Chapter 42
Carver
Carver’s heart pounded as he stared at Amryn, but he wasn’t entirely sure it was her looking back at him. Her ethereal green eyes were remote. Unseeing. Almost cold.
A chill snaked through him, aggravating the fear already clawing inside him. Amryn had just healed him in the middle of a public square filled with witnesses. And not just any witnesses.
Rhone.
Carver had no idea where the knight was, but he was definitely too close. The bloodstone may have shielded Amryn from detection in the past, but she hadn’t been actively using her empathic gifts then. Not like now.
Terror sliced deep, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. His fear was only exacerbated by the fact that she’d used the bloodstone to save him. A thing that had almost killed her in Esperance. Something that had frightened her when she’d used it last.
She didn’t seem frightened of it now.
That horrific amulet was still glowing, red light peeking between her fingers—and his, since he’d grabbed her hand.
His stomach dropped. He snatched the bloodstone from her grasp, the chain tensing against her neck, making her body rock forward.
The glow died, and Amryn blinked. As if cutting off her physical connection with the bloodstone had somehow broken its hold on her.
Her pale face was streaked with tears. Her hair was a tangled mess, falling from its braid.
The slash of a red curl against the pale skin of her cheek looked just as violent as the blood smearing her neck and the base of her throat.
That red hair had been the beacon he’d run toward in the crowd, all while praying he wouldn’t be too late.
Saints, if he hadn’t heard Ford shouting her name . . .
“Carver . . .” Amryn swayed.
He caught her, dragging her against his chest.
They were both breathing too hard. She was slumped against him, but he easily held her weight. There was no weakness in his body. Not even a twinge of pain, though he’d been stabbed. Twice. Only the memory of the pain remained, whispering that he should be dead. The sensation was jarring. Wrong.
He shoved that aside so he could assess Amryn.
The side of her neck was still bleeding, and the bruising around her eye and cheekbone was swelling.
She had some scrapes on her palms, and the back of one hand was already darkening with a nasty bruise.
There were probably other bruises he couldn’t see, but he couldn’t find any other wounds.
She was clearly drained of energy, though.
Her head was resting on his shoulder, her breaths feathering too weakly against his neck.
“I’m fine,” she whispered. “Just tired.”
Using the bloodstone had taken something from her, just like it had in Esperance. At least this time she hadn’t fallen unconscious.
“Are you both all right?” Ford demanded.
Carver jolted. Awareness rushed back in, and he tensed.
A quick scan of the rooftops showed no sign of any shooters.
Or Rhone. And the fighting in the square seemed to be dying out.
Carver had found three city guardsmen while he’d searched for Amryn, but it was the arrival of the reinforcements that had truly managed to break up the attack.
Carver had glimpsed masked men darting away the second the city guard was spotted.
A few had clung to the violence, like the man who had nearly killed Amryn.
And the man who would have killed him, if not for Amryn.
“Carve?” Ford pressed, urgency riding his tone.
Carver swallowed once. “Yes. We’re all right.”
“Are you sure? I could have sworn I saw that man’s knife come out of your back. And you’ve got blood all—”
“It’s not mine,” he interrupted. It was a lie, but how else could he explain it? Any close inspection would show tears in his clothes, perfectly aligned with the bloodstains, but his skin would carry no marks.
Ford had moved closer, and Carver knew the moment he spotted the blood streaking Amryn’s neck. His friend cursed. “Amryn—”
“I’m fine,” she said, her voice too hoarse. “Just a little dizzy.”
Ford crouched beside them, a wince crossing his face. He inspected the cut on her neck, and even though Carver knew it was shallow, that crimson stain on her pale skin made his chest constrict. The look Ford shared with him proved just how close Amryn had come to death.
Carver held her a little tighter. “Elowen and Ivan?”
“I don’t know,” Ford said grimly. “I lost sight of them.”
Worry swelled, but a glance around revealed no sign of Carver’s sister or the Sibeten Wolf.
The energy in the square had shifted. Sobs and shouted orders had replaced the raining crossbow bolts. Carver heard yelling. Wounded cries. But it seemed most of the Rising had fled. Cowards.
Amryn gasped. “You’re bleeding!”
Carver twisted to see her looking at Ford. His lungs tightened when he saw his friend clutching his bleeding side. “How bad?” he demanded.
“Nothing serious,” Ford said, lips bracketed in pain. “Just a minor stabbing.”
Amryn gasped. “You were stabbed?”
