Before he’d left the Eyrie, Commander Cassian had helped him form a plan, including a travel route that would avoid the Phoenix Rider sweeps. They’d decided together that Sev should return to the Vesperaean Caves—the place where his regiment had congregated before the attack—in order to scrounge for supplies and see if there were any survivors.
“We can’t give you anything,” the commander had warned, “or have you looking too well cared for upon your return. We’ve salvaged what we could of your original clothing, but the tunic was too far gone. You’ll have to claim you pilfered one from a corpse—or stole one from a traveler.”
Sev had sighed then, beginning to realize what exactly it was that he’d signed up for.
“And your shoulder wound will rouse suspicion,” the commander had continued, unaware of—or maybe uninterested in—Sev’s distaste for what lay ahead.
“It couldn’t be any more authentic,” Sev argued, looking down at his bandaged shoulder, which was stiff and aching, though the bone-deep heat that radiated from it was lessening somewhat. “It proves I was a part of the attack and not some turncoat or deserter.” Or spy.
“Yes, and it was expertly tended by Greta, a priestess of Hael, a healer you couldn’t hope to find anywhere in Pyra—nor could you afford her even if you did.”
A sense of foreboding had uncoiled in Sev’s belly. “I could say I found a village healer, or went to a temple near the border—”
“And if you find one of your fellow soldiers at the caves and don’t get the chance?” the commander said, shaking his head. “I’ve spoken with Greta. Your wound has done well, and she thinks it’s healed sufficiently enough that you likely won’t risk true infection if you remove the bandages and replace them with dirty scraps of linen. You will also apply this salve periodically,” he said, unscrewing the lid of a small ceramic jar. The scent was quite nice, floral and sweet. “It is made from ivy and bleeding heart. Apply it to the surface of the wound only. It will cause the skin to redden and swell and prevent it from knitting together for the duration of the journey. Ensure you lose it before you enter the empire’s border. This will set you back several weeks, but it is our best option to avoid suspicion.”
Sev took the salve, already dreading the increased pain that was sure to come.
“You will tell them the arrow shaft was removed by one of the empire’s healers during the battle, before he was killed. There were a handful positioned within each regiment—we found several bodies near the switchback stair and down by the bluffs. We’ve retrieved one of their bags, though they were woefully undersupplied. Bandages, thread and needle for stitching, and a poppy tincture to numb pain. You will carry one of their bags with you as evidence.”
After that Sev had donned his dirty, bloodstained clothes and rubbed his skin with dirt. Before he knew it, he was making his way back down the mountain.
Now he was tucked into a four-poster bed, a plush down-filled mattress beneath him and soft wool covers piled three high overtop. These rooms were meant for use by the estate’s residents, with all the comforts a governor’s family would expect in case they were forced to spend weeks under care by a healer.
A pitcher of mint-and-lemon-flavored water sat on his bedside table, and Sev was scrubbed and fed and wrapped in fresh bandages. Ever since his arrival he’d been treated kindly, graciously—like a valiant hero come home from war. Because of the nature of his recovery, Sev had been assigned this private chamber, had a healer checking in on him twice daily, plus servants he could summon with the shake of a bell.
Sev knew he was being treated better than most soldiers who returned from battle, no matter their wounds, and it made him extremely uneasy—like a beast fattened up before being sent to the slaughter.
But today, at long last, he was to meet directly with Lord Rolan. He had been in the capital when Sev first arrived but had apparently left word that any returning soldiers from Pyra be given the best possible treatment. Sev had gleaned since that there had been quite a few survivors before him who had already been questioned and sent to their new posts, not to mention the one he’d arrived with.
When Sev had first returned to the Vesperaean Caves, they had been deserted. Or so he’d thought. The Riders had already been through to burn the corpses and dispose of the spoiled food, and the llamas had gone as well—though Sev wasn’t sure if they’d broken free to roam Pyrmont or if they had been snatched up by surviving soldiers or the Riders. A part of him had been hoping to see some evidence of Kade, to find some hint or hope that he might have gotten away, but there was nothing. He’d even searched for Kade’s tags among the ashes in the funeral pyre, dread heavy inside his chest, terrified of what he might find. When his search turned up empty, he’d released a shaky sigh of relief.
He’d just been considering camping in the caves for the night when a voice had rung out in the growing twilight.
Sev had whirled around, pain lancing through his reaggravated wound, to find himself face-to-face with an unfamiliar man covered in angry red burns and with a short sword in hand. Sev scrabbled for his own weapon, but he needn’t have bothered. He was a soldier, the same as Sev, and had been a part of the supplementary forces that had arrived the night of the botched poisoning. He’d taken one look at Sev’s wound, said, “Better cold steel than hot fire” with a wolfish grin, and the two had traveled together for the rest of the trip back to the empire.
Over the following days Sev had thought often of Trix and Kade. It made him feel worse sometimes, but once he moved past the darker memories that would cause his breath to hitch and his throat to ache, he’d remember something that made him smile or laugh. Trix’s sharp tongue and Kade’s quiet humor. He’d remember the point of all this, and sleep would come a bit easier.
After years of fear and complacency, hiding among those who should have been his enemies, Sev’s life now had purpose and direction. He was hiding again, but this time it was for the greater good. It had been devastating to lose Trix and Kade, and the only thing Sev could do to make it hurt less was to finish what they had started: protect the last remnants of the Phoenix Riders—the order his own parents had died fighting for—and bring down men like Lord Rolan.
He’d been the one to send secret forces into Pyra with the express purpose of slaughtering the Phoenix Riders, and it was generals like him who had sent swarms of soldiers to kill his parents.
If Sev was going to be the one to survive, his life had to mean something. It had to. How did he deserve life when people like his parents, like Kade and Trix, did not?
Despite their wounds and their meager supplies, Sev and the soldier made good time, walking through the gates to Lord Rolan’s estate in the center of Orro a mere three weeks after the fighting had finished. The other man had been in much better shape than Sev, and after a quick perusal by Hestia, the healer, was smeared with ointment and sent back out again. Sev’s wound required more thorough treatment. Even after Hestia had done what she could to bring the severe redness and swelling down on the injury, Sev had very limited movement in the shoulder, as well as a constant, radiating ache that caused the surrounding muscle to tighten with tension along his neck and back. She’d given him the kind of look that told Sev he’d never be fully healed again, but she still visited daily to apply poultices and salves and help Sev stretch the stiff joint.