Regret fills me. I didn’t mean to frighten her or draw attention to us.
I take an immediate step back, but then I choose to move to where she will be blocked from the sight of the Blacksmiths at the front end of the room—if they look this way.
I expect her to dart toward the empty bed now that I’m not in her way, but she pauses, her voice incredibly low.
“Landon Copperstream killed him,” she says. “A single punch with a fist covered in metal.”
Chapter 28
Landon Copperstream is the student Ayla Silverspun was gloating over when we first arrived at the city.
I killed his father, the Blacksmith named Deron, but Landon doesn’t know that.
Chances are he won’t even know his father’s dead until the students have finished forging their first medallions.
If Kalith follows Malak’s orders, Landon will hear that wild beasts killed his father.
Petra pulls herself upright, clears her throat, and becomes matter-of-fact.
“Shirts off,” she says. “Sit on the side of the bed. I need to see your wounds.”
The hubbub near us resumes, but I’m conscious of the continued scrutiny from a human man in the bed next to ours.
A healer tends to what looks like burns across his hands and lower forearms. He’s sitting propped up on his bed, but I estimate he’s nearly as tall as me. He’s bulky through his chest, arms, and legs, and like many of the humans I’ve observed so far, he has brown eyes and brown hair, although he wears a short beard.
He’s bare-chested and there are many scars across his chest and shoulders.
It’s easy to keep an eye on him and the rest of the room when we sit, side by side, facing forward on the edge of the bed.
When we remove our shirts, placing the bloody material to the side, Petra pauses again.
“I’ve seen these marks before,” she whispers, keeping her voice below the hum within the room. “The central wound and the claw marks. This is Malak’s work. Isn’t it?”
At our nods, she swallows. “I’ve only seen these marks on dead bodies. How did you survive?”
Her question seems aimed at Thoren.
His jaw clenches, but he gives nothing away. “We’ve survived worse.”
Thoren has never been injured this badly before. Father and I made sure of that. But I understand what he means. There isn’t any physical wound that compares with the pain of losing our father.
Petra’s eyes are wide, but she seems to quickly gather herself together, reaching for the tray of bandages and the salve from the table where we put our apple cores.
When she reaches for me, I stop her. “My brother first.”
She nods and sets to work.
Thoren follows her movements as she quickly sets about tending to his wound. The salve she uses smells like some of the plants we would gather on the mountain.
“What happened to everyone else here?” Thoren asks.
“These men all work with crimson coal,” she replies. “It’s dangerous to handle. Most of them are miners who’ve returned from the mines this afternoon. Braddock hauls coal within the city.”
She indicates the man in the bed next to ours—the one who hasn’t stopped scrutinizing us, even though he hides it well.
Thoren considers her a little longer, leaning toward her. “What does the streak in your hair mean?”
A smile glimmers around her mouth. “It means I’m training to be a healer. The women with dark-purple streaks are senior healers, like Sybil.”
