“Bram attempted to kill Carver,” Ivan cut in. “His death could not be avoided.”
Carver was a little surprised Ivan didn’t tell Amryn the full truth—that Carver had been the one to end Bram’s life. He didn’t think it was for his sake, but still. He met Ivan’s gaze before he met Amryn’s shocked stare. “He came at me, and I reacted without thought. I’m sorry.”
Moisture filled her eyes, and he braced. She laid a palm against his cheek. “Did he hurt you?”
A little thrown, he shook his head, even though the cut on his ribs smarted.
This time, Ivan betrayed him. “He got a slice on the ribs.”
Carver threw him a glare.
Amryn immediately looked toward his side, but Carver caught hold of her wrist, squeezing gently. “I’m fine,” he assured her. “I’ve gotten deeper scratches from Fowler’s mutt.”
Amryn didn’t look fully convinced, but she let it go—at least for now, while they had an audience. But she held his gaze as she whispered, “I’m sorry he hurt you.”
He brushed a loose curl behind her ear. “Let’s go find Jayveh.”
Then they could begin to put this night behind them.