But my father is trying to shove himself upright.
“Watch out.” I stumble over words. My jaw doesn’t want to work. “He’s—he’s going to get up again.”
Tycho’s eyes are like fire. “Then I’ll put him back down. Here. Take my hand.”
I have to put an arm against my belly, and it takes me a while to get to my knees.
My father is groaning in the dirt. “You lazy boy. I’m going to—”
“You’re never going to touch him again,” Tycho snaps, his voice so cold that it sends a lick of ice through my body—but also a bolt of warmth, too.
“Please,” I say, and it comes out like a whisper. I’m not sure what I’m begging for. For help? For Tycho to not kill my father? For something I can’t even fathom?
His hand is right there, and I grab hold. I’m not sure how I manage to get myself upright, but Tycho gets my arm across his shoulders. He’s all but carrying me, and I don’t even knowwhereuntil I practically faceplant into Mercy’s shoulder.
“I need you to help me,” he says, and his voice is lower, rougher than I’m used to. “Grab hold of the saddle.”
Everything hurts and I can’t focus. “Where—where—”
“Jax, if I don’t get you out of here, I’m going to do something I’ll regret, and I’m already in enough trouble. Grab hold.”
I blindly grab hold. I’m in the air, and then I’m in the saddle. I curl over and clutch sweet Mercy’s mane. It’s horrible. Agonizing. Embarrassing sounds are coming out of my mouth. My eyes feel damp, but he’s so fierce and fearless that I don’t want to cry in front of him.
“Just hold on,” Tycho says. “Tuck your hands under the breastplate if you need to.”
I slide my hands against her fur, and it’s all I remember doing until Tycho’s voice is soft and low. “Jax? Jax. We’re almost there. I’m going to help you down.”
My foot hits the ground, and it sounds like I’ve landed on a plank of wood. Tycho has my arm over his shoulder again. We’re surrounded by noise: the clamor of voices, the rhythmic clopping of hooves on dirt and cobblestone. Someone somewhere has a hammer, and I hear a woman calling for a child. We’re in town, but I’m not sure where.
I blink, and Tycho pushes through a door, and the noise quiets. I know I’m hopping, but there’s a good chance Tycho is fully supporting my weight. A man stands behind a counter, and I see him look from me to Tycho and back. I must look even worse than I feel—or maybe exactly the same as I feel, because his eyes are wide and alarmed.
“We do not want any trouble here,” he says in a rush. “This is a peaceful boarding house.”
“No trouble,” says Tycho. “You have my word. I simply need a room.”
The man inhales sharply, but Tycho slides half a dozen silver coins across the wood.
That changes the man’s toneimmediately. “Yes, my lord. Of course.”
Tycho flips another coin onto the counter. “And I need a message sent to the tavern. Or maybe the gambling house. Tell Lord Jacob of Disi that he’s needed here.”
“Certainly. Right away.”
My heartbeat is a roar in my ears, and I don’t hear what else they say. I have to press an arm to my stomach again. I feel as though my ribs are caving in. Or maybe I’m inhaling shards of glass. My breathing seems thin and reedy. Suddenly, Tycho is walking again, all but dragging me. But soon we’re in a room with a low fire and a locked door, and he eases me into a lavishly plush chair that might be nicer than anything I’ve ever sat in.
Too bad I can barely appreciate it. The room spins again, and I choke on my breath.
“Don’t vomit,” he says, and I wince, because it’s exactly what my body feels like doing.
“Forgive me,” I say, and my voice sounds garbled. I can’t tell if the problem is my ears or my mouth. I draw a slow breath and try to make the room stop swirling.
“No, I don’t care if you do. But it’ll hurt like hell with broken ribs.”
Oh. His voice is so practical that I’m nodding before he’s even finished speaking—and that’s all it takes for my body to start dry heaving.
He’s right about the pain. I’m doubled over, and that’s almost worse, but my body won’t stop curling in on itself. Tears are on my cheeks and I can’t speak. I can’tthink. I taste blood again.
Tycho kneels beside me and lifts my shirt, and then his hand is against my chest. Like the day he healed my hand, at first it hurts so badly that I involuntarily jerk away, my teeth clenched. But the pain softens into something warmer, something easier. My body was so tense, tighter than a bowstring, but I can suddenly breathe without feeling like my bones are coming through my skin. I sag in the chair and try to force my thoughts into order.
