Master of Iron (Bladesmith #2)(7)

I don’t know if Petrik knows all the guards or if one just happened to be stationed who knows him, but I’m glad things are being set in motion. Leona shouts a few words to servants stationed by the doors, who disappear inside.

In just a few minutes, a pallet is carried out toward the wagon, and it’s followed by a small garrison of guards bearing chains and manacles. I help the caretakers place Temra on the pallet. The guards wrest a wriggling Kymora off the wagon and bind her properly. She puts up quite the fight, earning her a few more scratches and bruises.

“Please,” Petrik says. “Be as gentle as you can within reason.”

More guards spill from the front entrance, all decked in deep blue tunics bearing a yellow sun on their breasts.

There’s a faint murmuring from inside the palace, steadily growing louder. Then, “Just let me through!” a voice insists, pushing past all the others.

And he can be no other than Prince Skiro. He wears a deep golden tunic with the same sun as the guards beneath an open sapphire robe. Prince Skiro’s brown skin is darker than Petrik’s, his head shaved, and his features are so smooth that Temra would probably describe them as pretty. He’s taller than Petrik but not so tall as me, though he comes close. He bears no special ornamentation to mark his standing, but he wears a jeweled dagger sheathed at his waist. He is the youngest of the royals, and I would place him at not a day older than twenty.

The prince eyes the wagon, my sister on the pallet, Kymora in chains, before his eyes land on Petrik. His face alights in a bright smile. “Petrik!” he exclaims as he embraces his brother. “Is it just me or have your muscles finally come in? And what are you wearing? I can’t recall the last time I saw you in anything other than your scholar attire.”

“Forgive me, Skiro,” Petrik says, “but we’re in a hurry. We need immediate help. One of my friends is severely wounded. She doesn’t have much time. We need Serutha. Can you please call for her?”

Skiro’s eyes land on Temra and her white face. “Come inside, all of you. Any friends of my brother’s are friends of mine.”



* * *



Every second that ticks by feels like a lash against my skin.

I watch as caretakers use warm rags to clean the travel away from my sister. They are so gentle with her, but I’m impatient for this Serutha to arrive and work her magic. One of the caretakers unbinds the bandages on her arm, and a rotting smell fills the space. It’s infected, and a healer begins cutting the stitches away and reopening the wound so she can lance the injury.

But where is the magical healer?

When the door opens, I spin in relief, prepared to greet and beg and do whatever it takes to get my sister the immediate attention of the finally arrived healer.

But it’s only an attendant of some sort.

“Petrik sent me to collect you. I’m to show you to your rooms so you can clean and rest. The prince would like for you all to be his special guests at dinner.”

I blink at him.

Dinner and clean and rest?

My sister is dying. Dying. And they expect me to—

“Excuse me,” someone says from behind me. I turn, already tense and wanting to rush over to my sister’s side.

It’s one of the caretakers. “We have her. She’ll receive the best care we can give her. You should go.”

“I’m not leaving her,” I say.

“I don’t know how to put this delicately, but you’re contaminating our sterile environment.”

At that, I look down at myself. There’s dirt under each of my fingernails. My clothes are torn from wrestling Kymora, stained from travel. I can’t tell freckles from grit on my skin. And I can only imagine the smell.

Embarrassment seeps in, but it doesn’t override my need to see Temra whole. “Are you saying it’s safer for her if I leave?”

The caretaker nods politely.

“I can return as soon as I’m clean? And you’ve sent for this”—I don’t know if the magical healer’s abilities are widely known—“Serutha?”

“You may return, and the prince has all of his resources at your disposal.”

I take her meaning.

“Very well,” I say, exhaling a breath. The attendant looks relieved when I turn back to him.

The room I’m shown to is clean and lets in lots of natural light. There are many fine carpets and draperies throughout, beautiful designs that look like they would have taken years to complete. A bath has already been drawn, and I hurry to it, knowing the sooner I’m clean, the sooner I can see Temra again and watch the magical healer work on her.

The water feels nice against my skin, and I allow myself to enjoy it while I scrape a week’s worth of grime from my body. I towel off when done, brush through my hair quickly, and leave it down—it’s far too short to do much with anyway. When dressed, I see myself back out through the door and nearly run into Petrik. He’s also taken advantage of a bath and new clothes.

“Do you have news?” I ask. “How is she?”

“Unchanged.”

What? “Why? Why hasn’t she been healed? Where is this healer you promised? Why is everything happening so slowly? Do I have to go banging on doors in the castle?”

Petrik stops me before I can ramble further. “I don’t know the answers to those questions yet, but Prince Skiro wishes to speak with us all.”