A Heart So Fierce and Broken

by Brigid Kemmerer

  “Do it again,” I say, and my voice is a bit rough.

  The dagger lifts, and she brings it down swiftly.

  This time, the blade slices through the back of her hand. She gasps.

  I do too. “What are you—”

  “Shh.” She grips my hand and slaps it over her wound. “Heal it.”

  I try to force the stars to jump from under my skin and into her wound, but of course they scatter and dance, impossible for me to catch.

  “Distract yourself,” she says. “Talk. Tell me something. Ask me something. Anything.”

  “Who is your mother’s spy inside Ironrose Castle?”

  “Fell siralla!” She smacks me on the forehead. “Stop worrying about that foolish prince!”

  It’s so unexpected that I laugh.

  She glances away, but her eyes are rueful. “He does not deserve your worry. Prince Rhen is not your ally.”

  I do not want to think about Rhen. Lia Mara’s blood is sticky beneath my fingers, but I do not want to see how effectively I’m failing to heal her wound, either. I keep my hand wrapped around hers. “Tell me what you just said.”

  A blush rises in her cheeks. “Ah … I do not believe there is a translation.”

  “Now who is the liar?”

  “Fell siralla.” Her blush deepens. “Stupid man.”

  “I believe I liked it better when there was no translation.”

  She laughs, and the sparks of light in my blood whirl and dance in response. Every instinct in me wants to force them across the spot where our skin touches, but I tell myself to wait, to be patient. To be gentle.

  “How do you speak Emberish so well?” I say.

  “I had tutors,” she says. “Mother says it is the height of ignorance and arrogance to not speak the languages of our border countries.”

  That’s a rather frank assessment. “I’m sure our border guards were schooled, but any tutors in Ironrose were killed in the first season of the curse.”

  “Truly? Jacob and Noah speak it so well.”

  I shake my head. “They call it English. Their language is similar on their side.” I pause and turn the sounds of her words over in my head.

  “Fell siralla,” I try.

  She shakes her head. “Softer. Fell siralla.” The words fall off her lips without effort.

  I try again, and she giggles. “Your words are so hard-edged. Softer.”

  “Fell siralla,” I say, and this time she bites her lip to hide her smile.

  She takes my free hand and brings it to her mouth to whisper against my fingertips. “Fell siralla.”

  I barely hear the words. I am thinking about the softness of her lips brushing against my fingers, gentle as a butterfly. I am certain I have touched a woman’s mouth at some point in my life, but just now, none come to memory.

  “Say it again.” My voice has gone husky.

  “Fell siralla.”

  Her fingers have gone slack on my wrist. I brush a thumb across her lower lip, and her mouth parts slightly. I find myself wondering what the line of her jaw feels like. The slope of her cheek. The curve of her ear.

  Soldiers could burst from the trees this very moment, and I’d fall immediately.

  “You have stopped practicing your pronunciation,” she chides, but her eyes are dancing.

  “Stupid man,” I say dutifully.

  She laughs against my fingertips—but it ends on a gasp. She pulls her arm free from mine.

  “You did it.”

  The blood is gone, along with the slice across her forearm. I take her hand and run a fingertip along the smooth skin there.

  She shivers. “See? I knew you could be gentle.”

  I want to touch her mouth again and prove exactly that.

  “Do you think you could try it on Tycho?” she says.

  Tycho. For a wild, crazy moment, I can barely remember who Tycho is, much less what I should be trying.

  Stupid man, indeed. I cough. “Yes, I should try.”

  “Will you wake him, do you think?”

  I do not know. I have to shake my head to clear it, but Lia Mara seems to take that for an answer. I slip across the clearing to where Tycho sleeps. His upper body is bare, because he says a shirt pulls against the wounds when he sleeps. Despite the warmth in the air, his arms are tucked close against his body, and his breathing is slow and deep.

  I drop to a crouch and put a hand lightly against his shoulder.

  He jerks and tries to whirl. His eyes snap open, seeking danger.

  I lift my hands. “Be at ease,” I whisper.

