I wonder if he’s been waiting for an opportunity to kill the king.
I wonder if the king is already dead.
“Nakiis,” I breathe, and my voice is rough and worn. My throat stings. His claws have broken the skin.
“I trust you’ve been well?” he says mockingly.
“I’ve been better.” I slide my left hand through the dirt carefully, seeking my dagger.
Nakiis hisses, his claws tightening. More blood flows, and I freeze.
“I can see in the dark, you foolish magesmith,” he says.
“I’m not a magesmith.” I grit my teeth and try to strain away from him, but his grip is strong. My mouth feels like I swallowed fire. “Perhaps—perhaps you could let me go if you want to talk.”
“I should kill you both right now,” he growls. His claws tighten, and I close my eyes. I try to swallow but his grip is too tight. I can’t fight. I can’t breathe. In a moment, that’ll be permanent.
We’re in the middle of nowhere. Whoever Rhen sends might never find our bodies. All my loyalty and duty and honor would be nothing. The only memory anyone would have would be my failure to protect the king when his family was in danger.
But the pressure on my neck eases. Wings flutter, and the weight disappears from my chest. I cough, choking on air, rubbing at my blood-slick neck. It takes me half a minute to sit up. Nakiis is a short distance away, his eyes glittering at me from twenty feet up in a tree.
I ignore him and crawl quickly to Grey. He’s still breathing, but it’s shallow, and a bit ragged like my own. He doesn’t appear to have moved from where I laid him when we stopped here. His lips are as chapped as mine feel. The sweat has dried in his hair, and he seems more pale, though it’s hard to tell in the dark.
“I filled your water skins,” the scraver says.
The words hit me slowly, as if my brain can’t process what he’s saying—and then all at once. My eyes search the ground and locate the water skins near the dwindling fire, and I all but dive onto them, tugging the laces free as quickly as I can. I pour the liquid straight into my mouth without pausing to wonder about whether it’s safe. I want to ask why or how he did this, but I don’t even care. The water is cold and sharp and nothing has ever tasted better.
Once I’ve drunk so much that I’m worried I’m going to spit it all right back up, I pour some into my hand and touch it to Grey’s lips, as if a taste of water might bring him around.
It doesn’t. The water trails over his lips to disappear into the shadows.
I’d give anything for my magic-bearing rings. For Noah, who’d surely know what to do. I try to remember everything he’s ever taught me, but my lessons in the infirmary were always few and far between. I press my fingers to the king’s neck, finding his pulse, which beats steady against my fingers.
Still, he doesn’t wake.
Mercy must smell the water, because she nickers low in her throat, pawing at the ground where she’s tethered. I don’t have a bucket, but I cup my hands and offer it to her sip by sip.
Throughout all of this, Nakiis stays high overhead, clinging to the branch where he’s taken roost. While Mercy slurps water from my hands, I look up at him. The scraver’s skin is so dark that he’s almost invisible amid the leaves.
“Thank you,” I say. It feels odd to thank him when he was seconds away from tearing out my throat, but I don’t know what else to say. I don’t want to provoke him when I don’t know why he’s here.
He peers down at me, and an icy wind whips through the trees. “The creek isn’t far. A mile on foot perhaps.”
“I thought it was farther.” I try to realign my sense of where we are, then look back up at him. It’s interesting that he just had his claws around my neck, but now he’s way up in a tree. I try to puzzle that out, and I can’t quite comprehend what I come up with: he’s wary. Maybe even afraid.
I should kill you both right now.
But he didn’t.
While I’m thinking this through, Nakiis disappears from the branch with a flutter of wings and a rush of cold air.
I frown, then sigh. I don’t understand—and it probably doesn’t matter. I rekindle the fire, building it until the flames reach for the sky, then try pouring another handful of water over Grey’s lips.
Nothing.
I offer more water to Mercy, then crouch to look at her leg. The tendon is hot and swollen, the hoof partially lifted off the ground. She noses at my neck gently, blowing warm breaths into my hair as if to sayfix it, please.
“I’m sorry, sweet girl,” I murmur to her, and she presses her face to my chest.
