Between Tides Thunder(2)

I’ve never needed to.

Usually, the air in the Healing Chambers is crisp with the scent of mint and snowroot, but today, the stench of death permeates the room.

A sharp gasp breaks loose from my chest, and I resist the urge to cover my mouth.

There are no empty cots. Every available surface is littered with broken bodies—warriors with gaping wounds and twisted limbs. Three unfortunate souls are sprawled on the cold floor between cots.

Tides have mercy.

The metallic smell of burnt flesh invades my nostrils, and I struggle to stifle my gag. I don’t know why. I should be used to it by now—I’ve treated hundreds of such injuries in this tidesdamned eternal war with Arbinj.

“What happened?” I demand, surveying the injured men and women. “We agreed to a ceasefire!”

Jennah, the head healer, snorts, the lines around her mouth etched deeper as she scowls. “Apparently, news of the alliance didn’t reach the front lines in time.” She doesn’t look up, glowing hands pressed against her patient’s bloodied arm. “Arbinj attacked a small battalion. All commons.”

My anger flares hotter at her casual use of “commons,” the derogatory term for nonwielders, but I purse my lips and hold my tongue.

Rolling up the sleeves of my tunic, I set to work.

First, I treat a warrior with horrific lightning burns covering nearly every inch of his body. His clothing is shredded, fused to his skin in some places. Tides damn whoever did this into uncharted depths. Gingerly, I peel back the fabric where I can, revealing raised, branching scars where the lightning struck.

The work of a stormwielder. A very powerful one.

I tamp down on my rage, summoning the power inside me until my hands glow with soothing white light. Slowly, painstakingly, I skim my palms over the injuries. The warrior groans, his pale face contorted with agony, sweat soaking his dark braids.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. He doesn’t hear me or is too consumed by pain to respond.

“There were no healers at the front lines?” I ask sharply, glancing at Jennah. “These wounds should’ve been treated immediately. Not left to fester.”

“There were,” Jennah responds slowly. The lines around her mouth deepen, her white hair blending with the ice walls. “They were overwhelmed treating the waterwielders.”

I hold my tongue. Again.

Like I’ve been doing for years.

“Apparently,” Jennah continues, her voice dropping to a quiet hush, “this was the work of the Dark Commander.”

Bile rises in my throat. Tides, I knew Prince Zevayr was ruthless, but this level of violence—

He’s been called the most powerful wielder in the realm.

And these defenseless nonwielders faced his wrath.

Jennah shakes her head with a soft tsk. “Such brutality. I suppose unchecked power will do that to a man.”

I scoff. “Maybe he’s just angry he was born a second son. He’ll never be king, so he seeks glory on the battlefield. A cruel, mindless soldier.” Even as the words leave my lips, I know them to be false.

The Dark Commander is anything but mindless. He’s led the Arbinji armies since his early twenties. His war strategies have resulted in thousands of Tundrayni deaths over the years.

I should know—I’ve been healing the survivors since adolescence.

Taking deep breaths, I focus on my next patient. This one faced an earthwielder. His skin is littered with painful holes where thorny branches and snaking roots emerge. The skin around them is jagged, putrid, and the smell of scorched wood lingers in the air. I press my hands to the warrior’s neck, assessing his internal damage.

“By the Tides,” I swear under my breath. There isn’t much I can do for him. I’m not sure how he’s still breathing. I share a worried glance with Jennah. Her ice-blue eyes are sharp but undercut with sorrow. She may also think of nonwielders as less-than, but she isn’t coldhearted. My eyes flutter shut as I focus on numbing his pain.

“Can you summon a heartwielder for him?” I whisper hoarsely. We only have two heartwielders in all of Tundrayn. Though, sometimes, I wonder how many have managed to keep their powers concealed. “I can’t do much more for him. He should feel peace in his final moments.”

“I will,” Jennah promises, finishing up with her patient. She reaches for a small loaf of rootbread from the table beside her and takes a large bite. Her shrewd eyes watch me carefully as she chews. “When did you last eat?”

“Just before I came,” I lie.

Jennah narrows her eyes at me. I give her my most convincing smile. She harrumphs. “Don’t burn through your reserves. Princess or not, you need to eat just the same as any other wielder. You’ll be of no use to these warriors if you can’t heal.”

Such simple words: You need to eat.

But unlike verdant, fertile Arbinj, Tundrayn is the land of ice and snow and scarcity. I don’t want to eat more than my fair share. That just means someone else will go hungry—most likely a nonwielder.

I keep going, treating another two men with horrific injuries, ignoring the drain in my chest. Nonwielders are often placed on the front lines during battle. The injustice grates at my nerves.

Were Sura and Tumaas often on the front lines? Before—

My throat tightens, and I shove the intrusive thought away.