“You can’t force me—”
“I’ll spoon-feed you if necessary,” he returns bluntly. “But I shouldn’t have to. If you’re clever enough to set a broken bone, you should also be clever enough to realize you need a clear mind to do it. Not to mention a fair bit of strength. You claim you want to help Farley? Then you’ll help without your head spinning from hunger.”
My mouth snaps closed.
Gods damn it.
He’s right. A meal will do me good, clear some of thecobwebs from my overtaxed mind. Much as I hate to admit it, I’m of little use to Farley in my current state.
Penn sees on my face the moment I cave to his logic. He doesn’t say another word—merely jerks his chin at the stool on the other side of the table and, with a broad hand at my middle, gives me a gentle push out of his shadowy corner. I keep my gaze downcast, unable to meet anyone’s eyes as I stumble back to my seat in my too-large slippers. My stomach roils as I swallow my pride.
It tastes bitter.
Thankfully, the stew Marta delivers a few moments later is anything but. Thick, tasty broth swims with soft carrots and chunks of tender meat. The spoon in my hand trembles as I tamp down the urge to shovel the contents of my bowl into my mouth at embarrassing speed.
As we eat, the men—mostly Jac and Uther—chat about their campaign, describing a skirmish they faced last week against a clan of Reavers from the ice shelf on the western coast who are encroaching a bit too close to sovereign borders. The Cimmerian Mountains, I learn, are considered neutral territory. Too vast to be ruled by any one king and far too wild, they are shared by all Northlanders from the three kingdoms—Llyr, the Frostlands, and Dyved.
The names pop back onto the mental map of Anwyvn in my head like they’ve always been there, merely obscured for a time. Dyved sprawls to the west. Llyr dominates the east. The far smaller Frostlands occupy the sliver of glacier between them at the northernmost tip of Anwyvn.
Each kingdom protects its main trade routes through the mountains but otherwise leaves the range to govern itself. As such, it is a lawless place, home to as many exiles and fugitives asmonsters and snow beasts. The men grin as they tell me this, as though it is an amusing anecdote instead of a terrifying fact that will cause me to lose sleep at night.
For the past ten months, their unit has been assigned to clear out a particular stretch of snowy passes that lead in and out of the kingdom they call home.
Dyved.
“Can’t let just any monsters wander down into Caeldera.” Jac swallows his last sip of ale and immediately waves a hand at the barkeep, requesting another. “The only beast permitted to prowl those streets goes by the name of Pendefyre.”
“Jac,” a deep voice warns from the corner.
Jac’s grin is lopsided from drink, but he manages to muffle his voice. “Right.Low profile.Got it.”
Penn is keeping to the shadows. Given Edwynna’s reaction earlier, when she realized her inn was hosting royalty, I think that is a wise choice. No wonder he never takes off the helm. Even this high in the mountains, a prince of Dyved would be recognizable. Not to mention a potential target for the nefarious Reavers I’ve heard so much about.
My eyes drift across the tavern, examining the men at the surrounding tables. A mishmash of hair colors, races, and body types, with grizzled beards and wind-burned cheeks. Their cloaks are lined with fur, their shoulders draped with animal pelts. Most have double-bit battle-axes leaning beside their stools as they play rounds of a card game I don’t recognize. A fair few of them glance our way as fresh hands are dealt and new bets placed. I pray it is in curiosity, rather than ill intent. We have enough to deal with already without adding more enemies to our list of concerns.
I drink the last sip of my tea—I’d pushed away the ale as soon as I realized there was a need for my healing skills—and hop offmy stool. My eyes cut to the shadowy corner where I know Penn is staring back at me.
“Farley,” I say simply.
I turn and walk away from the table. This time, no hand reaches out to stop me. After a moment, I hear the distinct jolt of several pairs of boots hitting the floorboards, following in my wake.
Chapter
Twelve
The break is not as bad as I’d feared.
For this, I am grateful. It’s been some time since I last set a bone, especially without Eli’s watchful guidance. I kneel beside the pallet where Farley lies, conscious of Mabon, Uther, and Penn watching my every move like hawks circling a field of carrion.
Just as I had two summers ago, when our neighbor’s youngest child fell from an ashwood and splintered his arm at the wrist, I run my fingers along the exposed limb, keeping my touch light as I explore the extent of the fractures. Beneath the mottled bloom of bruises, I feel two distinct sections of bone. No fragments, no punctures in the skin. A single crack along his shin.
“No shards,” I tell Farley.
“That’s good news, right?”
I smile into his pallid face. “Very. It’s a clean break. We’ll have you on your way to healing in no time at all.”
His returning smile is thin but relieved. In his eyes, I see the drugging tincture I’d found in the healer’s storeroom doing its fine work. His lids are drooping as the pain is banished to the farthest reaches of his mind, no match for the effects of valerian root and verbena extract.