Page 22 of The Queen's Shadow

“Right,” the man said, and shifted to help Cassandra pull Arphaxad to his feet. Arphaxad’s head lolled forward, and he let out a moan as Cassandra angled herself beneath his good arm, letting his weight settle on her shoulder.

“Stretcher! We’ve got wounded!” the broad man shouted toward the sentries at the top of the wall. His declaration was met with shouts of affirmation, and he and Cassandra dragged Arphaxad through the gate and into the outpost. A moment later, two soldiers in the red and green of Medira met them with a wooden stretcher.

“I can walk,” Arphaxad protested weakly, but he didn’t fight when Cassandra pushed him gently down. His head dropped back, and his eyes fluttered closed. Cassandra’s heart gave a sickening thud, and she slid her fingers down his arm to squeeze his hand. He opened his eyes for a moment and gave her a quick smile as if to say, “I’ll be all right.”

Cassandra kept close to the stretcher as the two soldiers lifted it and set out across the muddy cobblestone courtyard toward a squat building at the back of the outpost. Inside was a dim room lit by a pair of orbs of enchanted fire set on a workbench in the back. A long table rested in the middle of the room, and beside it was a sagging shelf holding glass vials of various herbs and colorful liquids. A soldier with graying hair jumped to his feet when they entered, and immediately directed the soldiers to set Arphaxad on the table. They did so with a clatter, and Cassandra almost barked something unpleasant at them.

“Gently!” the gray-haired man said with an exasperated wave of his hand. “What happened to him?” he asked, pivoting to face Cassandra.

“An arrow, a few hours ago now. I don’t think the bleeding ever stopped.”

The man—who could only be the outpost healer—grimaced and leaned over to get a better look at the bloody bandage around Arphaxad’s shoulder.

“Brace yourself, son,” he said grimly. “This is going to hurt.” It was only when he started cutting away the blood-soaked bandage that Cassandra’s stomach heaved, and she fled the room.

She burst into the cool night air and pressed her back against the rough side of the building, tipping her head back so it rested against the calloused wood. Stars spread above her in a swath of unending brilliance, the constellation of the Archer twinkling in the northeast. She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting against the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. What was her sister doing now back in Rendra? Was she wondering what had happened to her?

She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. She’d lost her bow, the one thing that meant something to her. She’d lost the correspondence she’d taken from the cave, their only proof of what Amanakar was planning. And now she was cornered in a Mediran military outpost, surrounded by people who thought she was the enemy, no matter what kind of strange truce had existed between her and Arphaxad today. She slammed her fist against the wall behind her, wincing as her skin scraped against the wood.

It was stupid to stay here, she realized. Stupid to remain in a position where she could easily be caught and taken to the Mediran palace. She didn’t think Arphaxad would stoop that low, not after what they’d been through, but she couldn’t say the same for the other soldiers.

But she couldn’t just leave either, not until she knew he was all right. Not when she was this exhausted. And not until she was sure their information would make it into the right hands.

Her mind fluttered to that midsummer night not long ago at the Mediran palace when she had looked up at a similar sky. She’d been with Arphaxad then too, dancing with him beneath the moonlight, her fingers in his, his hand pressing against her back, his breath on her skin. She fought back the sob that welled up in her throat. She had almost died today. More than once. And now he might be dying too.

She hauled in a deep breath and let it out slowly, then did it again, and again, just as Andre had taught her.

The door to the infirmary opened to her left, and the man who had met them at the gate stepped out. For the first time, Cassandra noticed that he wore the green stripe of a Mediran commander on the right shoulder of his uniform. He paused when he saw her, and she straightened.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

“Cassandra,” she said after a moment. She wasn’t sure what Arphaxad had managed to tell him, if anything, but she couldn’t risk contradicting his story.

He nodded. “Ramon Castez. I’m the commander of this outpost and a long-time friend of Ilin Serra’s.”

Cassandra took his offered hand and shook it. His palm was rough, but his grip was firm. “Thank you for your help,” she said.

Castez gave a short nod. He was wary of her, she realized. And he had every right to be. “How are you . . . connected . . . to him?”

“We work together,” she said vaguely. She didn’t even have to lie about that—at least for the moment.

He glanced toward the infirmary door and then back, his eyes sharp, as if he didn’t know what to make of her. He looked like he very much preferred a more concrete answer than that. He opened his mouth, then shut it again. “What happened?” he asked instead.

Cassandra hesitated. Castez said he was a long-time friend, but until she heard it from Arphaxad himself, she had to tread carefully. “It’s . . . a long story,” she said finally.

Castez pressed his lips together, but, to her relief, didn’t probe further. “I’ll find a place where you can wash up and rest for the night.” He followed Cassandra’s gaze toward the infirmary door. “He’ll be a while. The wound needs to be cleaned and dressed. Encar is as good as it gets, but it won’t be pretty.”

Exhaustion ground deep into her bones as she followed Castez to the other end of the outpost and into another squat wooden building. He opened a door on the right, and Cassandra stepped inside. The room was sparse. A narrow bed with a brown, threadbare blanket sat on one end, and a low cabinet and ancient writing desk were pushed against the window on the other.

“One of the officers’ rooms,” Castez said. “He’s been back in the capital for a few weeks. It’s yours for as long as you need it.”

“Thank you,” Cassandra said. Castez gave her a nod, then stepped back into the hallway and closed the door behind him.

Cassandra was quick to push the deadbolt in place, then pressed her ear to the crack between the door and the wall. As she’d expected, Castez had posted a guard at the door. A muscle jerked in her jaw, and she dragged the cabinet in front of the door, barricading it from the inside. She couldn’t risk anyone trying anything, not when she was alone in an enemy camp and tipping into a realm beyond exhaustion.

There was a washbasin in one corner, and she did her best to get as much of the grime off her body as she could. The water was almost black when she was done. She pulled her hair out of its careful knot and ran her fingers through it in an attempt to get the worst of the snarls out. After a few minutes, she gave up, then finally, finally, collapsed onto the bed, and despite the lumpy mattress and the camp full of enemy soldiers and the fact that she’d almost died more than once and that Arphaxad might just be dying now and that she really, really didn’t want to think about why that made her feel so hollow inside, she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

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