The Hunter and the Mage (The Raven and the Dove #2) - Kaitlyn Davis Page 0,46

did.

"We start with the wounded," Xander ordered, then took to the sky.

His guards flanked him on both sides as he soared over the castle walls and into the city beyond. A group still gathered near the main gate, tossing rotten fruit at the wall and cursing Rafe's name. But if they meant real harm, they would have used their wings to storm the castle itself. This was more frustration than fury, which meant he still had time to remedy the situation.

They traveled to the homes of the wounded first, those burned by dragon fire or crushed by falling stone. He said prayers to Taetanos with the families, offering what little comfort he could, as well as food and money to ease their burdens. The healers followed soon after, sent from the palace itself, with salves from the House of Paradise to help with the pain. Xander had already met with the relatives of the few who'd passed, but he stopped by their homes again to leave flowers by their doors, not interrupting their grieving, but not ignoring it either. The bouquets were made of fragrant lilies, the same he put under the spirit gates, using the scent to guide lost souls to the river, where the entrance to his god's realm was waiting. His final stop was to the rubble, buildings crushed by dragon claws and burned by dragon flame. He did what he could, struggling to help clear debris. Soot stained his clothes and skin, mixing with his sweat. There were no speeches that could cure their pains, so he didn't give any, choosing to work beside them instead. It meant so much more than empty words. He could see it in their eyes—the burgeoning respect, rebuilt much like the houses around him by placing one stone at a time.

People whispered, of course.

Fire cursed.

Where's the bastard?

What'd he do with the princess?

The gods are angry.

Taetanos help us.

Xander listened without comment. He couldn't defend Rafe—it would only bring more questions. Yet he found he couldn't damn him either. Oh, he was still furious. His invisible fist trembled by his side, his anger so much harder to tame now that it had tasted freedom. Perhaps it was unfair, but there was a part deep down in him that reveled just a little in hearing people curse Rafe's name, that was still livid with his brother, not only for stealing his mate, but for leaving him alone to pick up the pieces. Sometimes at night he found himself going to his brother's rooms, forgetting for a moment that he wasn't there, an old habit that wouldn't die. He didn't know who he was without Rafe there to act as a foil. It was so much easier to be carefree with Rafe by his side to carry his troubles, so much easier to be happy in the face of Rafe's perpetual grouchiness, so much easier to focus on his studies with Rafe there to guard his back. They were two sides of the same coin—as much as he loathed Rafe, he loved him, and maybe that hurt most of all. Missing Rafe felt like missing a piece of himself, one he'd never get back, and Xander had no one to blame but himself.

Weary and ravenous, Xander returned to the castle in a solemn mood, needing peace and quiet and a chance to rest his mind. He skipped dinner with his advisors and ordered it brought to his study instead. He wanted to lose himself in his books, in other worlds and other lives far different from his own.

When he stepped through the door, wind ruffled his feathers. With a curse, Xander ran across the room to grip the sheet that had torn loose from the broken window, sending a draft throughout the space. Moisture already wrinkled the pages of his books, nothing a fire wouldn't cure but still an annoyance he didn't need. The shifting pages only made his hackles rise.

They better not be damaged, he thought as he dropped to the ground to see what had ripped the curtain loose from its nails. I ordered the window sealed.

Xander frowned.

The nails hadn’t ripped loose. They still bit into the curtain, securing it to the floor and the walls. He ran his hand up the fabric, searching for the source of the tear. That was when he found the perfectly straight line cut through the center as though with a knife.

An arm came around his throat.

"Cassi—"

The grip tightened, cutting off air as something sharp bit