Page 77 of Heartbreak Prince

The few healers in existence typically demand fees so high that only the wealthiest of the land can afford their services. One or two might be willing to perform healing on certain candidates for free, but that grace is reserved for immediate family or for a cause the healer deems worthy. I once heard of an elderly healer using his last bit of life-force to restore sight to a child who had been blinded in an accident.

Even if the carpet did know of a beneficent healer, I don’t deserve such a gift. I need a regular physician to bind my finger and prescribe tonics for pain and inflammation, and then I need rest. I probably won’t get either for quite a while…

Something jerks below my navel, and my limbs flail wildly and painfully. I’m spinning through midair, free-falling, hurtling toward trees draped in blood ivy—

The carpet sweeps underneath me, arresting my descent.

“What happened?” He sounds angry and shaken. “You just let go.”

“I don’t know.” I grab the handles, half-sobbing. “I think I fell asleep.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Okay.” I blink away the panicked tears. “I’ll try to stay awake. I’m so tired, Severin.”

“What if I talk to you? I could tell you the history of the Xarsian nation and the origins of their cities deep beneath the eastern mountains. It’s fascinating.”

“Oh…” I wince, trying to be delicate in my reply. “That does sound fascinating, but I think I need a more stimulating story.”

“Perhaps the Ballad of Grimsbane? It’s a thousand-stanza epic oration.”

“I need something dramatic and loud. Something with shocking bits.”

The carpet scoffs. “You and the prince have something in common there. You both think with your genitals.”

“He might think with his dick, but I do not think with mine. Not that I have a dick, I just mean—never mind. I wasn’t asking for a salacious story, just something with surprising twists. Although salacious could work.”

“I will recount the Kredissian Tragedy of the Fates, all seven acts,” says the carpet. “And I will speak the parts loudly, in different voices.”

“Fine.” I grimace, hoping he can’t perceive the expression while in flight. “But if you spot any sign of the hunters, you’d better quiet down. I have no glyphs and a damaged body, so my only advantage is going to be that of surprise.”

“Very well.” Severin puts on more speed and begins declaiming lines of poetry in the shrillest, most annoying voice I have ever heard.

Fortunately, it keeps me awake.

16

Crawling through the undergrowth in the forests of the Red Mountains would be perilous enough in the daylight. In the dark, it’s like begging for death. But I have no choice.

The only reason I’m not already dead, caught up in a spidermaw’s tendrils, is because the bounty hunters I’m pursuing camped near the trade road, a long and circuitous route patrolled by soldiers and foresters who work for the Crown. Those patrols usually clear away the spidermaws right next to the road, or the ones near the roadside clearings designated as camping sites for merchant caravans and travelers.

The two bounty hunters chose one such clearing as a resting spot for themselves and their carpet. One of them is sprawled inside a small tent with his boots sticking out the front. The other is on guard, sitting by the campfire they built, whittling a piece of wood and taking occasional swallows from a flask. They’re both big fellows, packed with muscle.

A long, bulky bag lies near the tent, bearing a leather tag. I’m guessing it contains the carpet they rented.

Now and then, the hunter who’s on guard glances at a tree a few paces away. Vawn kneels there, with his hands bound together and attached to a low tree branch just above his head. He’s still shirtless despite the chilly air. The nearby fire shines rose-gold on his skin, the contours of his muscles shadowed in bluish-gray. His entire torso is marked with bruises and lacerations, and his knuckles are raw and bloody. Both fists are clenched like he’s ready to punch someone again, and his stomach tightens with each ragged, angry breath. As I watch from the bushes, the tip of his tongue slips out, soothing the swollen cut on his lower lip.

If he could use his glyphs, he would. It’s possible they were damaged or overspent during his conflict with the hunters.

I reach down and ease the two slim weapons out of my boot seams. The pain in my belly has eased a little, but it’s still a dull, throbbing reminder of an internal injury I can’t define, one that scares me more than the cracked rib, the broken finger, or my surface wounds. Soon, I will need help from a doctor, an apothecary—someone. But first, I must free the prince.

A rustling sound comes from the trees on the opposite side of the camp. Branches thrash, leaves flutter, and something flashes, a hint of luminous pink and glittering gold.

The hunter by the fire leaps to his feet, picking up his weapon. It’s a clumsy-looking thing shaped like a small cannon. I’ve heard of such devices—they involve compressed powder being ignited to blast projectiles out of a guiding barrel. I’m surprised to see one here, in the hands of these men. Maybe they took it from a previous mark.

More fluttering comes from the forest, along with several whimpers and moans. The hunter stalks toward the noises, hesitating at the edge of the trees before taking several steps into the undergrowth.

I creep across the campsite and duck into the small tent, trying to ignore the agony that flares through my midsection when I move.