“Creativity is a waste of time,” he replied. Of course, he’d rather spend his energy throwing daggers and brooding. “It’s more than an anniversary, though. It’s a necessary display of power and unity.”
As in, a political show. If it was anything like Ellan’s party, I would hate it.
I chased a carrot around the bowl. “How much do you know about First?”
“Enough to understand what we’re getting into.”
I thought back to the looter boy’s haunting words. “The Horrads. Have you heard of them?”
“More than heard,” he said grimly. “I’ve met them.”
I glanced at him as I chewed a piece of meat. “You’ve been to First?” Even sitting, his elbows braced on his knees, he made me feel small. Would he ever not?
“No. A few years ago, some of the Horrad clans left First, trying to make their claim on other Territories. They failed, but Ihad a series of run-ins with one particular group.” He shook his head slightly. “It acquainted me with some of their ways.”
“Like?”
Harthon didn’t mince words. “Like some of our own villagers, they hunt for food. But they don’t speak, they refuse to expose any skin, and they take great joy in slaughtering those who cross their path.”
They sounded more like the spirits Merelda had told stories about than humans. “Where did they come from?”
“They were once just regular people in First, most of them villagers. Then the Domus appeared, they formed their own community, and they slowly transformed into what they are today.”
I took a deep breath and drank the remaining broth. “They sound like a welcoming bunch.”
He gave a small smile and stood. “If I could, I would ensure you never went near them.” He took the empty bowl and set it on the table, then extended a hand to me. “Now, let’s go see Stefano.”
I ignored his outstretched hand and gingerly swung my legs out of the bed. The gash along my thigh protested, and my side clenched as I slowly moved. The healer, an old man with a scraggly beard in desperate need of a trim, had said it’d take at least another week to be moving without any pain.
The joys of getting stabbed.
I scanned the floor for my boots, but Harthon was one step ahead, already bringing them over. He took a knee before me.
“I can put on my own boots,” I protested.
He reached for one of my feet anyway, warm fingers curling around my ankle. “I don’t want to wait here for hours while you do.”
“It wouldn’t be hours. It’d be minutes.”
“And I’ll only take seconds.” He snaked my foot into the boot, then propped it up on his muscular thigh. His head dipped as he fastened the laces with a soldier’s efficiency. Seconds later, he placed my foot back down and reached for the other one.
As he finished with the laces, he said, “Outside of a handful of people, no one knows about the attack or your injuries. We need it to stay that way.”
Because if I was the actualmagvis,I’d never have been so gravely wounded.
“If you can’t handle the walk, we’ll try again tomorrow.”
He placed my foot down and extended a hand again, this time to help me stand. Again, I ignored it, and again, movement hurt.
But I would suck it up because I was handling this walk.
I schooled my features against the discomfort, trying to hide a limp as I trailed behind him into the hallway. North surprisingly didn’t scowl when we passed him, just silently nodded when Harthon told him to go.
Falling into step beside me, Harthon set a leisurely pace that was nearly too fast for me. When we came to the stairs, he didn’t stop or slow down, probably because of the three guards ascending in front of us. Head held high, I didn’t hesitate to descend, resisting the urge to brace a hand against the wall. My wounds burned, but I made it to the bottom without ceremony.
The next hallway was busier, workers bustling by, dipping their heads to us in respect. I slapped a mechanical smile on my face, and when we reached another staircase, I charged down the steps.
You’re fine. No healing stab wounds here.
