“Over here!” Fairbridge shouted in German, rising to his feet and waving his arms. “We need medical assistance!”
The response was immediate. Officers broke into a run, their boots crunching through the snow as they converged on the shore. Richter reached them first, his weathered face tight with concern as he took in the scene.
“Mein Gott,” he breathed, his gaze moving from the unconscious Evander to the shattered ice on the lake and the burning ruins of the monastery above. “What happened?”
“We’ll tell you about it later,” Viggo said flatly.
Richter accepted this with the pragmatic attitude Viggo had come to expect from the Austrian inspector. He barked orders in German. A pair of medics with a stretcher appeared and began tending to Evander.
The half-Codex remained dry where it lay against Evander’s chest, as if the sphere of magic he had summoned had refused to let the lake touch it.
“Evander!”
The voice cut through the chaos, sharp and shrill. Viggo’s head jerked up.
Rufus was pushing through the crowd of Austrian officers, his face haggard but alight with relief. Behind him came Solomon, his arm around a limping Ginny. And there, bringing up the rear with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her arm in a splint, her slight frame supported by an officer, was Shaw.
“You made it,” Rufus said, dropping to his knees beside Viggo. His eyes went to Evander’s still form. “Is he?—?”
“He’s exhausted.” Viggo hoped he sounded more certain than he felt.
Ginny broke free of Solomon’s support and stumbled toward them, her green eyes bright with unshed tears. She fell to her knees on Evander’s other side and took his limp hand in both of hers.
A commotion at the edge of the crowd of officers drew Viggo’s attention. Some of the Austrian medics were still seeing to a cluster of bedraggled figures—the rescued mages and researchers, Viggo realised. He spotted Lina Velghe among them, her face a focused mask as she spoke rapidly to one of Richter’s officers.
The young woman reminded him strongly of Princess Eloïse in that moment.
“We found them making their way down the mountain,” Rufus explained, following Viggo’s gaze. “Solomon got them out safely.”
Viggo nodded, too tired to feel more than a distant satisfaction.
“We need to get him warm,” one of the medics tending to Evander warned.
“There’s an inn in the village in the next valley,” Richter said, materialising at the man’s elbow. “I sent word ahead in case we ended up with wounded officers. They’ll have rooms prepared.”
Viggo didn’t argue. He simply gathered Evander more securely against his chest despite the medics’ protests and rose to his feet. Though the mage’s head lolled against his shoulder, his breathing had steadied somewhat. The Brute started walking, carrying Evander through the snow and up the slope toward the waiting horses.
The first rays of dawn were painting the eastern sky pink and gold by the time their horses reached the village. Viggo entered the inn with Evander in his arms, passed the wide-eyedinnkeeper, and followed an officer up the narrow stairs to the room that had been prepared for them.
He laid the mage gently on the bed, peeled his clothes off, and dried his body and hair before putting him in the warm shirt and trousers that had been provided. The Brute changed quickly in front of a roaring fire before slipping under the covers with Evander. He pulled the blankets up to their chests and rolled on his side.
His heart clenched painfully as he studied Evander’s pale complexion. He carefully took one of the mage’s cold hands in his own.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmured, pressing his lips to the mage’s knuckles. “You know that, don’t you?”
Evander didn’t stir. But Viggo could have sworn he saw the ghost of a smile flicker across his lover’s face.
CHAPTER 43
Evander woketo pale winter light filtering through unfamiliar curtains and the solid warmth of Viggo’s body pressed against his back.
For a long moment, he simply lay there, registering a myriad of sensations. The soft feather mattress beneath him. The weight of Viggo’s arm draped across his waist. The steady rhythm of the Brute’s breathing against his neck. The faint ache in his muscles that spoke of physical exhaustion.
And warmth in his magic core—the same unfamiliar warmth he’d felt inside the convergence, still there even now, as steady as a heartbeat.
He ignored it for the moment, relief superseding his surprise.
He was alive.Theywere alive.
