“Apparently,” Jennah continues, her voice dropping to a quiet hush, “this was the work of the Dark Commander.”
Bile rises in my throat. Tides, I knew Prince Zevayr was ruthless, but this level ofviolence—
He’s been called the most powerful wielder in the realm.
And these defenseless nonwielders faced his wrath.
Jennah shakes her head with a softtsk. “Such brutality. I suppose unchecked power will do that to a man.”
I scoff. “Maybe he’s just angry he was born a second son. He’ll never be king, so he seeks glory on the battlefield. A cruel, mindless soldier.” Even as the words leave my lips, I know them to be false.
The Dark Commander is anything but mindless. He’s led the Arbinji armies since his early twenties. His war strategies have resulted in thousands of Tundrayni deaths over the years.
I should know—I’ve been healing the survivors since adolescence.
Taking deep breaths, I focus on my next patient. This one faced an earthwielder. His skin is littered with painful holes where thorny branches and snaking roots emerge. The skin around them is jagged, putrid, and the smell of scorched wood lingers in the air. I press my hands to the warrior’s neck, assessing his internal damage.
“By the Tides,” I swear under my breath. There isn’t much I can do for him. I’m not sure how he’s still breathing. I share a worried glance with Jennah. Her ice-blue eyes are sharp but undercut with sorrow. She may also think of nonwielders as less-than, but she isn’t coldhearted. My eyes flutter shut as I focus on numbing his pain.
“Can you summon a heartwielder for him?” I whisper hoarsely. We only have two heartwielders in all of Tundrayn. Though, sometimes, I wonder how many have managed to keep their powers concealed. “I can’t do much more for him. He should feel peace in his final moments.”
“I will,” Jennah promises, finishing up with her patient. She reaches for a small loaf of rootbread from the table beside her and takes a large bite. Her shrewd eyes watch me carefully as she chews. “When did you last eat?”
“Just before I came,” I lie.
Jennah narrows her eyes at me. I give her my most convincing smile. Sheharrumphs. “Don’t burn through your reserves.Princess or not, you need to eat just the same as any other wielder. You’ll be of no use to these warriors if you can’t heal.”
Such simple words:You need to eat.
But unlike verdant, fertile Arbinj, Tundrayn is the land of ice and snow and scarcity. I don’t want to eat more than my fair share. That just means someone else will go hungry—most likely a nonwielder.
I keep going, treating another two men with horrific injuries, ignoring the drain in my chest. Nonwielders are often placed on the front lines during battle. The injustice grates at my nerves.
Were Sura and Tumaas often on the front lines? Before—
My throat tightens, and I shove the intrusive thought away.
By the time I’m treating my fourth patient, tell-tale fatigue weighs down my limbs—a sign that I’m close to overusing my powers. I should stop, but there are still so many untreated nonwielders. Still in pain. Still suffering.
Jennah works tirelessly alongside me. She’s not as strong as I am, but she’s been eating between every patient. Jennah is older—she needs the nourishment more than me.
I can keep going.
Luckily, the warrior I’m currently treating only has mild burns. I finish with her quickly, ready to move to the next patient when the carved ice doors swing open and three hulking men stride inside. One of them has a black eye, and the others sport bloody noses. All of them wear blue and white furs—waterwielders, unmistakably. But even without the obvious attire, I’d know. It’s in their gait, the arrogant ease of those raised to believe the world is theirs by birthright.
“We need a healer!” calls the man in front, a towering warrior with tanned skin. The sides of his head are shaved down, the rest of his long hair twisted into intricate braids adorned with bone and beads. He spots me and drops into a deep bow. A satchel is strapped across his chest, brimming with loaves of rootbreadand dried seal jerky. I purse my lips, returning my attention to the injured woman before me.
When I don’t respond, respect bleeds into the warrior’s tone as he adds, “Princess, it would be an honor if you healed us. We’re heading out to investigate a Rebellion attack—we need to be at our best.”
Jennah levels her sharp, disapproving gaze upon them. I’ve often cowed beneath it, but the arrogant men don’t even flinch. She asks, “How did you sustain the injuries?”
The waterwielder has the decency to look sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “We were sparring, and it became … heated.”
My lips press into a thin line as I eye his overflowing satchel again. A nonwielder child will sleep hungry tonight so these daft idiots can go on an expedition.
“These warriors just returned from the front lines,” I say woodenly, still focused on the pale nonwielder in the cot before me. “Their injuries are more severe. I’ll heal them first.”
A beat passes.
