“There are five tents total for the wounded, plus two more for the ill,” Heron explains. “You’ll have to avoid those. Many of the illnesses I can’t name, so I don’t know how contagious—or how deadly—they are. They’re my first priority after checking on Erik and Søren.” Though he tries to hide it, I can tell he’s exhausted.
“The Air Mine should be our next stop,” I tell him, placing a hand on his arm. “We can find more Guardians there so you won’t be the only healer.”
He nods, but his eyes are distracted.
“Come on,” Artemisia says, leading the way through the trees.
“I didn’t know you were so fond of Søren and Erik,” I say, following her.
“I’m not,” she snaps, so forcefully that I’d guess it’s not the truth. “But they must have learned something in that palace, and I want to find out what it is.”
* * *
—
We have to walk through two of the tents in order to get to the one Søren and Erik are being kept in. It was decided that keeping them separate from the others was the best idea. Søren is Kalovaxian, after all, and as far as most people are concerned, Erik turned his back on us. No one wants to risk a fight breaking out, so they set up a small separate tent for them.
The smell of blood intensifies the instant I step into the first tent, so thick in the air that it is nauseating. Bedrolls cover almost every available inch of space, lined side by side. Close to twenty in total, I would guess, most occupied. Some of the men and women are only bandaged but look all right otherwise, but others are in worse shape. A few are missing arms and legs, the wounds covered only by bandages already been soaked through with blood that shows no sign of stopping anytime soon. One man has a gash that cuts across his face so deeply that his jawbone juts out.
I want to look away from all of the carnage, but there is nowhere to look. It’s everywhere, inescapable.
Perhaps even worse than the wounds and blood and people in pain, though, are the empty bedrolls, still rumpled and stained by those who occupied them so recently. People who didn’t survive. I count five in this tent alone.
Heron’s hand comes to rest on my shoulder, steadying me.
“There are fewer injuries—fewer casualties—than there were in the last battle. And far fewer than there would have been if not for your plan to fool the Kaiserin,” he says, his voice soft but insistent. I know he means well, but it does little to reassure me.
I don’t let myself relax until we reach Søren and Erik’s tent, and even then, it’s short-lived. I don’t know what to say to either of them, but I have no choice other than to push open the flap and step inside.
It’s smaller than the other tents, only big enough for the two of them. Søren is sitting up on his bedroll, but Erik is asleep, rolled over so that his back is to us and all I can see is his hair. It used to hang down past his shoulders, but it’s been shorn so hastily that there are gashes on his scalp that have only just begun to close.
Søren and Erik have been cleaned up, but soap and water have done little to mitigate their injuries. Søren is shirtless, baring wounds over every inch of his exposed torso, arms, and even his face. He keeps his eyes down when we enter, though his shoulders tense and I know he’s aware of our presence. I’m not sure what he’s been told—or what he believes—about his rescue, though Søren is perceptive enough to realize that he wasn’t taken to a ship like he was meant to be, perceptive enough to recognize that people are speaking Astrean and not Sta’Criveran. He might not have the whole picture, but I would be surprised if he hasn’t pieced most of it together by now.
When I step closer, I realize that his wounds are actually burns, traced in elaborate patterns of swirls and lines and—in some places—words. Words written in a familiar hand.
I can’t help but let out a gasp, and that is when Søren looks up at me, shock and disbelief and relief taking turns playing over his face. He looks at me like I’m not real—some figment of his imagination, summoned forth and made flesh. He looks at me like he thinks I’ll disappear if he so much as blinks.
“Theo.” The word is barely more than a breath, but I hear it. It reverberates through every inch of me, thrumming through my blood.
“Hello,” I say. It’s a painfully insufficient greeting, but it’s the only word I can make my lips form. I try to look him in the eye and not let my gaze wander to the burns, not read the words that Cress has branded into his skin, words that I don’t think even Heron will be able to erase.
He forces himself to his feet, eyes somber on mine. I think for an instant that he means to embrace me, here, in front of everyone. I don’t even know that I would be able to hold back if he did. Instead, though, he falls to a knee, head bowed.
“My Queen,” he says. “It is good to see you again.”
“None of that,” I tell him, struggling to keep my voice from wavering. I crouch in front of him so that we’re eye to eye. This close, I can see the word traitor branded above his heart in Cress’s looping hand. I reach out to touch his cheek. His gaze meets mine and a thousand words pass between us unsaid.
“I thought you were dead,” he says, choking the words out. “Even when Erik said you weren’t…I couldn’t believe it. But you’re alive.”
“I’m alive,” I tell him. “Cress doesn’t know, though, and we have to keep it that way.”
Søren nods. “If she knew, she would burn this whole country to the ground to finish what she started.”
I nod, pressing my lips together tightly. I glance at Erik’s sleeping figure behind him. “How is he?” I ask Søren.
Søren looks away from me, his eyes finding Heron and Artemisia instead. “Cress was always planning on betraying him,” he says. “But she was very angry when she learned he’d betrayed her first.”
My stomach sinks. “The Gorakians he brought to the capital. Did she kill them?”
“No,” he says, and I let out a breath of relief before he continues. “Not most of them, at least. With the mine turnover as high as it is, they’re running out of bodies to work there. She sent any who were strong enough to the Earth Mine. They have the lowest numbers. Any who were too old or young or weak she had killed.”
I close my eyes tight and shake my head. “I’m so sorry,” I say.
“It’s not your fault,” a voice says. Erik, though he keeps his back to us. His voice is barely recognizable, full of anguish and raw from screaming or crying or perhaps both. “It was my foolish plan. I’m the one who put them in danger. I’m the one who killed them as sure as if I’d cut their throats myself.”