A Heart So Fierce and Broken (The Cursebreaker Series) (18 page)

After a day with nothing but stream water, the roasted goose tastes better than anything I’ve ever eaten. I all but tear the meat apart with my fingers. If Jodi could see me now, she’d make no comparison to noblemen. Tycho offers a piece to Iisak, but the creature makes a face, then says, “I will bring more.”

His wings beat and catch the air, and then he’s lost to the darkness.

Across the fire, Noah pulls meat from a bone and glances up. “Just when I think I have a handle on this place, something drops out of the sky to turn that on its head.”

I give a humorless laugh.

“Everything feels fully healed?” he says.

I nod and pick every last morsel from my own bone.

“May I see?” I go still, and he adds, “You had stitches. If the skin healed over them …”

I nod, and he moves around the fire to kneel behind me. I lift my shirt, and a moment later, his cool fingers touch my back.

“The stitches are gone,” he says, his tone thoughtful. “This looks like six weeks of healing.” He hesitates.

I crane my head around to look at him. “What?”

“I don’t know how your magic works”—he says
magic
like it’s profane—“but it didn’t undo what he did. The lash marks left scars.”

When I say nothing, Noah tugs the shirt down and shifts to face me. “I can help you feel the worst of them, if you want to.”

I don’t want to. I toss the stripped bones from my meal into the fire. “I have seen the back of a beaten man.”

We aren’t speaking loudly, but the rest of our camping party has grown quiet, and I know their attention has fallen on me. I was
already a spectacle in the courtyard. I do not like the thought of being one again. Especially not for this.

Noah must sense this, because he eases away, returning to his spot beside Jacob.

Without fanfare, another dead goose flops into the dirt, scattering leaves and making the fire flutter. Iisak descends more slowly, but he keeps his distance from the fire.

Tycho moves to take the goose again, but I wave him back to his food and take the carcass myself. I need action.

My fingers begin plucking, a long-forgotten skill that returns to my hands without effort. I focus on the sparks that seem to flow under my skin. Jacob was right—Rhen has nothing to fear from me. I do not want his throne. I do not want to harm him.

But for the first time, I feel capable of offering something more than pain and torment and fear. “I can use this magic to heal Tycho?” I say to Iisak.

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

“You wish me to lay his arm open to the bone?”

Across the fire, Tycho goes still. I can’t tell if Iisak is teasing, but his fingers flex, which makes me think he might not be. “No,” I say.

“You are exhausted. Give your power time to recover,” Iisak says. “Try tomorrow night, perhaps.”

I
am
exhausted—but a bit energized, too. I almost want to ask him to lay my own arm open again, just to feel the rush and swell of magic.

“If we can spare another day to walking,” I say, “we should continue heading northwest without trying to secure horses. If soldiers
are already searching the town here, a slow pace will work to our benefit. Rhen would expect me to find horses and weapons and move quickly, especially if he suspects Lia Mara is with me and our destination is Syhl Shallow.” I glance across the fire, and her gaze meets mine.

“How much do you think Princess Harper would tell him?” she asks.

“If soldiers are searching in this direction? Everything.”

“No,” says Jacob. “She knows I’m with you. She wouldn’t let him come after me.”

I jerk feathers from the goose’s neck. “She may have no choice.”

Jacob rolls to his knees. “Are you saying you think he’d
hurt
her?” His tone is vicious, and he doesn’t wait for an answer. “I’m going back. Right now. We should have made her come with us—”

“No. I do not think he’ll hurt her.” A dark part of my brain whispers that I never would have expected him to do what he did to me, either. “Even if we are found, his guards will not harm
you
. He loves her. She loves him. Rhen is afraid, but we are all safer if she is within the walls of Ironrose. If she had come with us … I do not like to think of what Rhen might have done to come after her.”

They go silent. I continue pulling feathers.

After a moment, Tycho says, “What is he afraid of?”

“Magic.” I pause and wonder how much to keep secret—but surely it makes no difference now. “Rhen was cursed before. He suffered much, and Emberfall was nearly driven to ruin. He fears being cursed again.” I glance up. “He fears
me
.”

