Spy's Honor

only for a little while. I promise you’ll get it back.”

Something seemed to break inside her. Her eyes closed, and her face crumpled. A fat teardrop rolled down her cheek.

“Please,” he added.

She removed the chain from around her neck and handed it to him.

He cradled the precious object in his hand. “Thank you. I swear this is not a betrayal. I’ll explain everything later.”

Rhianne stared at the floor.

He turned to San-Kullen. “When the fighting is over, she is to have anything she asks for, within reason. Food, drink, books—whatever, as long as it’s not something she can hurt herself with.”

“Yes, sire.”

“While we’re waiting on the room, show us to the Healers,” he said.

33

Rhianne found herself hurried along through the hallway, her arm gripped firmly by the Mosari war mage. His brindlecat loped on her other side, cutting off any possibility of escape. Her windpipe still burned from what Augustan had done to her, and as her breathing grew heavy from exertion, she gasped, unable to take in enough air.

“Stop!” cried Janto. “Look at her. She can’t breathe.”

The war mage stopped and had her sit, her back against the wall. She tried not to panic, and forced herself to breathe shallow and slow.

Janto approached, studying her, his eyes full of concern. “Can you bring the Healer here?” he asked the war mage.

“No need,” said Rhianne. “I’m getting better.” Her breathing was approaching normal, though every inhalation pained her.

“I could carry her,” said the war mage.

“I can walk,” Rhianne snapped, rising to her feet. The last thing she wanted was some strange Mosari soldier’s hands all over her. “Just don’t go so fast.”

They continued at a slower pace, with Janto turning back frequently to check on her. Not Janto. Jan-Torres.

Augustan had been a nasty, evil man, and she did not regret his death after what he’d tried to do to her, but he’d been right about one thing. She was a traitor. She’d freed this man, not knowing who he truly was, and he’d come back and invaded her homeland, killing who knew how many people she cared about. What was going to happen to Lucien, to Celeste, to Marcella, to the Legaciatti who protected her, the servants and slaves, the soldiers defending the palace? How many women in the palace were going to be raped tonight because of her foolish decision? And what about the citizens of the city of Riat? Janto’s—Jan- Torres’s—army had marched through there on its way to the palace.

Even Florian, whom she hated sometimes, she did not want to see executed. But Florian had ordered the death of Janto’s parents. Gods, what a horror! Janto had seen his own parents’ heads that day in the audience hall! It was understandable he should want to take his vengeance. But she would never forgive herself for the part she had played in allowing it to happen.

Gods, she was crying again. She swiped her free hand across her face.

Jan-Torres, staring back at her, looked as sad as she’d ever seen him. “Rhianne . . .”

“Say nothing.” She blinked furiously.

“We’ll have a long talk when this is over. I’ll explain everything.”

He’d talk to assuage his guilty conscience. Of course he would. But she understood already. He’d lied to her and betrayed her in order to save his country, or at least to take his vengeance on Florian and Augustan. He hadn’t hurt her deliberately; she knew that. But she couldn’t help feeling horrifyingly used. She’d slept with this man. She’d thought she loved him!

They’d arrived at a makeshift infirmary the Mosari and Sardossians had established in the Epolonius Room. The war mage directed her to an unused mattress on the floor while Jan-Torres disappeared into the crowd.

A short while later, he returned with another man at his side. “This is Mor-Nassen, one of our Healers. He’s going to see to your neck injury.”

The Healer studied Rhianne, shook his head, and turned back to Jan-Torres. “She’s stable. Sire, you’re still bleeding from that sword wound—”

“It’s nothing,” said Jan-Torres. “First Rhianne, then me, then Sashi.” He settled onto the mattress next to hers.

Mor-Nassen frowned and returned to Rhianne’s side. “Lie back and relax,” he ordered.

She complied, closing her eyes.

The Healer’s hands cradled her neck. She tensed, remembering the horror of Augustan’s hands there. It seemed ages ago, but now that she thought about it, less than an hour had passed since the attempt on her life.

Mor-Nassen’s touch was gentle, and she forced herself to think of other things. Quiet rides on Dice along tree-lined avenues. Swimming with Marcella in the imperial baths. The warmth of the Healer’s magic flowed into her body, and by degrees her pain began to ease. She had not realized how exhausted she was. Was that an effect of being nearly strangled to death? Her limbs melted into the mattress, and her mind began to drift.

She was vaguely aware of Mor-Nassen patting her and telling her she was going to be fine and moving on to Jan-Torres. She lay where she was, sinking slowly into oblivion. She had some notion that there were other people in the room, other injured soldiers. They were men she didn’t know—Mosari and Sardossians. She picked up disjointed fragments of their conversation, mundane and of little interest.

“Can you move your ankle in a full circle, like this?”

“They told me to leave the knife in. Said I’d lose less blood that way.”

“Is the pain up here, by this rib?”

“You’re going to him next, right?”

“No, it’s a little higher. Up here.”

Rhianne knew that last voice; she’d heard it many times. Was she dreaming, imagining things? No. It was real.

“Morgan?” she cried, opening her eyes and sitting up. She looked around, frantic. Where was he? There, about nine beds over. He looked pale and weak. “Morgan!” She leapt from her bed and made her way across the room, dodging mattresses.

“Rhianne!” shouted Janto.

The war mage and brindlecat intercepted her in an instant, the man seizing her arm and the animal snarling in her face. It was a grim reminder that despite the gentle treatment, she was still a prisoner.

“That’s my friend over there. I want to see him!” she cried.

The war mage looked questioningly at Jan-Torres, who was lying on one of the mattresses, shirtless. Mor- Nassen sat beside him, closing the shoulder wound.

“Let her visit her friend,” said Janto.

The war mage released her, and she hurried to Morgan’s side. “What happened?”

“I must be dreaming. Is it really you? Got myself shot.” He laughed, a weak sound. “Stewed to the gills, and I saw the invaders. Thought of you up in the palace, undefended with the attack fleet gone, and I turned my musket on them. Would never have done it if I hadn’t poured my wits out with the wine.”

She turned to a nearby Healer. “Why is he so weak? Has he not been healed?”

“He was shot in the streets of Riat,” explained the Healer. “We stopped the bleeding to save his life, but the bullet’s still in him. We’ll have to remove it surgically, which means more blood loss, and he’s lost a lot already. We’re not sure he’s strong enough, but we can’t leave the bullet where it is much longer.”

“Gods, Morgan.” Rhianne flung her arms around him—gently, so as not to hurt him.