Beneath the tight bandages covering his wound lay a layer of grayish-green mud. Galyn, the owner of the Silver Toad Tavern and Inn, had put it there, telling Jonas that a witch had once stayed there and his grandfather Bruno had accepted the healing substance as payment.
His feverish body ached as he forced himself out of bed and slowly made his way down the hall, past doorways emanating with both silence and snores. He carefully descended the rickety wooden steps leading down to the tavern. He didn’t know the time, but it was still dark, still night, and the only things keeping him from stumbling were a couple of lit wall sconces. His legs were weak and nausea had fully settled into his stomach, but all he knew for sure was that he couldn’t stay in bed. There was far too much to do.
He would start by getting something to drink; his mouth was as dry as the wastelands of Eastern Paelsia.
He came to a stop when he heard hushed voices within the dark tavern.
“Not a chance. He doesn’t need to know,” said a female voice.
“The message was for him, not you,” her male companion replied.
“True. But he’s in no shape for any of this.”
“Perhaps not. But he’ll be furious when he finds out.”
“So let him be furious. You want him to go rushing out in his condition and get himself killed? There’s no chance he’s strong enough for this right now.”
Jonas rounded the corner and leaned against the wall until he was in full view of Lysandra and Galyn.
“Oh, Lys,” he drawled. “I do appreciate your endless faith in my abilities.”
Lysandra Barbas, his friend and last remaining fellow rebel, grimaced as she turned toward him, twisting a finger through her dark, curly hair. “You’re awake.”
“Yes. And shamelessly spying on the two friends I have left talking about me like I’m a sick child.” He rubbed his forehead. “How long have I been out?”
“Three days.”
He gaped at her. Three whole days?
Three days since Felix had sliced that dagger through his shoulder, pinning him to the floor of the tavern.
And earlier, when Jonas had kissed Lysandra for the first time.
Two memories—one bad, one good—forever burned into his brain.
Galyn, tall and heavyset and in his mid-twenties, raised a bushy blond eyebrow. “How’s that healing balm working?”
Jonas forced a smile. “Like magic,” he lied.
In his entire life, he’d never believed in magic. But that stance had been irrevocably changed when he’d been brought back from the brink of death by powerful earth magic. But this so-called healing balm . . . well, he wasn’t convinced that it was anything more than common mud.
Jonas’s smile fell when he registered Lysandra’s garb. She was dressed in trousers and leathers, and had a canvas satchel slung over one shoulder, her bow and quiver of arrows over the other.
“Where are you going at this hour?” he demanded.
She pressed her lips together and didn’t reply, instead shooting him a defiant glare.
“Fine, go ahead and be stubborn.” He turned to regard Galyn instead. “What message was meant for me and who sent it?”
“Don’t answer,” Lys hissed.
Galyn looked between the two uncertainly, his arms crossed over his chest. Finally, he sighed and turned to Jonas apologetically. “Nerissa. She stopped by yesterday.”
Over the recent months, Nerissa Florens had proven herself a valuable rebel spy. She held a position at the Auranian palace, and possessed a rare skill for getting important information exactly when it was needed.
“What was her message?”
“Galyn . . .” Lys growled.