“He
knows
you,” says Jacob. “You’re not Lilith.”

Noah is studying me. “It might not matter.” He pauses, and his voice is grave. “Getting free of the curse—then learning someone else might be able to hurt him again, someone he once trusted …”

I swallow.

You trusted me once. What have I done to lose it?

You left.

Perhaps I lost before I even began.

“Harper told me a little about what you went through,” says Noah. “And she was only here for a short while.” He glances at Jacob. “Rhen’s been tough to live with over the last few months.”

Jacob snorts. “Yeah, because he’s an arrogant jerk.”

Noah doesn’t smile. “Or because he has PTSD.” Before I can ask, he says, “Post-traumatic stress disorder. It happens when you’ve been exposed to something terrifying. I used to see it a lot in soldiers. Or abused kids. It’s like your brain can’t turn off the fear.”

I glance at Tycho and think of how he shied away from those soldiers in Jodi’s tavern. Rhen has always been cool and composed, the pinnacle of control. But I keep remembering the shadows in his expression in the courtyard and wonder how much of that hid what he was truly feeling. For the first time I wonder if he’s truly trying to protect his people—or if he’s trying to protect himself.

Either way, he wants me dead. It shouldn’t matter.

I look back at the goose in my lap. I hold the bird as close to the flames as I can, letting it singe the feathers dry. Once those are also stripped from the body, I stand, but Iisak is already there. He makes quick work of the poultry, and I lay the meat across the stones.

He’s licking the blood from his claws again, and I try to stop myself from wondering if he did the same with mine. It’s unsettling to think that he was trapped in that cage for so long, having conscious awareness of everything that was done to him. Kantor jabbed his sword into the cage that day, for nothing more than a bit of sport. It’s not the same kind of humiliation as what Rhen did to me—but it’s not altogether different either.

“If you have magic,” I say to him, my voice low, “how were you kept in a cage for so long?”

“My magic is not the same as yours,” he says. “Yours comes from within, while mine comes from the wind and the sky. I can breathe frost and borrow snow from the clouds.” He holds out a hand and blows air across his palm. Frost collects on his skin—but only for a moment. It melts almost instantly, and he shakes the water into the leaves.

“But it’s summer,” I say, understanding. He was nearly dead when Worwick rolled him into the tourney. I thought it was because of the canvas covering, but maybe it was more.

“Yes, Your Highness.
Here
, it is summer.”

Motion catches my eye, and I find Lia Mara has moved forward to turn the meat on the stones in the fire. For the daughter of a queen, she doesn’t seem to flinch from anything—not even the prospect of work. Her hair is lit with a red glow, her curves in silhouette.

She must sense my gaze, because she looks up, so I quickly avert my eyes back to Iisak. “Did you know what I was, when we were at Worwick’s?”

“I knew you were a magesmith the instant I tasted your blood.”

The words bring a cool wind, and I shiver.

“You so fearlessly put your hand in the cage,” he continues, “so I thought you knew, that your surprise was a farce for that foolish man. Our people were once great allies, as I said. I thought you would free me once night fell.”

“And then I didn’t.”

He smiles, teeth glittering. “You did eventually.”

“I freed you to free myself,” I say to him.

“And I would have cut your throat if it meant the cage would open.” Leaves rustle in the trees above us, and his wings snap open. He launches off the ground in search of new prey, his voice carrying back to me. “Do not fault yourself for choices you believed were right in the moment. It is not princely.”

I grunt and stare after him. “I’m not a prince,” I mutter under my breath. I drop my gaze to find the fire, but instead I find Lia Mara watching me.

“You
are
a prince,” she says quietly.

Maybe it’s the stars in my blood, or maybe it’s the lack of pain in my back or my leg. Maybe it’s the fact that I feel as though I finally did something
right
.

I don’t know if I’ll follow her into Syhl Shallow. I don’t even know if I’ll survive the next few days. But for the first time, the word
prince
doesn’t make me flinch.

