Page 133 of Fate's Sweetest Curse
Meddling
Hattie
Ow!” I yelped, wincing.
Firm hands pressed on my broken arm, bone grinding as the break was realigned. The pain made my head swim, and I gripped the arm of my chair with the other hand, holding on as the healer worked.
Breen had deposited me in the captain’s pavilion a half hour ago. The healer had arrived soon after, not bothering to introduce himself before he took my arm in his hands and began poking and prodding. He’d given me a tincture of white willow bark, meant to reduce pain and inflammation, but it had yet to take effect.
“Almost,” he muttered to me now, pressing his thumb against the bruised skin by my wrist. He was young, soft-spoken, but overly efficient in his ministrations—which I supposed made sense for a healer in a war camp. Why learn any sense of bedside manner when it would only slow you down on the battlefield?
Not that we were on a battlefield. Yet.
“Owww.” I moaned as purple spots burst across my vision.
The grinding in my arm intensified, then lessened, replaced by an all-encompassing pressure as the healer fitted a splint along the underside of my forearm and wrapped it in place with a lengthy strip of cloth.
I wiggled my fingertips to test their range of motion, shuddering with discomfort as I touched forefinger to thumb. “Will it heal properly?” I asked.
He procured another, wider cloth from his supply bag, fashioned it into a sling, and fitted it over my head. “Quite likely,” he said noncommittally.
“Well. Thank you for your help,” I said.
“It’s my duty.”
Once my arm was cradled close to my chest, he wordlessly stood and made his way toward the overlapping flaps of the tent’s entrance.
I stood, too, glancing down to adjust the sling against the chain of my necklace. My chest was still crusted with dried blood from the cuts Corla had carved under my chin. “What about these wounds on my neck?” I called after the healer. “Can I have a wet rag to clean them up?”
“I was instructed to fix the arm. No more is necessary.”
Rude. “Surely cleanliness is necessary?”For Fate’s sake, there was still black monster blood on my dress.
He didn’t acknowledge me as he slipped through the flaps and out into the night.
I let out a frustrated sigh. At least my arm was set to heal properly—and my life wasn’t presently threatened. After the past couple days of strife, these seemed like blessings.
Still, what was I supposed to do now? Simply wait for my childhood-acquaintance-turned-Mighty-Captain-of-a-secret-war-camp to arrive?
Apparently.
There was no chance of escape. I had not been bound, but guards had been stationed all around the tent’s exterior; the orange glow of the surrounding campfires illuminated the white canvas, casting their shadows in stark relief against the walls like moving frescoes. All around, the sounds of soldiers and knights permeated: harsh laughter, convivial chatter, the clatter of metal on metal. Even in the dark, there would be no sneaking out of camp with this many trained fightersaround.
Besides, the encounter with the Morta had shaken me. What if there were more lurking in the foothills of the Axe Mountains?
I rubbed my injured wrist, feeling terribly vulnerable and alone. The fact that Iknewthe captain of this camp wasn’t a comfort. I was supposed to be the dutiful wife of a wretched man in southern Fenrir, not an apprentice of a secret research program at the Collegium. I wouldn’t put it past Brendan Harrow to send me back to Poe—or worse, tell Noble’s father and my family, who would no doubt invent another, more effective method of making me disappear.
Because as long as I breathed, I—as the eldest child of the Lord of Lothgaim—had rightful claim.Peaceamong the Seven Territories of the Kingdom of Marona was how King Braven kept his power secure, and I was a threat to that peace. After all, Raina’s upcoming marriage was far more politically advantageous for fostering unity between Marona and Lothgaim. Archer Loth was respected by his people; Raina was beloved by hers. While RainaorI would have the power to sway Lothgaim’s diplomacy for the Maronan crown, Raina was a gentler choice. Romantic through marriage, instead of violent through a (lawful) coup.
I hadn’t fully grasped it nine years ago, but my aunt and uncle could’ve had me killed for who I was. I might’ve beenlikea daughter to the king and queen, but Raina was theireverything, and killing me would’ve been the only way to guarantee their daughter’s future. (This had been my attempted assassin’s logic—a rogue act of loyalty from a castle soldier).
Sending me to Poe had been a kindness on their part.
Now that I’d resurfaced…I wasn’t sure they’d make the same mistake twice.
With a shiver, I turned away from the tent’s entrance and took in my surroundings. The pain in my arm was beginning to ease, receding enough for me observe Brendan’s quarters with a more focused, calculated attention.
A large table took up the center of the tent. A map of the continent was spread across the majority of the worn wood, anchored at the corners with flickering lanterns and empty goblets that smelled of wine. All around the map were platters of food: breads, cheeses, cured meats, fruits, and even a crystal dish of Lothgaimian chocolate truffles.
