Ice filled Amryn’s veins.
King Jamir blinked. “What? You’re not even going to try to—”
For the second time that night, Amryn watched in horror as Janson stabbed a man in the gut. The fiery pain dug into her own stomach, making her shudder.
Janson yanked the blade from Jamir’s belly. The former king of Xerra choked, curling in on himself. He gripped the edge of the wagon with one hand, his neck craning to look at Janson. Shock, pain, and confusion twisted his expression.
The chancellor’s face could have been carved from stone as he answered the dying king’s unspoken question. “My orders were to free you. But failing that, I was to kill you. The price of knowing too much, I suppose.” He leaned in, adding quietly, “I asked the Rowan not to reveal his identity to me for this very reason. I refuse to miss the day of my revenge.”
Jamir gagged, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth.
Amryn flinched, the bloodstone’s protection fracturing under the onslaught of emotion. Jamir’s pain, Janson’s fury, and the fight raging in the palace yard were all too much.
Terror burst in her chest when Janson twisted to face her, turning his back on the dying man in the wagon.
Janson’s fingers flexed around the hilt of his knife, blood streaking the blade. “You’ve ruined everything.”
Amryn’s stomach dropped as he advanced.
Chapter 62
Carver
Carver’sentirebodythrobbedwith 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 wasstillin danger.
