“She yields,” Emetterio says. “That’s enough.”

I hear it again—the macabre sound of snapping bone—but this time it’s mine.

It is my opinion that of all the signet powers riders provide, mending is the most precious, but we cannot allow ourselves to become complacent when in the company of such a signet. For menders are rare, and the wounded are not.

—Major Frederick’s Modern Guide for Healers

CHAPTER

SIX

Flames of agony engulf my upper arm and chest as Dain carries me through the lower, covered passage out of the Riders Quadrant, over the ravine, and into the Healer Quadrant. It’s basically a stone bridge, covered and sided with more stone, which pretty much makes it a suspended tunnel with a few windows, but I’m not thinking clearly enough to take it in as we rush through, his strides eating up the distance.

“Almost there,” he reassures me, his grip firm but careful on my rib cage and beneath my knees as my useless arm rests on my chest.

“Everyone saw you lose it,” I whisper, doing my best to mentally block the pain like I have countless times before. It’s usually as easy as building a mental wall around the pulsing torment in my body, then telling myself the pain only exists in that box so I can’t feel it, but it isn’t working so well this time.

“I didn’t lose it.” He kicks the door three times when we reach it.

“You shouted and carried me out of there like I mean something to you.” I focus on the scar on his jaw, the stubble on his tan skin, anything to keep from feeling the utter destruction in my shoulder.

“You do mean something to me.” He kicks again.

And now everyone knows.

The door swings open and Winifred, a healer who has been at my side too many times to mention, stands back so Dain can carry me in. “Another injury? You riders certainly are trying to fill our beds to— Oh no, Violet?” Her eyes fly wide.

“Hi, Winifred,” I manage over the pain.

“This way.” She leads us into the infirmary, a long hall of beds, half of which are full of people in rider black. Healers do not have magic, relying on traditional tinctures and medical training to heal as best they can, but menders do. Hopefully Nolon’s around tonight, since he’s been mending me for the last five years.

The signet of mending is exceptionally rare among riders. They have the power to fix, to restore, to return anything to its original state—from ripped cloth to pulverized bridges, including broken human bones. My brother, Brennan, was a mender—and would have become one of the greatest had he lived.

Dain gently lays me onto the bed Winifred brings us to, then she leans into the edge of the mattress, near my hip. Every creased line in her face is a comfort as she strokes a weathered hand across my forehead. “Helen, go get Nolon,” Winifred orders a healer in her forties walking by.

“No!” Dain barks, panic lacing his tone.

Excuse me?

The middle-aged healer glances between Dain and Winifred, clearly torn.

“Helen, this is Violet Sorrengail, and if Nolon finds out she was here and you didn’t call him, well…that’s on you,” Winifred says in a deceptively calm tenor.

“Sorrengail?” the healer repeats, her voice rising.

I try to focus on Dain through the throbbing in my shoulder, but the room is starting to spin. I want to ask him why wouldn’t he want my shoulder mended, but another wave of pain threatens to pull me into unconsciousness and all I can do is moan.

“Get Nolon or he will let his dragon eat you alive, sour face and all, Helen.” Winifred arches a silver eyebrow as she ignores Dain insisting again not to call the mender.

The woman blanches and disappears.

Dain pulls a wooden chair closer to my bed, and it scrapes the floor with a god-awful sound. “Violet, I know you’re hurting, but maybe…”

“Maybe what, Dain Aetos? You want to see her suffer?” Winifred lectures. “I told her they’d break you,” she mutters as she leans over me, her gray eyes full of worry as she assesses me. Winifred is the best healer Basgiath has, and she prepares every tonic she prescribes herself—and has seen me through more scrapes than I care to count over the years. “Would she listen to me? Absolutely not. Your mother is so damned stubborn.”

She reaches for my injured arm, and I wince as she raises it a couple of inches, prods my shoulder.

“Well, that’s certainly broken.” Winifred tsks, raising her brows at the sight of my arm. “And it looks like we need a surgeon for that shoulder. What happened?” she asks Dain.

“Sparring,” I explain in one word.

“You hush. Save your energy.” Winifred looks back at Dain. “Make yourself useful, boy, and pull the curtain around us. The fewer people who see her injured, the better.”

He jumps to his feet and quickly complies, drawing the blue fabric around us to make a small but effective room, separating us from the other riders who have been brought in.

“Drink this.” Winifred brings out a vial of amber liquid from her belt. “It will handle the pain while we get you sorted.”

“You can’t ask him to mend her,” Dain protests as she uncorks the glass.

“The pair of us have been mending her for the past five years,” she lectures, bringing the vial closer. “Don’t start telling me what I can and cannot do.”

Dain slides one hand under my back, the other under my head, helping me slightly upright so I can get the liquid down. It’s bitter like always as I swallow, but I know it will do the trick. He settles me back on the bed and turns to Winifred. “I don’t want her in pain—that’s why we’re here. But if she’s injured this severely, surely we can see if the scribes will take her as a late admission. It’s only been a day.”

As his reasoning for not wanting a mender sinks in, my anger is able to pierce through the pain long enough for me to bite out, “I’m not going to the scribes.”

Then I sigh, closing my eyes as a pleasant hum races through my veins. Soon there’s enough distance between me and the pain to think somewhat clearly as I force my eyes open again.

At least, I think it’s soon, but there’s a conversation going on I clearly haven’t been paying attention to, so it’s obviously been a few minutes.

The curtain whips back and Nolon walks in, leaning heavily on his cane. He smiles at his wife, his bright white teeth contrasting his brown skin. “You sent for me, my—” His smile falters as he sees me. “Violet?”

“Hi, Nolon.” I force my mouth to curve upward. “I’d wave, butone ofmyarms doesn’t workand theother feels realllllyheavy.” Good gods, am I slurring my words?

“Leigheas serum.” Winifred offers her husband a crooked smile.

“She’s with you, Dain?” Nolon turns an accusing look on Dain, and I feel all of fifteen years old again, being hauled in because I broke my ankle while we were climbing somewhere we shouldn’t have been.

“I’m her squad leader,” Dain replies, scooting out of Nolon’s way so the mender can get closer. “Putting her under my command was the only thing I could think of to keep her safe.”

“Not doing such a good job, are you?” Nolon’s eyes narrow.

“It was assessment day for hand-to-hand,” Dain explains. “Imogen—she’s a second-year—dislocated Violet’s shoulder and broke her arm.”

“On assessment day?” Nolon growls, cutting away the fabric of my short-sleeve shirt with his dagger. The man is eighty-four if he’s a day, and he still dresses in rider black, sheathed with all his weapons.

“Hermotherwasssss. OneofFennnnRiorson’s sepppara—sepppara—sssseparatisssts,” I explain slowly, trying to enunciate and failing. “And I’mmmmmaSorrengail, so I getit.”