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‘You still have yours?’ he asked, studying the blue-tinted springwater from Aveum. Most Warswords used theirs within the first few years of service.
‘Long ago, someone told me not to use it on myself. That it would be more powerful if it was used on someone you care for, someone you love. Figured I’ve survived this long, I’d best hold on to it for when I need a miracle,’ Torj answered. ‘I take it yours is gone?’
There was no point in denying it. ‘Yes.’
‘You use it on Malik in Islaton?’ Torj asked.
Wilder shook his head stiffly, trying not to sink into the visceral memory of his brother being slammed against the white stones by a monster of darkness. It haunted his dreams often enough. He needed his mind intact during the daylight hours.
‘By the time I got to Malik, Guardians had already used his vial on him. Some of their own, too,’ he said. ‘I was stopped from giving him mine. The healer said he was too far gone – that if four vials hadn’t saved his mind, a fifth would make no difference.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Torj grimaced, shoving his hands in his pockets as he leant against the wall. ‘I can’t imagine how hard that would have been for you.’
‘It is what it is. Given his size, the bastard probably needed fifty vials.’
Torj’s features softened. ‘When did you use yours, then?’
Wilder tensed, gently placing the precious vial back where he’d found it. ‘Three weeks ago.’
The Bear Slayer frowned. ‘During the reaper attack? I didn’t realise you were hurt.’
‘I wasn’t.’
Realisation dawned slowly on Torj’s face. ‘I see.’
At last, Wilder found the fire extract and took a swig of the burning liquor straight from the bottle. ‘Nothing to see.’
‘One of these days, Hawthorne…’ Torj started, moving across the room to stoke the dying fire in the hearth.
‘One of these dayswhat?’
Torj shrugged. ‘You’re gonna have to get over yourself and let someone in. Accept help and all that.’
‘Oh, fuck off.’
Wilder headed for the door. Gods, Torj Elderbrock was a good Warsword, but an even better man. He hated that.
* * *
Torj’s assurances did nothing to soothe Wilder’s fears, especially as he paced the fortress corridors and remembered the storms that so often ravaged the northern coast. That should have been his first thought. He was losing his fucking mind. If he’d acted like a decent human being last night, she might have checked with him before leaving. She might not have gone at all. But again, his inability to control himself had put Thea in danger.
Swearing under his breath, he headed out into the chilled night.
There was still so much he hadn’t taught her, hadn’t shown her – things she would need to know if she was not only to survive, but to emerge from the Great Rite victorious. He couldn’t help Thea now, he realised. He had to trust that she could take care of herself. But what hecoulddo was see to it that upon her return, she was equipped for the battles ahead; that she had everything she needed.
And so Wilder didn’t return to the cabin. Instead, he headed to the library, where he knew Audra would be.
When he found her among the books, the warrior-turned-librarian gave him a pointed look, her brows raised. ‘Took you long enough,’ she mused.
‘I know,’ Wilder replied. ‘You’ve got something I need.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THEA
The ride back to the fortress the next morning was miserable. Rain hammered down in relentless, sideways sheets, soaking Thea, Cal and Kipp to the bone as they made their way down the trail. Even Dax, who usually loved the rain, darted ahead of them, eager for the warmth of his master’s room. The roar of the wind made it too hard to talk, but none of them were in a chatty mood anyway.
Despite the actions they’d taken, the boats on Thezmarrian shores and the unknown ship anchored out to sea left a pit of dread yawning wide in Thea’s gut.
