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“It burns,” Traverse hissed. His face went deathly white, his hands gripping the chair arms, his plate sliding unnoticed to the floor with a crash. “It burns still. Here.” He pounded above his heart. “I told the doctors what they did. The captain. My friends. I even told Mrs. Brumby. None believed me. They think I’m mad.” He looked from Morgan to Cam, his voice growing louder. Stronger. Almost frantic. “But you believe me, don’t you? You know what they did to me.”
As if possessed, he ripped his shirt open. “Look for yourself,” he shouted.
A pale silver scar slashed its way across the left side of his chest. But he said he’d been attacked two weeks ago. This scar looked as if it had healed over years hence.
“The sword glowed. I swear it glowed. And just seeing it, you knew you were in the presence of death. It was like the first shovelful of dirt just hit the top of your coffin.”
Cam was grim. “They did this to you that night?”
“He told me it would be all right. That to be struck by the blade wouldn’t kill me.”
“Who was he?”
“I don’t know. The leader, I expect. The other soldiers seemed to obey his orders.”
“Can you describe him?”
Traverse screwed up his face in concentration. “That’s the funny thing. He wasn’t masked like the others, but his face—it just never seemed to be clear enough to see. Blurry…or runny…or…it doesn’t make sense, I know. But you have to believe me.” His voice had grown loud again as if he could convince them through sheer volume.
“We believe you,” Morgan said, trying to calm him back down.
A movement across the street caught Cam’s eye. The peddler had been joined by another. A man in a scarlet jacket. An officer. Cam’s hand slid to the hilt of his saber while he let Morgan pick up the questioning.
“You didn’t see his face. What about his uniform?”
Traverse plucked at the fringe of his shawl. “It was old. Piecemeal. As if he’d worn it for years or picked up bits and pieces along the way. A faded jacket. An old-fashioned hussar’s shako. Cavalry boots.”
By the exaggerated gestures and the curious glances of passersby, the peddler and the soldier were arguing. Cam would have given a small fortune to know what they were saying.
“Did he sound cultured? Rough? An accent?” Morgan continued.
Traverse took time to think. “No accent, but the others were frightened by him. I could tell.”
“Anything else?” Morgan pressed. “Anything that might help us identify him?”
He squeezed his fingers to his eyes as if trying to focus. “Nothing. I saw the sword. And then he lifted it.” His voice shook. He sobbed, drawing Cam’s attention away from the window. “I didn’t believe it would happen until he slammed it into me. I don’t remember much after. The pain. The blood…” By the time Cam looked back, both the peddler and the soldier had vanished. “…and then it was like acid running through every vein. I broke the ropes…there was a man. I caught him. He shouted, but I had his neck…. The others scattered…I…”
He’d held together this long, but the memories unmanned him. He broke down, dropping his head into his hands, his weeping loud and angry like a child’s. “I don’t want to be this way. I want my life back. My friends.” He looked up, his wrinkled face splotched red. “My body. Help me. Can’t you help me?”
Cam felt an unexpected rage churn his stomach. How would he feel if this were Alisdair sitting here sobbing his guts out and cursed by some magical sword? He looked to Morgan. She was the damned sorceress. Couldn’t she alacazam Traverse back into his old body? He waited for her to say something helpful. More of the quiet kindness she’d shown earlier. Instead she sat, biting her lip, looking everywhere but at the broken-down, old-young man. As if she didn’t care. Couldn’t be bothered.
The room was silent but for the ensign’s gulping sobs until Cam couldn’t stand it. “It’ll be all right,” he said gruffly.
That got Morgan’s attention. She rose. Motioned him toward the hall. “Excuse us. Colonel Sinclair and I need to speak privately.” Taking him by the arm, she dragged him to the door. “What do you mean telling him it’ll be all right?” she demanded in a hoarse whisper.
“You saw him,” he said so only she could hear. “I couldn’t just leave him in that state. You’re the witch. Fix him.”
“Keep your voice down.” She pursed her lips. Looked over to the ensign and back. “It’s not that easy. If my gram were here or even my brother…They understand this sort of thing. Not me. I don’t know.”
Unease settled across his shoulders. “But you can fix him. Right?”
“I. Don’t. Know,” she repeated slowly. “I don’t want him to think we’re here to heal him. We’re here to find out what we can about the men who attacked him. That’s all.”
“So once you’ve found out what you need, you just walk away?”
“I came to do a job. Find that sword. Get it back to the Fey. If I succeed, no one else will suffer like he’s suffering. Isn’t that enough?”
Cam turned to go back to Traverse afraid that if he stayed he’d answer Morgan’s cold-blooded logic with some choice words of his own. Still, he couldn’t leave without saying something. His emotions were too charged. His body strung tight.
