With the last of her strength, Linn staggered up to the Temple Masters. Fell to her knees. Looked up, and found Ruu’ma.
“My friend.” Her voice was a rattling breath. “He is gravely injured…near the meat market.” Blood welled into her mouth; she fell forward onto her hands, black spots in her vision closing in. “Please…I beg you…help him.”
The gods might frown upon her, yet as Linn lay on the cold stone floor of the Temple of the Skies, she thought that she could live with the choice she had made today.
She was, after all, only human.
Her body was on fire, the pain was excruciating, but Ana forced her eyes to open. Sorsha had driven an iron blade into Ana’s side; she could see the hilt from where she lay, looming over her beneath the brilliant dawn sky in the shape of a cross.
Ana turned her head. If there was a small miracle, it was this: the boy she had been waiting for, lying on the ground next to her, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. She studied the length of his face, that hawk nose broken and slightly crooked at the bridge, those full lips normally quirked in a smile.
Ramson,she wanted to say, but then her thoughts were drowned out by the sound of footsteps all around them.
Shapes moved into sight, men in blackstone armor surrounding them. These, though, weren’t the blackstone uniforms that the Cyrilian Imperial Patrols wore, Ana thought hazily.
One of them spoke frantically, issuing orders in a foreign language. Somehow, she understood the words.
Bregonian,she thought. The slur of her thoughts drifted to the snowhawk she’d sent Daya. Was it possible that they’d actually made it?
Two of the soldiers knelt by Ramson’s side. With a grunt, one pulled out the iron spike impaled in his stomach. Another rushed forward, pressing her hands to the wound.
Before Ana’s eyes, the gush of blood slowed. Flesh and skin began to expand, weaving themselves together.
Healer,she thought.Magen.
Ramson’s men were here.
She craned her neck, looking up and down the sidewalk. Yuri, where was Yuri? In a split moment, memories of their last private conversation flashed through her mind: a fire burning low, the sticky taste of stolen cake on her lips. The dance of flames in his ash-gray eyes that told her not everything of the friendship they’d once had was gone.
When she found him, her heart stopped.
A half dozen paces from her, Yuri lay crumpled and unmoving on the pavement, his torn clothing showing patches of angry red skin.
Someone nearby called her name. Before she could place the voice, a face appeared in her vision.
Daya broke into a half sob, half laugh as she looked Ana over. “Amara bless,” she croaked, and then, as her eyes fell on Ana’s wound,“Healer! Someone! Help!”
Ana felt herself slipping; in the jumbled stream of her consciousness, she thought she saw a hooded figure striding down the Kateryanna Bridge toward them. She blinked, and the sword impaled in her side was gone, Daya’s face swimming into the edge of her vision. By her side, the slim-faced Bregonian healer who had been working on Ramson drew back, surveying Ana’s torso. The pain had dulled, Ana realized with faint surprise, andit wasn’t until the healing magen lifted her hands from Ana’s stomach that she understood why.
Her head swam. She drifted, like the river roaring by her side.
Blink. Metal-gray skies overhead, dawn bleeding in, Daya and the healer gone. Now, a different shadow loomed over her, cool hands at her side, applying a soothing cream to her wound.
Ana’s breath hitched.“Tetsyev.”
The alchemist’s face drew into focus: large, bulbous eyes, a bald head covered by his white prayer robes. “We haven’t much time, Kolst Pryntsessa,” he whispered. “Your Redcloak team triggered the alarm of some Palace Guards on their way out.”
Relief warmed her, and for a brief moment, it felt as though everything would turn out all right.
Then Tetsyev said quietly: “She is coming.”
The slur of her thoughts pulled together, sharpened, crystal clear. There was no doubt as to whom he was referring.
Gritting her teeth, Ana pushed herself into a sitting position. Her abdomen protested with searing flashes of heat, but her flesh was now smooth, if only slightly puckered with a scar. The healer’s work.
Ana’s blood ran cold as she swept a gaze around her. By her side, Ramson was still unconscious, his soldiers bent over him, his healer working on his wound. Daya and several others were crouched over Yuri; Ana could just make out the bright flame of his hair. Strewn along the riverside promenade all around them were casualties of war.
“The siphons,” Ana croaked. “Sorsha—”
