Until my final breath I will be yours.”
His upper lip bowed in the middle; his lower lip was plump and full. She felt the integrity of her patellae turn to paste. So this was how it felt to go weak at the knees. Their vows reverberated through the Chapel, a hum of consonants, an aria of vowels.
“Till the ice melts on the southern cliffs,
Till the glass cities sink into the western sands.”
She had the distinct feeling there were two heartbeats woven together in her chest, two lovers interlacing hands.
“Till the eastern isles burn to ash,
Till the northern peaks crumble.”
This was madness. Mia felt as if she were being torn apart. She had no idea what was happening—and she couldn’t trust what she couldn’t know. The prince leaned forward and encircled her wrist with his fingers.
“Promise me, O promise me.
You will be mine.”
“I will,” Quin said.
I will, she said, but the words stopped somewhere in her throat.
She had to run. It wasn’t logical, but to hell with logic. The urge was primal, tearing through her like a snarling beast. She had to get out of there.
She shook his hand off her arm and lunged backward. She started to turn, but Quin was faster. His hands were on her waist, soft yet firm, spinning her around to face him, stepping into the space where she’d stood, incinerating her momentum, cradling her face in his hands—and then falling, falling, falling into her arms.
His face was too close, too heavy. His body had gone limp.
Pandemonium erupted in the Chapel. What was happening? She tried to hold Quin up, struggling to support his weight, and that’s when she felt it. The shaft of an arrow plunged deep into his back.
Mia’s hand was slick with blood as the prince slumped to the Chapel floor.
Chapter 11
Gwyrach
CHAOS. SHOUTING. MURDEROUS HEAT from every direction, liquid and thick, like the churning vortex of a volqano.
Mia crouched over Quin’s crumpled body. She thought she heard Queen Rowena scream, followed by a clash of steel, but it was impossible to sort one sound from the next. A panicked man rushed the altar and swiftly found himself on the wrong end of a guard’s blade.
She couldn’t see her family—the balcony was bedlam. Her eyes blurred as she stared down at Quin, blood pooling in a dark circle beneath him. So much blood she could see her own face in the stain.
The prince convulsed, flecks of spittle on his lips. He was alive.
But not for long once he was trampled, his skull crushed. Why hadn’t the king’s guards swooped in to protect him?
As the Chapel roiled around her, she realized two things. First: if no one else was going to help, it was up to her to get the prince to safety.
Second: the archer who’d tried to kill him was almost certainly still there.
She wrapped her arms around Quin’s chest and, staying low to the ground, dragged him into the Sacristy. Her head was raging, but her hands were steady. She silently thanked her father: she had inherited, among other things, his cool head in times of crisis.
The Sacristy was exactly as she remembered it: a small table in the corner, skirted with purple velvet folds. She snatched a candle off its surface, shoved the cloth aside, and crawled under, pulling Quin in behind her.
He moaned. She couldn’t lay him on his back—the archer had made sure of that—so she propped him on his side.
“You’re going to be all right,” she said, though she had not the faintest inkling how. The arrow had gone in deep, and the wound was gushing.
The wedding guests had gone feral, the turmoil from the Chapel threatening to spill into the Sacristy at any moment. A new thought struck with horror. What if it was one of the guards who had tried to kill the prince? She had to act quickly.
Mia dug at the edges of the trapdoor, wood splintering beneath her fingernails. The thin chain snapped easily as she pried open the door and pitched herself through. Standing in the corridor below, she looped her arms around Quin and half dragged, half fell with him into the tunnel. The train of her dress collapsed on top of them like an overcooked soufflé.
Quin cried out. He’d fallen on his back, propelling the arrow more deeply into his chest. She cursed herself for her carelessness. She grabbed the candle from the floor above and pulled the door shut over their heads.
“Quin, look at me. I need you to look at me.” His eyes wouldn’t focus.
She had to get the arrow out. She didn’t have the right equipment—most brides didn’t bring surgical knives and dwayle to the altar—but she had to try.
She held the candle close, the flame dancing wildly, battered by her uneven breath. The arrow had gone in above his left scapula and sliced all the way through his chest; she could see the sinister red tip cresting the skin above his clavicle. The arrow had missed his lungs and heart by a hair’s breadth. He was lucky to be alive.
She flipped him over onto his stomach and applied pressure to the bony ridge of his shoulder blade, holding him steady. It was a common misconception that an arrow, once lodged in the body, should be pushed all the way through. This was bad science. If forced through the chest, the vanes in the back of the shaft could cause more tearing and internal bleeding. If the arrow had made a clean incision, then the means of egress was ready-made: the arrow could be pulled out the way it came in—as long as you proceeded very, very carefully.
She closed her eyes and conjured up the image of Wound Man: a tall, lean figure pierced by all manner of arrows, daggers, spears, darts, and swords. Macabre, yes, but there was a reason it was her favorite anatomical plate. Next to every wound site was a neat caption with a description of the injury, recommended treatment, and the likelihood of recovery. It had brought Mia tremendous relief that even wounds could be categorized and solved. She had memorized every word.
From what she’d seen of the arrowhead, it appeared to be a clean stone blade, not barbed or jutted. Barbed heads were problematic—they could tear vital organs upon extraction—so all things being equal, she was in an objectively good position. What better time to rip an entire arrow out of a man’s chest?
“Take a deep breath,” she said. “This will only hurt a moment.”
She was quick. With one hand pressed firmly into his scapula, she gripped the wooden shaft in her other hand, took a breath, and wrenched the arrow out in one solid piece.
She tossed it aside, pleased. She’d gotten all of it, including the arrowhead: a perfect extraction. But her satisfaction was short-lived. Quin rolled onto his back as fresh blood spurted from the wound. He howled in pain, then lost consciousness. She’d done something wrong. She must have nicked the carotid artery—there was too much blood.
Mia tried not to panic. Why had her father never let her study wound theory in practicum? A surgeon was only ever as good as his cadavers. But although the other Hunters often practiced extracting arrows from the corpses of Gwyrach, her father had forbidden her from attending these gruesome training sessions.
The prince groaned, his pallid lips moving soundlessly. He was trying to speak. She felt his forehead: simmering hot.
“Under the plums,” he whispered. “If it’s meant to be. You’ll come to me, under the snow plum tree.”
With a pang she thought of Angelyne and felt a searing sense of shame. In the Chapel, Mia had tried to run away. She had promised to protect her sister, but in the end, her baser instincts had won, proving that instincts were never to be trusted.
Where was Angie now? Was she safe? It was an insipid question, considering someone had just shot an arrow into the prince’s back. Were the Gwyrach to blame? That theory didn’t hold up—the Gwyrach had no need for bows and arrows when they could stop a man’s heart. Was the Kaer under siege? Had one of the other kingdoms decided to attack?