Not one.
“You are a Ruakite, