“Leave me! Go after it!” Dietan croaks, pointing. He shoves his disheveled blond hair out of his hard, determined eyes.
His men nod and run after the dark spirit, giving chase into the night.
With the Kilandrar gone, the air inside the tavern returns to normal. Even the fire in the hearth catches an ember and reignites. The crackling flames are the only sound aside from our ragged breathing.
I crawl over to him, relieved that he appears recovered and—though I’m reluctant to admit it—impressed by his skill with the blade. He stares at me as well, bewildered but amazed.
“It hurt you, didn’t it?” he asks. He holds his head in a trembling hand. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”
I don’t have the energy to reply. The Raven’s Beak is a mess: shattered glass everywhere, mugs and dishes in pieces, and the table Dietan fell into is broken into splinters. But at least the building is still standing. Thank the Goddess for that.
Back on my feet, I reach for my skillet and clutch it tightly against my chest. For some reason, holding it brings me comfort. I take in the damage as realization sets in. I—we—just fought an evil elemental spirit and survived.
“You risked your life to save mine,” he says. The look of admiration in his eyes is guileless.
“With a skillet,” I say, bemused, looking at the pan in my hands.
His laugh is weak. “As good a weapon as any.”
“But I thought this would just go through it—not hit it.”
Dietan nods. “Yeah. Not sure how my sword could hurt it, either. The scrolls say the Kilandrar cut through armies of men as if they were stalks of wheat.” As he gets to his feet, he gasps, teeth bared. He hunches over, reaching his arm behind him. “My back…”
He tries to hobble to a chair, but he can’t stand up straight. I rush to support him by the elbow. He inhales sharply, his handsome face lined with agony.
“This way.” I guide him into the kitchen, where the oven is still on. I sit him down in one of the extra chairs Bonnie uses as a stepping stool. He sits on it backward, collapsing onto the seatback, his face pressed against its wooden frame.
“Come on.” I reach for the hem of his shirt.
“What are you doing?”
“Let’s see how bad it is.” I tug it up, but he stops me with his hand on mine.
“Just wait—” he says, his breath catching.
“You may need a healer.”
He lets out a beleaguered sigh, knowing full well I’m not going to give up. Slowly, I slide his shirt over his head. I try not to linger on the sight of his corded muscles, the sculpted lines of his back. I wince when I see it. A great purple bruise spreads horizontally across his lower back. The edge of the table left an almost perfectly straight line. Several large splinters protrude from his bruised skin. He’s lucky he still has use of his legs. I’ve seen worse, but I know he’ll be feeling it for days.
But that isn’tthe only thing that catches my eye. There are two intersecting ring-shaped white scars between his shoulder blades. The scars are deep, ridged, and thick. They look painful, like the rings were branded on his skin with a hot poker—which I’ve only ever seen on livestock. My chest tightens. I didn’t notice them before at Veteria’s.
He truly has the Rings of Fate.
They are a part of him. They look raw, like they haven’t fully healed, like they still hurt. He didn’t want me to see them.
I tear my eyes away and pretend not to notice. For his sake. For the crown, perhaps.
“Don’t move,” I tell him. “You’ll only make it worse.”
Another sigh is all the response he can muster.
I grab a pair of pliers from a drawer, fetch a clean rag from the cupboard, and fill a pitcher from the freshwater basin. I dip the rag in it, then squeeze it out. Dietan sits still, his chest pressed against the back of the chair, but his breathing comes in fits and starts, and his muscles spasm. To his credit, he barely makes a sound. My own shoulder starts to ache from when I was thrown to the floor, but I ignore it.
“Brace yourself,” I warn, coming up behind him.
When I remove the first splinter, he sits up straighter and gasps.
I work for several minutes to remove the splinters, then wipe away the blood and press the cool rag to his back to ease the sting. From the cupboard, I retrieve a jar of the salve I make for when Bonnie or I get cuts or burns in the kitchen.
