A Heart So Fierce and Broken (The Cursebreaker Series Book 2)

Gossip and unrest always generate crowds, but tonight the tourney is busier than I’ve ever seen it. When darkness fell, it brought cooler winds and a sky full of stars, but the stands are packed with so many bodies it’s hotter than at midday.

“The prince is running scared,” a man mutters as he waits in the snaking line for ale. Worwick must be turning a heady profit tonight. I’ve never seen the line stretch to the stables. “There’ve been no magesmiths in Emberfall in decades.”

I’m saddling horses for the mounted sparring, but when I’m working, I’m invisible. People speak freely without consideration.

When I was a guardsman, stationed along a wall, it was no different.

“Well, something controlled that beast that terrorized the castle,” says another man. “Everyone says it was Karis Luran, but I don’t know why anyone isn’t questioning this new princess. Maybe she’s the one who sent it. I don’t trust this alliance with wherever she’s from. They let our king die.”

I tighten a girth and give the horse a pat on the neck.

“Rillisk has been governed by the Grand Marshal for years,” scoffs a woman. “The royal family returns, and suddenly we’re supposed to bend a knee? Not likely.”

“Watch your voice,” says the first man. “I heard there’s royalty here tonight.”

My fingers go still on the buckle of a bridle. The horse butts his face against my hand, and I murmur to quiet him.

The second man chuckles lazily. “Royalty? Just another princeling no one has ever heard of.”

A breath eases out of my chest. Months ago, this would have been worrisome, but since the southern borders were opened, I’ve heard of minor royalty passing through Rillisk, as smaller lands seek to reopen trade routes.

“Hawk.”

The rough voice makes me jump, but it’s just Journ, Worwick’s other fighter. I prefer his company to Kantor’s, but right now he’s pale and sweating, one hand braced on a post along the wall.

I frown. “Are you sick?”

“I took a kick from a horse. The roads are packed. Two carriages collided. I tried to help.” He winces, a hand against his chest. “Worwick said you might have a poultice that you use on the horses.”

I do, but if he can barely stand, a poultice won’t let him fight. Little use in telling Worwick that, though. I call for Tycho to come finish with the horses, then look back at Journ. “Come to the armory. I’ll see what I can do.”

It’s cooler back here, away from the crowds. The scraver lies motionless in its cage, though its night-dark eyes flick open as we enter the armory. Journ drops onto a stool. When he removes his shirt, half his chest is dark with bruising. He gasps from the effort it took to disrobe.

“Tell me the truth,” he says breathlessly. “Does it look as bad as it feels?”

“It looks like your ribs are broken.”

He swears under his breath. “Worwick will come undone.”

“You can’t fight like this.”

“Have you seen the stands? It’s barely full dark and there are no seats left. If I can’t fight, Worwick will put a blade through me himself.”

The words make me think of Riley the blacksmith. When I was a weapon for the Crown, guilt rarely pricked at me for the actions I was ordered to take.

Today, guilt is a thorn I cannot remove.

Journ shifts and winces. “Can you bind it? Perhaps my armor will offer some support.”

“I can try.” I pack stiff muslin against his rib cage while he swears at me, then bind it tightly. He sweats through the bandages before I’m done, but when I buckle his armor into place over it, he’s able to stand more easily than he was before.

“You have my thanks, Hawk.” He clumsily claps my shoulder, then wheezes.

“A child could run you through.”

“I need the coins tonight.” He takes a thin breath and pulls a sword from the rack. “Take a blade. Let me try.”

I’ve never sparred with Journ or Kantor, because it’s hard to hide skills from men who have them. But he’s injured and we’re alone, and Journ is a good man, so I take a sword from the rack.

He’s able to feint and thrust and parry, but his movement is lumbering, and I’m not putting up much resistance.

Still, he offers a grim smile. “I might not win, but I can fight.”

I swing my blade hard, and he’s barely able to block the blow. While he’s trying to recover, I twist my weapon, hook the hilt of his, and disarm him. The point of my sword sits at his neck before he can draw breath.

“You’ll be disarmed in seconds,” I say. “That’s not much of a fight.”

He’s blinking at me. A hand presses to his side, but he says, “You’ve been practicing.”

I lower my weapon. “Here and there.”

He winces and eases back onto the stool, then sighs. Drums echo from the arena, followed by a loud cry from the stands. Worwick will be rallying the audience, opening the evening’s events.

I need to get back to the arena. In this crowd, Tycho will be running like crazy to get the horses and riders out safely.

I’m stuck studying Journ, who’s dragging a damp wrist across his forehead. He gives another heavy sigh, and it’s full of pain. If it were Kantor, I’d let him go into the arena and take his chances.

“Why do you need the coins tonight?” I ask.

“We’ll have another child by year’s end.” He shifts and grimaces, but there’s no way to make broken ribs comfortable. “Another mouth to feed—as if it’s not hard enough to fill the ones I have.”

This does not feel like a moment to offer congratulations. “I didn’t know.”

He draws a breath that cuts short at the end, then winces and pushes himself to his feet. “We all have our burdens.” He reaches for a sword belt from the wall.

In the stadium, a horse neighs, hooves pummel the ground, and the crowd cheers.

I bite at the inside of my lip, thinking of Riley.

I owe Journ nothing. I owe Worwick nothing.

Across the room, the scraver’s cage rattles as it shifts and stretches. Its coal-black eyes find mine, and it hisses. The sound is full of censure, but that’s probably all inside my head.

We all have our burdens.

I did nothing this afternoon. I can do something now.

“Remove your armor,” I tell him.

He utters a rough laugh that ends on a wheeze. “If I get this off, I won’t get it back on.”

“I need to help Tycho,” I say. “If you can’t bend to get your greaves off, I’ll be back in half an hour.”

“What are you going on about?”

“You can’t fight, Journ.”

He closes his eyes. “Hawk. I must—”

“You misunderstand,” I say. “You cannot fight. I can. Now remove your armor. I’ll be back.”