SEV SAT ALONE IN the small chamber. In truth, it wasn’t small at all—it was actually a series of rooms with a bedchamber, a sitting room, and a private washroom—but everyone called it the small chamber, since it was the smallest of half a dozen long-term-care rooms in the infirmary wing of the palatial estate of Lord Rolan, governor of Ferro.
Sev shook his head, trying to understand how he’d gotten here.
When he’d left the Phoenix Riders, his confidence that he could do what he’d promised faltered with every step. He was willingly returning to the empire, to his position as a soldier, when he’d only just gotten free of them. It was hard to believe he’d volunteered for this.
As hard as it was to believe he’d gotten involved with Trix, the Feather-Crowned Queen’s spymaster, and her ridiculous rebellion. The thought brought a rueful smile to Sev’s face. It had been the best decision of his life, and his footsteps had lightened somewhat after that.
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