  His eyes are a bit wild, and not quite awake. It makes me wonder what dreams haunt his sleep. “Grey—what—”

  “There is nothing to fear,” I say. “I wanted to try to heal your wounds.”

  “Oh. Oh.” He burrows back into the pine needles, pressing his face into his forearm. His breathing eases, but there’s a new tension to his body, as if he’s worried it will hurt. “Go ahead.”

  I rest my hand against his shoulder again, as lightly as I can. The bruising is extensive, the worst of the damage stretching across his lower back. Some of the wounds are an angry red, and I know Noah worries about infection. I have never flinched from violence, but my gut tightens every time I see his injuries. I am responsible for this.

  When I move my hand across a shallow lash mark, his breath catches, but he doesn’t say anything.

  “I don’t have to try,” I say quietly.

  “No. Do it.”

  A cold lick of wind rushes between the tree branches, and I know Iisak must be near. The sparks beneath my fingers feel more sure. I close my eyes and think of Tycho at Worwick’s. The way he begged for lessons in swordplay. The way he stepped in front of Kantor to stop him from hurting Iisak. The way he kept my secret, even at the risk of his own life.

  My hand moves, my fingers drifting across broken skin. Tycho whimpers.

  My eyes snap open. His are clenched shut, his jaw tight. Nothing is healed. A tear sits on his eyelashes. “Forgive me,” I say.

  “Keep trying,” he whispers.

  “Tycho—”

  He swallows. “Keep trying.”

  I hesitate before touching him again. It’s so much more damage than a tiny slice across the back of a hand.

  “He is so trusting of you, Your Highness.” Iisak’s growl-soft voice draws my attention, and another cold breeze flickers between the trees. His black eyes gleam at me from the darkness. “Do not waste it.”

  I close my eyes and put my hand against the worst of the marks. Tycho’s breathing shudders, but he keeps still. I don’t know if Lia Mara speaks or if I just imagine her voice. Gently.

  Those sparks and stars flicker and wait. I turn my thoughts away from swordplay and violence. I think of Tycho grinning about winning the race to Jodi’s tavern. I think of him standing in the loft, promising to keep my secret. I think of my panic easing, how he was the first person I trusted after so long.

  I’ll keep your secret, Hawk.

  My eyes are closed, but the stars seem to fill my vision anyway, brightening the way they did in the courtyard. They’re everywhere at once. I want to grab hold of them and drive them into his wounds, the way I’d put a blade in an enemy, but now I realize that Lia Mara was right. This is a different kind of skill.

  My hands brush over his injuries, and I let the stars dance along beneath my fingertips. Tycho gasps again, but I don’t stop. I trace every line of broken skin, every ridge of damage, every stitch placed by Noah.

  “Ah,” breathes Iisak, and I shiver again. “You have discovered the knack for it.”

  A sob breaks from Tycho’s throat, and I snatch my hand away. The stars flicker and die. I open my eyes. “Forgive—”

  I stop short. The bruising is gone. The wounds have left scarring, like mine did, but the skin is closed. Tycho braces his forearms against the ground, then rises to his knees. Tears have made lines in the dirt on his face, and he’s breathing as hard as he does when we race ac
ross the city.

  Then I can’t see anything else because he launches himself forward and wraps his arms around my neck. His breath is hitching against my shoulder like he’s a child. “I knew you would fix it. I knew you would.”

  The emotion in his voice is so potent that my own chest feels tight. My hands are shaking like I’ve been in a battle. This feels powerful. This feels useful. I feel so many things that my thoughts cannot contain them all. Regret that this happened at all. Guilt that I could not help him before. Relief that I could help him now.

  And underneath it all, so tiny that I almost don’t acknowledge it, a kernel of pride that instead of magic bringing fear and torment, the way Lilith did, or pain and death, the way my sword would, my magic brought healing and trust, and that is not a small thing at all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  LIA MARA

  When we wake, Iisak reports that soldiers and guardsmen are preparing to move out of the closest town, and that they will be advancing ahead of our traveling party. Grey thinks this will be our best chance to find horses, especially since we have the buck’s hide to trade, and it makes for a good story. We stay in our camp throughout the day, until Iisak says they’ve moved on, then we wrap up the hide and antlers and plan to walk into town near sunset.

