“Irmán,” Vex said, and downed the potion.
Ben jolted. “No!”
Vex gave him another grin. Staggering, doubled in half, he turned and ran for Elazar.
“Paxben!” Ben screamed, and tore after him.
Gunnar caught him around the waist. “Benat—he can do this! You cannot face your father without magic!”
Lu bounded off the platform and landed next to Ben, her face drawn as she watched Vex race across the battlefield.
“What did he do?” It came as a whisper, the situation punching her in the gut.
Ben went slack in Gunnar’s arms when Lu’s eyes met his.
“He will be fine.” Gunnar tried again. “He has magic. It may be enough to—”
Lu shook her head. “His Shaking Sickness. I tried to cure it, but—”
“—that much magic might kill him,” Ben finished.
As he crossed the field, Vex didn’t let himself think about each person he hurdled over—raiders, defensors, people he might’ve known on both sides.
God, the potion hurt.It felt like he’d swallowed a handful of nails. He staggered, faltering to his knees as a spasm grabbed every muscle andsqueezed.
It took all his willpower not to scream. Hell, it’d taken all his willpower to grab the vial from Ben at all—just when Vex thought he’d hit the bottom of his strength, he found another layer, another, shocking himself with how deep his fortitude ran.
He’d never dug this deep, though. He’d never put himself in situations where he’d have to tap into some hidden reserve of strength since he’d gotten out of the Church’s mission-prison.
Now it let him shove himself back to his feet. Maybe it was the potion he’d taken, or this new wash of tenacity—but as Vex stood on the battlefield, surrounded by the dead and dying, he faced Elazar, a dozen paces in front of him, still tearing aside any who approached.
And Vex feltready.
He swiped a stray sword from the ground, the tip dragging through the matted grass. Step by step, Vex clenchedand unclenched his free hand, waiting for some shock of extra speed or muscle power or berserker drive to slaughter people. How long had the potion taken to work on everyone else? What’d they do to figure out which magic had taken root?
Vex wavered. He probably should’ve known more about this magic before he’d snatched it from Ben.
He sucked in a breath and cut off his mind from the spiraling questions. Another step, boots slipping on the slick grass. Vex held other images at the front of his mind:
Edda. How she’d walk into a fight. Back straight, weapon ready, her face set.
Rodrigu. Every meeting with his allies, every solemn ceremony in the cathedrals—the same impossible mask had descended over him, a wall that refused to let his worries or misgivings break his concentration.
Paxben had practiced stoic expressions like that in the mirror. He’d thought of his father and puckered his face and laughed at the uselessness of something soserious.
There was no humor in Vex now, though. He set his features, brick by brick building a wall out of memories of Rodrigu, out of memories of Edda.
Elazar pivoted in the yard, a broadsword raising overhead as he swung to the next source of movement—Vex.
His fog of vengeance shifted. Through it came a long, slow smile of recognition.
“Paxben,” Elazar growled, and charged him.
Paxben had trained alongside Ben when they’d been kids. He’d never been good at moving like this, his long limbs too lanky and uncoordinated, but some remnant of that training burst up through him, and Vex moved.
He caught the first of Elazar’s blows. The force vibrated up Vex’s arm and he cried out, the destructive power jarring every muscle, every bone, every sinew that for the past few years had slowly been deteriorating under Shaking Sickness.
Darkness wafted over him, the pain too intense. When it cleared, Elazar was pulling back to swing again—
