Carver wadded up a fistful of his friend’s shirt and shoved it against the wound.
Ford spluttered a curse. “Are youtryingto 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. “Doyouneed 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 thiswasthe Rising?” Ford asked, his voice strained.
“Yes,” Carver and Rhone said together, their tones equally grim.
