Page 116 of Heartbreak Prince

“Go, Severin!” I cry. “Go to them!”

He swerves and streaks toward the sinkhole. As he dives past the edge, I reach out with my right hand, gripping Severin’s handle with my other hand. My gloved fingers close on the flailing forearm of a survivor, a girl of maybe fifteen. The carpet dips lower and I pull her on, groaning as pain flares through my injured finger and my side.

“My brother!” she shrieks, pointing.

“We have to get you safe first,” I tell her. “This carpet can only transport two riders. We’ll go back for him.”

We transfer her to what I hope is solid ground, then Severin and I zoom back to the hole. We snatch a ten-year-old boy and take him to safety, then rescue a man stuck on the tilting ledge of a broken house. There are three people visible inside the pit, struggling vainly to climb the sliding soil and get out. One by one, we transfer them to the surface.

On our trips into the hole, I hear more voices crying out in agony from beneath the rubble of the ruined houses. Victims trapped in the debris, dying there.

We drop off the last person we can easily access, and then we hover near the survivors.

“None of them are dressed for the cold,” I tell Severin. “We have to get them to shelter quickly, or they’ll freeze within minutes.”

“There’s another village just ahead.” He waves a tassel toward lighted windows in the distance. “We could take them there. But if we do that, we’ll have to abandon the ones who are trapped. They will die.”

“It’s a terrible choice,” I admit. “But anyone left in that pit will be badly injured, and it will take time to get them out—time we don’t have. If we try to rescue any more survivors from the sinkhole, the ones we already saved will die. Some may lose fingers or toes to frostbite as it is. Let’s start flying them to the village. I’ll wait with the group so you can take two at a time.”

I wait with the survivors while Severin transports people from our spot near the sinkhole to the nearby village as quickly as he can. I’ve never been skilled at comforting people, but I do my best to reassure them while we wait, and I keep them huddled together, sharing body warmth.

One of the younger men, a big, broad-shouldered fellow, keeps yammering endlessly, sobbing and begging for someone to dig his wife out of the rubble in the hole, but no one volunteers. None of the survivors will venture any closer to the gaping void. They shiver silently, pressed together in the darkness, watching for the luminous pattern of the carpet to reappear. Whenever he returns, they argue about who should be next to ride to safety.

Finally, only the young husband is left. I stand face to face with him, my cloak wrapped around us both. He tucks his hands against my waist for warmth, which I don’t mind, but I hate the way he pushes his face, covered in snot and tears, against my shoulder.

Once, in the midst of his heartbroken babbling, he punches one fist against my wounded side. Perhaps he doesn’t it absently, without meaning to hurt me, but I cry out from the pain and shove him out of the shelter of the cloak.

He staggers back, his face a red mess of angry grief, and for a second I think he might charge at me. But then Severin soars like a red-and-gold lamp out of the darkness, gliding between us, saying, “You’re the last two.”

“I wish I could have done more,” I tell the man. “I couldn’t.”

“She might still be alive,” he chokes out.

It’s too cold, and the temperature is still dropping, but as I mount the carpet, I tell Severin, “Do a sweep through the hole again. Once more, please.”

“As you wish.”

After the husband climbs on, Severin swirls around and dives into the sinkhole. His gleaming threads illuminate the debris, and as he flies, I listen with all my might. But all is quiet.

There is no one left alive.

The young husband shivers and sobs, clutching me. I grip the carpet’s handles, tears frosting my lower lashes. “Severin, take us to the village.”

When we arrive, the street is empty except for two people, one of whom wears an embroidered sash across her chest. Holding a lantern high so we can see each other, she introduces herself as the village leader, but there’s no gratitude in her eyes, only condemnation.

“You’ve brought more people here.” She tugs down her scarf so I can hear her better. “More people means more weight. The additional bodies will put us all in worse danger.”

“Should I have left them to die?” My voice rises, anger seeping through.

The woman’s lips tighten. After a moment’s silence, she says, “We have placed them in homes, and I will find a spot for this man, too. But we can take no more within these houses, so you and your carpet will have to go elsewhere. There’s a cottage beyond the road that lies empty. You may stay there tonight. Grippin will go with you and light a fire. Be well.”

She replaces her scarf, turns her back on me, and shuffles away. The young widower follows her.

The man named Grippin mounts the carpet with me, and we ride to the cottage that the village leader mentioned. It’s empty because it stands frighteningly close to a large crack in the ground, three times as long as the carpet and wide as my arm.

“Is this place safe?” I ask Grippin.

He shrugs. “As safe as anything else around here. It has a bed, blankets, and a little firewood. You can use snow for water.”