Grudgingly, the rebels began to comply. Even Bram, though he continued to glare.
Carver was still struggling to process the fact that his wife wasn’t here. She was across the palace, with rebels. Unguarded. His gut twisted. “I’m going to the prison,” he told Keats.
“I’m coming with you,” Ford said at once.
“Three rebels are with her,” Ivan said, he and Samuel already moving to join them.
Keats called three men over to accompany them. Then he caught Carver’s gaze. “Good luck.”
Carver didn’t need luck. Nothing would keep him from his wife.
He’d just turned his back on Keats when Ford yelled, “Carve!”
He spun, but not fast enough to completely avoid Bram’s lunging strike. The man’s dagger sliced over his ribs, rather than lodging in his spine.
Bram snarled, his knife stabbing for Carver’s heart.
It was instinct to dodge. To grab hold of his wrist to halt another attack. Just as it was reflex to plunge his own dagger into Bram’s stomach.
Bram grunted. His eyes flew wide and his nostrils flared. Anger, shock, and pain filled his expression as he glanced down, seeing the dagger buried inside him, still held by Carver’s hand.
Carver’s stomach rolled. He could tell from the smell alone that he’d hit something vital.
Bram’s breath rattled through clenched teeth. The dagger in his slackened grip clattered to the floor. Carver was aware of Ford kicking it aside, but his focus was on Bram as the man raised his head, furious fire burning in his eyes. “You tainted her,” he rasped. “You turned her against her own people.” Panting, trembling with agony, he gritted out, “I pray my death opens her eyes. That she’ll finally see you for the monster you are.”
Carver swallowed. “I’m sorry. Your death wasn’t necessary.”
“No. But yours is.” Bram spat in his face.
Carver flinched as blood and spittle landed on his cheek.
Ford swore, but Keats was already there, wresting Bram away from Carver. His blade slipped free of the man’s gut, his knuckles coated with the same blood that stained his knife.
Even held by Keats, Bram glowered at Carver. “With my stolen lifeblood, I mark you for death. With my dying breath, I curse your life. May you lose all you love, and when your death comes, may you rot forever in the fiery pits of Azurell.”
The words held the air of a curse. The hairs on the back of Carver’s neck lifted.
He took a step back and wiped his cheek with his sleeve. He looked at Keats. “Make him as comfortable as possible.” It was the only thing he could do for Bram now. For Amryn’s sake.
Keats nodded once, his expression grim. “Go. Get your wife.”
Carver gripped the bloody knife in his hand and turned on his heel. He glimpsed Ford’s concerned look, Samuel’s pale face, and Ivan’s penetrating stare.
None of them hesitated to follow as he ran for the exit.
Chapter 59
Amryn
NauseachurnedinAmryn’sstomach as she watched Chancellor Janson step over the body of the guard he’d just killed. The dead man was lying on the prison floor, blood pooling around him in a glistening, horrific lake.
“Keys,” Janson ordered brusquely.
One of the rebels hurried to hand them over.
Amryn’s mind reeled. The pain of the guard’s death made it hard to think, and the shock didn’t help. But Janson was a member of the Rising. It was the only explanation. And the rebels with her had known it. There was no surprise in them. No hesitation to follow his lead. It made her almost certain that Janson was Bram’s high-ranking superior.
The ring of keys jangled as Janson held it before the second guard. “Which one is it?” he demanded.
