My voice trails off as my gaze fixes on the soldiers gathered around us, how so many of them seem to think this has to do with me, or with Briarlock. Few of them speak much Syssalah, but they’re still focused on this conversation, listening to every word. Many of them speak alittle, and I have no doubt my parts will be remembered and repeated. I’ve never had to consider rumors and gossip and how quickly one piece of information can spread like wildfire and bring down an entire kingdom.
I don’t know why these scravers might have been looking for a magesmith, but if winged creatures are suddenly hunting anyone with magic, I’m not sure it should be announced to the entire army.
Especially if they’re hunting the King of Emberfall.
Prince Rhen is waiting for me to continue, and I glance between him and Tycho.
My voice drops. “I . . . ?I don’t know if I should say this in front of everyone.”
The prince’s expression sharpens. He turns his head and says a few words, and the gathered soldiers fall back almost instantly, at least twenty feet. Even the royal guards drop back ten. But to my surprise, Tycho falls back, too, and I realize Prince Rhen took me at my word. He orderedeveryoneto give us space.
I’m suddenly alone in the grass with the prince.
My heart thumps hard, and my mouth goes dry. Despite my feelings about him, Prince Rhen is intimidating. Thismomentis intimidating. As if what I wanted to say won’t be worth all this trouble, and he’ll have the soldiers shoot me or drag me behind a wagon for wasting his time.
The wind washes across the fields again, whipping between us. It’s not cold now, but I shiver anyway.
“Tell me,” the prince says, and I swallow.
“One of the scravers spoke,” I say, keeping my voice low despite the distance. “It . . . ?it wasn’t like a voice.” I watch him work these words out in his head, and I remind myself to go slowly. “But I heard it. It said, ‘You heard Xovaar. Find the magesmith.’ ”
“Xovaar,” he repeats. “Was that one of the scravers in Briarlock?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.”
“Were they looking for Tycho?” he asks. “Or the king?”
“I don’t know that either. But I heard the wordsafterit tore into Tycho—which makes me think it was still looking.”
“Tore into Tycho?” Prince Rhen echoes, like my phrasing is unfamiliar. His eye widens, and he glances from Tycho to me. Tycho is closer to the lanterns now, the blood on his face and armor even more apparent. I’m sure I’m not much better.
The prince looks back at me, and awareness lights in his gaze. His voice goes very, very quiet. “You were both badly injured.”
I freeze, realizing what I’ve nearly admitted. Tycho is forbidden from using his magic. Would he have been allowed to use it to save himself? To save me? What about the soldiers who died?
It’s too many questions, and Tycho is already under enough strain—most of which he doesn’t deserve. If he wants to admit to using magic, it can be his choice, but I’m not adding more challenge to his life.
So I keep my voice level and even. “No, Your Highness. He was able to stop the scraver before it got past his armor. I shot the first one. Tycho stabbed the second. Blood went everywhere.”
I’m not a bad liar, and I might’ve been able to fool my father, but Prince Rhen is too savvy. He stares back at me, and for a moment, the weight of my lie hangs in the air between us. He knows. Iknowhe knows. My heart keeps pounding, and I set my jaw, waiting for him to challenge me.
He doesn’t. “What made you keep this private, Jax?”
“I didn’t mean for you to send Tycho away, too.” I hesitate. “But what the scraver said . . . it felt important.”
He gives me a nod. “It is.” Then he turns away and begins issuing orders again.
I let out a heavy breath. My palms feel slick on my crutches.
Tycho returns to my side. “They’re striking the camp. Prince Rhen wants to return to Ironrose tonight. He doesn’t want to risk being out in the open any longer than we have to. I’m going to fetch my bedroll and saddle Mercy. You should get your things.”
“Wait.” I move close and take hold of his arm, and the knives on hisbracer are cold under my fingertips. I desperately want to put a hand against his cheek again, to reassure myself that he’s really all right. Using magic to heal himself is exhausting, I know, and he wasalreadyexhausted.
He glances down at my hand, and he goes still. When he looks back up, his eyes hold mine, and he doesn’t pull away.
Before I can say anything, a soldier breaks apart from the group to approach us. Tycho straightens, and my hand falls off his arm. I brace myself, but it’s only Sephran, one of the young men I was sitting with earlier. I know he won’t be coming to start trouble.
“Sephran,” I say—though our conversation will probably end there, because he hardly speaks a word of Syssalah.
