His recovery had been remarkable. In the School For Surgeons, he’d seen what happened with chest wounds; the gangrenous pus that oozed from the flesh bringing with it a stench unlike any other; the onset of fever; and the raving hallucinations as the patient was tied down. All perfect for students to observe the predictable rictus of death in all its glory. Few recovered, but the students passed their exams with distinction.

Instead, he’d been conscious within hours, fully functional the following day. The training with Fenestra’s right-hand man, Heckler, had been a welcome distraction. Now he was almost on form again.

“It’s all about money, young Grasp. Do you not agree?” Fenestra had teased him, dangling a leather bag filled with the chink of foreign gold. “And your father’s men will play a crucial part. Make sure they receive it and they know what is required of them.”

“I haven’t let you down before, have I?”

“No. You are a most faithful” — Fenestra was about to use the word servant but realized it would not do — “ally. Guard it with your life. If they are not paid, they will see no reason to take up our modernizing cause. This” — she held up one of the ingots so that it caught and flashed in the sun — “is the only language that will reach inside and pluck my wishes from their bodies.” She spoke as if it wasn’t just wishes she wanted, but raw, bleeding hearts.

Fenestra had insisted he take no foreign weaponry. If he were to be stopped by a royal patrol, a simple body search would give the game away. He thought she had no idea of his nighttime thievery. What nestled within his doublet was both wise and practical protection.

This morning, the world was turning brown beneath his feet, as if every leaf that grew was curling up to go to sleep. He was alone, or thought he was until he spotted two black blots hovering in a blue sky. He only glimpsed them out of the corner of his eye before one of the shapes resolved itself into a mass of charcoal-feathered muscle streaming toward him. The intention was plain.

Petronio only had time for the briefest of thoughts. Ravens normally attack only when they scent blood. Oh! Of course. He looked down to see his doublet had gained a new patch of color as he walked. One of the stitches must have given way. He was leaking, and this lonely spot on the abandoned outskirts of the city was far from safety and shelter.

The bird drew its wings back, slamming into reverse as its claws reached toward a nice, fleshy morsel of meat. The raven was confident and that was its undoing. Since when did a Dendran fight back? Such action would be sacrilege, a monstrous act in the eyes of the Holly Woodsmen.