on the floor. “She had too much life in her.” Then he shook his head. “You’ll have to excuse me; I have a rogue healer to find. I trust you won’t mind me questioning your guardswomen. They might remember a detail you left out.”
“By all means,” Killian replied, knowing Quindor would search every residence Killian was associated with while he was at it. The same would go for all the ships leaving the harbor. No one would be able to board without putting a hand on whatever injured individual the temple had employed that day, and Hegeria’s mark had a mind of its own. Unless it was on the back of a good horse riding at a near straight gallop to reach Abenharrow before dark, smuggling a healer out of the city would be next to impossible. “Best of luck.”
The Grand Master shoved past Killian with surprising strength.
Killian let him go, his mind whirling as he carefully rolled the dead girl up in the ruined carpet, then lifted her in his arms. His own mark had warned him of the danger, but Quindor had known exactly what the threat was.
Hegeria’s temple was keeping secrets.
Which wasn’t surprising. Identifying corrupted was a skill that could be used, and the King already used them hard enough.
But was it also a skill Killian could use?
Ignoring the blood that had soaked through the carpet and was now seeping into the shoulder of his shirt, he considered the advantage of having a healer watching over Malahi. The trouble was, even if one could be spared, the tattoo on their foreheads made them easily identifiable and therefore useless for his purposes. He needed a healer whose mark was unknown, who hadn’t been branded by the temple. One who could watch over Malahi undetected.
And he knew just the girl.
There were no coincidences in this world. Not when the gods were involved.
24
LYDIA
Lydia sat on the floor of the warehouse that the Crown had transformed into a shelter, her knees pulled up to her chest and her face buried in her skirts. Bodies pressed against her on all sides, strangers leaning on each other not for support, but because there was no room to move. They’d been packed into the stone building as tight as they could fit, children sitting on mothers’ laps, and siblings wrapped around each other as comfort against the dark. Limbless soldiers sent back from the front lines wept in the darkness, haunted by nightmares that seemed to plague them sleeping or awake. The air felt thick and unbreathable from the smell of thousands of exhalations, and it was all Lydia could do to remain calm. To refrain from clawing her way over the sick and impoverished press of people to the doors and out into the wind and rain.
And the deimos.
Though the warehouse was stifling, Lydia shivered and wrapped her fingers in the wool of her dress. It’s safer in here, she told herself. Yet it didn’t feel safer. She felt like she was suffocating—like no matter how fast her breath came, not enough air reached her lungs. Her limbs were stiff from the forced immobility, but every time she shifted, it seemed her neighbors stole more of her space. There was no space allocated for a privy, and those who couldn’t hold it were forced to urinate where they sat. The ground was damp with weeks’ worth of filth, and she swore she could feel disease seeping into her skin. A few people had tallow candles lit, but rather than welcoming the faint bits of light, she worried what would happen if the filthy straw scattered across the floor caught fire.
Worse, in the darkness, she couldn’t help but see the misty flows seeping off those around her as time, illness, and starvation stole life from them. Many were dying; some would likely be dead by morning.
You could help them, her conscience whispered. You could save them.
But doing so would ensure she was caught. If that only cost her, it would be one thing, but too many lives depended on her returning to Celendor.
Guilt plagued her until exhaustion took over and she slipped into a sleep troubled with the vision of her skin crisping and blackening and the sounds of a thousand voices screaming, but none louder than her own.
Lydia jolted awake to the heat of a flame held in front of her face and fingers snatching at her dress, digging in her pockets. Blinded by the light, she lashed out at those around her,