And for the first time, I don’t say a word to correct her.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

LIA MARA

By the third day, Grey estimates that we’ve covered seventy-five miles, always staying close to the creek. Iisak reports castle guards and enforcers in the towns when we draw near. We may not have horses, but Iisak swiped an array of supplies and weapons in the dead of night. We each have a dagger now. Two bows, though only one quiver of arrows. Two more swords. An iron pot that allows us to boil water and cook more than just roasted fowl.

When we rest at night, Grey tries to use his magic to heal Tycho, but he’s been unsuccessful. I can sense his frustration, but he doesn’t share his worries with me—or with anyone. Tense exhaustion seems to be a companion that silently follows us through the forest, and it’s the only companion I have. We travel together, but there’s a clear division among our party: Noah and Jacob, Grey and Tycho. Iisak keeps to the skies, leaving me to walk alone.

By the fourth night, the summer heat has grown oppressive, and everyone is bitter and snappish. Grey and Jacob have been
sniping at each other for hours, and I’m ready to pick up a bow and shoot them both. Even Tycho has left Grey’s side to sit against a tree on the opposite side of tonight’s campsite, where Iisak has taken roost in the darkness of the branches. A frost-coated leaf drifts down from above, and Tycho catches it, grinning. “That’s a neat trick.”

I can’t help but smile at the wonder in his voice.

On the other side of our campsite, Jacob is arguing. “We stole weapons,” he says. “I don’t see why we can’t steal horses.”

“One weapon would not be immediately noticed,” says Grey. “Five horses would be—and their tracks easily followed.”

“Yeah, but on horseback, we could get away faster.”

Grey’s expression is cold. “On horseback, we are a larger target—”

“I’m going for a walk,” I say. My sister could be challenging in her own way, but at least we never bickered. “I’ll take the bow. Perhaps we can eat something other than wild goose.”

“Look,” says Jacob, not even paying attention to me. “I left one jerk of a prince behind. Don’t be too quick to fill the role.”

I scowl and sling the quiver over my shoulder, then head into the forest with the bow.

Silence immediately greets me, warm and welcome in the slowly darkening twilight. The bow is sleek and heavier than I’m used to, the polished wood like satin. I circle the camp in gradually widening arcs, moving farther away as the sun begins to disappear. I take aim at a rotted log about a hundred yards away and let an arrow fly. The arrow sinks right into the softened wood, only a few inches below where I hoped. Maybe the weight isn’t as bad as I thought.

I stride through the trees to fetch the arrow. When I straighten, movement flashes in the distance. I freeze.

A deer—no, a buck. Large and brown with beautiful dapples across its hindquarters. Two hundred yards away at least, but as wide a target as I’ll ever get.

I raise the bow and nock an arrow on the string.

Suddenly every hair on my neck stands up. I hold my breath.

I’m not alone. I don’t know
how
I know, but I do.

I spin, ready to fire.

A hand catches the bow, gripping the arrow in place, and I gasp, staring up at Grey. The point of the arrow sits against his chest.

Fury flares like a torch in my belly. He must see the words ready to boil out of my mouth, because he shakes his head quickly and puts a finger to his lips, then points.

The buck has been joined by three deer.

Grey is so determined and self-assured that I expect him to wrestle the bow away from me, the way he claimed the sword from Jacob.

He doesn’t. He lets go of the arrow so I can turn back around.

I’m painfully aware of the position of my fingers on the bow. I wait for a correction of some sort, a comment on my stance or a question of my ability, but he’s silent at my back. I draw the bowstring tighter and release. The arrow flies.

The buck falls without a sound. The other deer scatter in a burst of motion.

“Nice kill,” says Grey.

The word makes me shiver. “Thank you.”

He walks toward the clearing where the animal fell. It’s no wonder he was able to slip through the woods without detection. When he’s alone, he moves like an assassin.

I sling the bow across my opposite shoulder and hurry to follow.
The buck is larger than I expected. From a distance, it was beautiful, but up close, its eyes have already gone glassy. I shudder.

Grey yanks the arrow free and wipes it in the grass, then holds it out to me. Bits of blood and other things glisten at the tip.

I swallow, then jam it into the quiver, thinking of that trapper and his daughter, the ones my sister condemned to death. “Shall we—” I have to clear my throat. “Shall we drag it?”

