The thoughts are too terrifying to contemplate, and I don’t have time to think about it anyway. Another screech pierces the night above me, but I’m ready. The wind feels like ice against my skin, but I don’t care. An arrow is nocked, and I’m firing as soon as my eyes lock on the motion. One shot, two.Swip, swip.
This scraver drops with a heavythump, landing somewhere distant in the grass.
But then I hear words on the air, and the sound is odd, almost like a thought instead of a voice.
—You heard Xovaar. Find the magesmith.
Xovaar.Is that a name?
Find the magesmith.Are they looking for Tycho? Or the king?
More screeches erupt overhead, but now soldiers are responding, and the shouts have drawn closer. More arrows are firing from the other side of the tether line, the screeches of the scravers cutting abruptly short. Winged bodies fall to the grass.
I look down at Tycho and choke on a sob again. I turn my head and shout for soldiers.
“Help!” I call. “Help me!” But I realize I’m shouting in Syssalah, and of all the words they’ve taught me,helphasn’t made the list.
I look down again and press a hand to Tycho’s cheek, which is wet and tacky with blood. “Please,” I whisper.
And then I notice that his cheek iswhole, when a moment ago, it wasn’t.
As I stare, the rest of the injuries begin to heal as well, his arm knitting back together, the gash through his scalp sealing over, leaving nothing but blood, his magic responding to put him back the way he was. After a moment, he draws a ragged breath, and his eyes flutter open.
His expression twists with fury, and he shoves me away with surprising strength, flinging me to the side. Claws graze my cheek, then my shoulder, and then I hit the ground, just as Tycho draws a blade and slams it into the scraver that was descending on us both. The creature collapses on top of him, claws digging at the grass, but I can tell it was a killing blow. The efforts are futile.
Tycho grunts underneath its weight. “Help me, Jax.”
I shove it off him, but it takes longer than it should. My left arm doesn’t want to work. Tycho is gasping, but he pulls the blade, then stabs the creature again.
This time it goes still for good.
He pulls the dagger free again, then wipes it in the grass. Wind is still whipping across the fields. Half the horses are panicking, dragging at the tether lines, while dozens seem to have broken loose. The clouds have shifted again, and moonlight reveals the wash of blood across his face, the streaks through Tycho’s blond hair. We’re both on our knees, breathing hard, looking in all directions, waiting for another attack. The wind might be ice cold and brutal, but the screeches have gone silent now, the only sound coming from the shouting soldiers who seem to be heading this way.
Tycho’s fingers brush my shoulder. “One of them got you.” Without warning, pain flares in my arm, and I nearly jerk away.
“Wait,” Tycho murmurs. “It only takes a moment. You remember.”
I do. In fact, the pain is already subsiding, easing away as my own injuries heal and dissolve into nothing. I swallow, and the touch of his fingers turns into a caress against my arm.
“Where else?” he says, eyeing me critically. His hand lifts to my face, where the claw marks are already beginning to sting.
I try not to flinch when I feel another flare of magic. “But—but you’re not supposed to use—”
“Jax.” He gives me a look. But the shouts have gotten closer, andsoldiers are suddenly pushing past the tether line, carrying torches and weapons and enough righteous rage to fight a war right here. Tycho’s hand drops away from my face before he heals much of anything at all, and he shoves to his feet, holding out a hand, all brusque duty now. Just one man offering another a hand up from the battlefield.
I can’t lock away emotion so quickly, and it doesn’t help that I can’t understand half of what the soldiers are saying.
They’re afraid, though. Afraid and angry. I hear it in their voices, see it in the flickering shadows that dance across their eyes. Some of them are splattered with blood, too.
They see the bodies of the scravers we killed, and the blood sprayed across Tycho’s armor. It’s all overme, too. Voices raise, men looking to the sky, pointing at me, at the camp, at the loose horses. I don’t see anyone I know, and I can only pick out random words, and nothing makes sense. We’re not under attack by scravers anymore, but nothing seemsbetter.
“What are they saying?” I say desperately. “Tycho, what are they saying?”
“They don’t know why the scravers attacked.” He speaks quickly, his voice a low rush, because soldiers are moving closer. “But three men are dead. Maybe more. They think the creatures might have followed you from Briar—”
A soldier snarls something, cutting him off, and Tycho takes a step forward, blocking the man from getting in my face.
Then, in a move that surprises me but shouldn’t, Tycho puts a hand on the man’s armor and shoves him back.