“A little bit, yeah.” Ford exhaled a thready breath. “I think I’m going to—” He crumpled.
Carver cursed, unable to catch him in time even though Amryn scrambled off his lap. When he reached Ford’s side, he helped ease Ford onto his back and pushed his hand aside so he could view the wound. Blood drenched his side.
Carver gritted his teeth. “You idiot. Why didn’t you say something?”
Ford’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I thought you’d been stabbed, too. And if you were still on your feet, I didn’t want to be the weakling who lost consciousness.”
Carver wadded up a fistful of his friend’s shirt and shoved it against the wound.
Ford spluttered a curse. “Are you trying to kill me?”
Carver ignored him, keeping pressure against the wound.
He glanced up at Amryn. She was pale, and he hated that she was feeling Ford’s pain.
Then he spotted the bloodstone, which hung from her neck.
Maybe she wasn’t suffering along with Ford, then.
Maybe she was using it to shield herself right now.
Amryn grasped the amulet and tucked it under the collar of her dress, hiding it from view. Their eyes met, and he couldn’t quite read her guarded expression. It made him wonder what she sensed from him.
“What can I do?” she asked. And Carver knew what she was really asking: Should I heal him?
He instantly shook his head. “He’ll be all right.
He just needs some stitching.” Carver was quite certain nothing vital had been hit, and he couldn’t risk Amryn using her gift again.
Not with Rhone possibly nearby. And Ford—who was still conscious—would have serious questions if his wound miraculously healed.
Besides, Carver didn’t want her to use the bloodstone again.
Just knowing it was there, hanging around her neck .
. . All he wanted to do was tear that accursed thing away from her.
“Carver! Amryn!” Elowen rushed over to them, Ivan right behind her. Elowen paled as she drew even with them. “Ford!” She dropped to her knees beside him.
“He’s going to be all right,” Carver said.
“You don’t have to talk over me,” Ford groaned. “I’m not dead yet.”
Carver ignored the weak quip. “We’ll get him to a physician,” he assured his sister, who looked pale, but otherwise all right, thank the Saints.
Ivan stared at Carver’s bloodied clothes. “Do you need a physician?”
“It’s not my blood,” Carver lied again.
Icy blue eyes flicked from the bloodstains on his shirt to Amryn. His knowing look made Carver tense. Then Ivan’s eyes narrowed on Amryn’s neck. “You are injured.”
Amryn shook her head, grimacing as she did so. “It’s nothing.”
It wasn’t. The cut wouldn’t kill her, but she’d still nearly died today. The image of that man straddling her, his knife stabbing for her chest, was seared into Carver’s brain. A tremor started in his hands. He hid it by increasing the pressure on Ford’s wound.
His friend hissed. “Easy with me, I’m fragile.”
“Your ego is, perhaps,” Elowen said, clearly trying to ease the tension.
Ford rolled his eyes. “Be nice to me, El. I might be dying.”
“You’re not.” But even as she said the words, Elowen shot Carver a look, seeking reassurance once more. At his subtle nod, her shoulders loosened. Then steely determination filled her eyes. “Let’s get him to Piera’s shop. We can tend him there until we can get back to the palace.”
Carver agreed at once. Amryn would be safest there, off the street and away from—
Rhone broke through the crowd and into their group. The knight’s uniform was rumpled and he had a streak of blood on his lower lip. His eyes were glowing with intensity. “Did any of you see anything suspicious? Anything at all?”
Beside him, Amryn stiffened.
Ivan grunted. “Other than a massacre?”
Rhone’s eyes narrowed. “An empath was here. I felt it. Great power was wielded just moments ago.”
Carver was grateful he was kneeling behind Ford, since his friend’s body managed to block the worst of the bloodstains on his clothes. He kept his voice level. “I didn’t see anything.”
A dark shadow slashed over Rhone’s face. “Tam. She was here.” He made a sound in his throat. “She really might be the empath.”
Amryn paled. “Tam was here?”
“Carver spotted her,” Rhone said, his tone grim. “She was meeting with someone. A rebel, I assume. We followed, but before we could get close, we were attacked.”
“So this was the Rising?” Ford asked, his voice strained.
“Yes,” Carver and Rhone said together, their tones equally grim.
Amryn’s gaze slid between them, the skin around her eyes tightening.
Carver looked to Rhone. “I need to get Ford out of here. Can you coordinate with the city guards?”
“Of course,” Rhone said. “I’ll handle everything.”