“We don’t want to ruin the hide. I’ll find a branch.”

He does, then strips tiny twigs from the length. We use our dagger belts to lash the legs to the wood. I feel jittery and unsettled inside, especially when Grey hoists one end onto his shoulder and the head flops to the ground, antlers dragging.

I must be staring too long, because Grey says, “It’s heavy. I can fetch Jacob.”

“No—no, I should be able to manage.” I get my shoulder under the branch and use my legs to lift, and the weight nearly takes my breath away. Each step is more of a stagger.

Mother would be mortified. Anything requiring brute strength would be seen as lesser—a burden relegated to a man. Being quick and lithe and agile are valued in women. Being thoughtful and decisive.

Not hauling animals through the woods. Maybe I
should
let him fetch Jacob.

The thought feels like a slap to the cheek. I was not worthy of being queen. Perhaps I
am
only good for hauling animals through the woods.

I’m not even good for that, because I’m about to drop this branch. I gasp, “Grey—one—moment—please.” Without waiting, I shove the weight off my shoulder.

Grey eases his end to the ground, then turns to lean against a tree. Darkness thickens the air, and I can’t make out his expression in the shadows. I wonder if he’s disappointed. Or possibly exasperated. I shouldn’t care, but I do.

“My apologies,” I offer.

His eyebrows flicker into a frown. “No need.”

The buck’s head is cocked sideways on its antlers, the dead eyes staring at me judgmentally. I grimace and glance away.

Grey is studying me, but he seizes his end of the branch. “Ready?”

No, but I nod.

He takes more of the weight this time, but I barely last two minutes. The buck flops to the ground again. I’m panting.

“Can we not drag it?” I gasp.

“You think it will somehow weigh less on the ground?” He’s not even a little breathless.

I scowl at him ruefully and drag a hand across my forehead.

“We need the skin,” he says. He stretches his arms overhead, flexing his shoulders, the only sign that this is an effort for him as well. “The fur will give us a good story if we’re confronted in the woods. Trappers and fur traders will grow more common as we head north.”

The mention of trappers and fur traders makes me frown. I take hold of the branch. “I’m ready.”

This time I barely make it twenty-five paces. I’ll have a good bruise tomorrow. I lean against a tree and breathe.

“You have exceptional aim,” says Grey. “Where did you learn to shoot that way?”

“We have competitions every year,” I say, and my breathing is ragged, but I welcome the distraction. “The Royal Houses of Syhl
Shallow all send entrants. Archery, mounted games, things like that. Have you nothing similar here?”

He shakes his head. “The guardsmen would sometimes fight to entertain the nobility, but nothing so official.”

“What a shame. The Queen’s Challenge is quite a spectacle.” I smile, remembering. “It is a time of celebration.”

He doesn’t smile. “It is unusual for me to think of times of celebration in Syhl Shallow.”

I flinch, thinking of Tycho’s comments about my mother eating her victims.

“I meant no offense,” says Grey, but there’s a note in his voice that makes me wonder if he truly means that. Before I can ask, he seizes his end of the branch and hoists it onto his shoulder.

I grit my teeth and follow suit. The buck feels heavier each time. I speak in broken phrases, panting in between. “My sister, Nolla Verin—is the best. She always—takes top prize. In—in the mounted games.” I pause to catch my breath. “I’m good with an arrow, but she is better. Many are better. Some of the contests—are brutal. I do not like—I do not like the violence. Even still, I look—I look forward to it each year. The food, the parties. I’m told—I’m told—”

“Lia Mara. Set it down.”

I drop the branch, then brace my hands on my knees. The woods are very dark now, and I can barely make out Grey’s form. He’s a large shape in the darkness. We’re making very slow progress, and I wait for him to tell me he’ll ask one of the other men to help him. After Mother’s announcement, I felt incapable at home. Like someone lesser.

After failing with Rhen, and now, in a different way, failing with Grey, I feel incapable here.

But Grey says nothing more about fetching Jacob. He’s quiet for the moment, and I don’t mind, because I’m trying to rub knots out of my shoulder. Eventually, he says, “We’re less than two hundred yards from camp. Can you make it?”