  Blind Hollow is a small town burrowed into the base of the mountains that border Emberfall and Syhl Shallow. When we step out of the trees and into the valley, I’m nearly breathless from the beauty of our surroundings. The miles of blue sky overhead darken to violet in the distance. Trees climb the mountainside, stretching as far as I can see to either side. The foliage is vibrant green, but the air here is a bit cooler, leaving the bare start of red speckled throughout.

  Tycho’s mouth is all but hanging open. It reminds me of Nolla Verin’s comments in the carriage, when I was doing the same thing.

  “Get a good look now,” says Grey. “You cannot stare like that when we walk into town.”

  “The mountains are even bigger than I imagined.”

  “It’s not Rillisk, that’s for certain.” Grey starts forward, leaving us to follow.

  The five of us together would draw too much attention, so Noah and Jacob wait inside the tree line. Their accents would give them away almost immediately. Iisak has disappeared, but I imagine he won’t be far.

  I thought Grey might tell me to remain behind as well, but I offered to be his sister, mute ever since a childhood fever. “It might garner some sympathy,” I said. “For bargaining.”

  The corner of his mouth tilted up, just the slightest bit, but his eyes were inscrutable. “Clever,” he said, and that was that.

  He’s been active and occupied all day, rehanging the hide to make sure it dries, walking the path into Blind Hollow to see how much traffic we’d encounter, grilling Iisak for insights into the layout of the town and where we might run into trouble.

  I spent the day with the bow and arrow, hoping to find more game so we’d have more skins to trade.

  At least, that was the story I gave the men. In truth, I needed a task to busy my hands and occupy my thoughts. It didn’t matter. No matter what task I gave my hands, my thoughts were all too content to focus on the moment by the fire, when Grey’s thumb stroked across my lip.

  Even the memory is enough to make me shiver. I keep stealing secret glances at him, as if my eyes are reluctant to look at anything else. That first night I hid in his room at Ironrose, I thought he was aggressive and cold, but after spending days in his presence, I’ve discovered that he’s not either. He’s quiet and strong and sure.

  I wonder what my sister will think of him. She teased me about my inexperience with men, but now I long to whisper and giggle in the privacy of our carriage.

  But of course we will not have moments of whispers and giggles once I reach the Crystal Palace in Syhl Shallow. Mother will task Nolla Verin with seducing him, so she can form an alliance before lending her support to his claim on the throne.

  My entire mood sours by the time we reach the town proper. Dusk hangs over the valley, bringing a cool breeze down from the mountain. Lanterns hang near doorways, flickering with candles. The cobblestone streets aren’t crowded, but enough people are out that we earn a few curious glances.

  I’ve braided my red hair into a rope and tucked it into a belted jacket I’ve borrowed from Jacob. Tycho carries the pelt over his shoulder, while Grey has the antlers strung together across his back. Tycho and I each have a dagger at one hip, while Grey is the only one to carry a sword. Tycho scowled at that, but Grey said it would be unusual for simple trappers to carry many weapons.

  I think of that man and his daughter again. He only had one knife at his belt.

  Kill them, Nolla Verin said.

  Ah, Sister.

  Grey glances at me, and he must take note of my expression, because he frowns. “You look troubled,” he murmurs.

  I inhale to speak, then remember I am to be mute. I have no idea how to explain it all, so I shake my head, then shrug.

  He moves closer. “No harm will come to you.”

  He thinks I am nervous about the town. I probably should be, surrounded by people who’ve likely seen the destruction caused by my mother’s soldiers, but I am not. Rhen’s guards have moved on, and Blind Hollow seems quiet and peaceful.

  Still, there is something charming about his reassurance. My annoyance dissipates. I look back into his earnest eyes and nod.

  Tycho inhales deeply. “Do you smell the food?”

  I hadn’t, but as soon as he says that, I realize I have been smelling food. The road is bordered by small houses and shops, but ahead there appears to be a larger establishment, with a wide thatched roof and a massive chimney spilling smoke into the air. No walls close the people in, and men and women seem to be coming and going from all sides. The scent of roasted meat fills the street, with the bitter scent of mead floating over it all.