Two hundred yards might as well be two hundred miles, but I brace myself and lever the branch onto my shoulder. “I think so.”

“I know so.” He says it like it’s something I should be proud of. I sweat and stagger and try not to fall.

“In the Royal Guard,” he says conversationally, as if I’m not gasping with every step, “we were trained to be skilled at weaponry, but that was never our primary lesson. We were taught to see ourselves as different from the people. As a group. Every day came the call and response.
Who are you? We are the Royal Guard.
”

“My mother’s … my mother’s soldiers”—I draw a ragged breath—“are trained similarly.”

“If one guardsman failed to follow orders, the entire unit would be punished. It bred unity—and obedience—quickly.”

“I’m sure.” I nearly stumble over a rock.

“After a while,” he says, “a guardsman begins to recognize anyone outside the unit as a potential threat. As a
target
. It makes it easy to follow orders when you’re in a constant state of evaluate-and-disregard or evaluate-and-act.”

I’m barely listening to him. My focus is squarely on the placement of my feet in the dark, and the weight of the branch on my shoulders. “I need to put this down.”

“We’re almost there. Keep your eyes on the fire.”

I blink sweat from my eyes, and I can see the glow through the trees. I force my feet forward.

“After your mother invaded,” he says, “anyone from Syhl Shallow was a threat.”

I brace sweat-slicked palms against the branch to try to give my shoulder a reprieve. Part of me wants him to move faster. Another part of me wants to pitch face-first into this underbrush.

“So when I say that it is odd to think of times of celebration,” he continues, “it is because I had forgotten that your people may be our enemies, but they are still people.”

“Yes.” We will never reach that fire. “They are people.
We
are people.”

“Indeed.”

I clench my eyes shut. “I cannot—I cannot—”

“You’re stronger than you think. Another step.”

I step.

“Another.”

I lose track of how many steps are left. My eyes no longer track the fire, and instead track the movement of his body in the darkness. His voice has become hypnotic.
Another. Another. Another.

When he finally stops, it’s so unexpected that I nearly walk right out from under the branch.

“Silver hell,” says Tycho. “Is that a stag?”

I drop it in the dust beside the fire and quickly follow suit. My knees hit the ground, and I do not care. “Yes.”

“Finally,” says Jacob. “Something with some real meat on its bones.”

“Lia Mara is quite the shot,” says Grey.

“Quite the brute, too,” says Jacob. “How much does that thing weigh?”

Quite the brute.
I don’t know if I should blush or frown. I yank
the quiver off my back and busy myself with putting everything back with our accumulated supplies. “It was luck.”

A hand catches my arm, and I turn, ready anger on my tongue.

Grey’s easy expression is gone. “Strength and skill are not matters of
luck
.”

“You carried most of the weight.”

“I did not. That animal is easily three times your size, and we carried it over half a mile.” He pauses. “Could your sister do
that
?”

I think of Nolla Verin, with her easy smile and yards of dark hair. She can put an arrow into a dark target on a cloudy night, and no one will ever get her off a horse, but like our mother, she is slight, all fluid grace.

“No,” I admit. “Physical strength is not a point of pride in Syhl Shallow.”

“You did not think you could do it, and then you did. That is more than just physical strength.” His eyes glitter in the darkness, and his voice is low. I’m not sure how, but he’s taken the sting out of the moment, turning it into something warmer. Better. Maybe Mother would frown on this, but for the first time in a while, I suddenly feel … capable.

A blush finally finds my cheeks, and I glance away. I think of what he said when we were walking. My people, his people— it should make no difference. I didn’t expect such a revelation from him.

After days of feeling at odds with the men around me, this moment feels meaningful. I want to cling to it for a while, to share a few more words. To hear the echo of pride in his voice that I haven’t heard in so long.

“Your Highness,” calls Iisak. “If none of you humans have claimed the heart, may I do so?”

Grey’s eyes flick skyward, and he turns away. Whatever spark existed between us burns out to nothing.

“Have no worries, Iisak,” he says. “The heart is yours.”