  “We’ll start there,” says Grey. “Hopefully we can find a buyer tonight, or someone willing to allow us to trade for horses.”

  A sign hangs from the corner of the roof, naming the tavern the Rusty Rooster. Tables of all sizes line the floor, and most are occupied. Grey shifts past those to head for the bar in the center of the room, where he gestures for us to sit.

  The barkeep is an older man, tall and thin, with a thick beard and a shiny bald head. He offers us a bright, disarming smile. “Travelers!” he says genially. “Welcome to Blind Hollow. I am Eowen. Mead?”

  “Water, if you have it,” says Grey. “I am Rand. This is my sister, Mora, and my cousin Brin.”

  Eowen provides a pitcher and three mugs, then adds a platter of dry biscuits, jam, and cheese. “You look a bit road weary.” He turns that smile on me. “Rough travel, girl?”

  I wonder just how road weary I look. I touch my fingers to my mouth and shake my head.

  Grey says, “Forgive her. My sister cannot speak.”

  “Eh?” Eowen laughs and slaps the bar. “She’ll make a man a lucky husband, then!”

  I scowl.

  Grey laughs. “Indeed.”

  I knock over my mug of water in his direction.

  He’s quick and jumps back before it does much damage. I offer a simpering smile.

  I expect a glare, but instead, he gives me a crooked smile, his eyes twinkling. “She doesn’t know her own strength, either.”

  Oh. Oh. He’s teasing me. My heart flutters wildly. I give the barkeep an apologetic glance as he wipes down the bar.

  Tycho clears his throat and reaches for a biscuit. “We have fur to trade, if anyone in town is buying.”

  “There’s always a market for fur, especially with winter coming.” Eowen sighs, losing his smile. “We lost our local trapper, too. Poor man was killed by those vicious fiends from over the mountain.”

  My heart trips and stumbles in my chest.

  Those vicious fiends from over the mountain.

  Eowen sighs. “Now we’ve got the Royal Guard coming through town, look
ing for some kind of magesmith. Supposed to be the heir to the throne, if you can believe that. One man’s as good as another, I say. No one’s cared about Blind Hollow in years.” He pauses. “Are you from the north? You’d know.”

  “I’m from Wildthorne Valley,” says Grey. “I do know.”

  Eowen’s face falls further. “Now that’s a town filled with sadness. I heard there was a woman whose children were slaughtered one by one. It was done in the dead of night, they said. No one knew who did it. She showed up in the town square, covered in blood.”

  Beside me, Grey goes very still.

  “It was after her oldest son earned a place in the Royal Guard,” says Eowen. “Can you believe that? To earn that monthly silver and lose all your children?”

  Grey clears his throat. “A terrible burden, I’m sure.”

  “What happened to your trapper?” says Tycho, his voice hushed.

  The barkeep shakes his head. “Fredd. Good man. One of his girls got away. She said it was a slaughter. Those animals shot him right in the back.”

  I’d been piecing together the words about the woman losing all her children, but now my blood turns to ice.

  I wish I could speak.

  I have no idea what I would say.

  “Is your sister well?” says Eowen.

  Grey glances at me. I have no idea what he finds on my face, but his own eyes have gone cold and dark and inscrutable. His expression reminds me of the first night I met him. It’s almost frightening.

  He glances back at the barkeep. “Lingering effects from the fever that stole her voice, I’m afraid.”

  I try for a simpering smile again, but I’m not sure I manage it. I likely look addled.

  Eowen gives me a narrow look. “Ah.” Something across the tavern catches his eye, and he says, “Here’s Fredd’s daughter. She’ll know where you can get a good price for your hide. Raina! Girl, this man has a fur to sell.”

  It takes everything I have to avoid following his gaze. I seize Grey’s arm. My nails dig into his skin, but I can’t help it.

  He leans in close. “What’s wrong?”

  A girl’s voice at our back shyly says, “I can take you to the blacksmith, sir. His son does a lot of leather and fur work. He was one of Father’s best customers.”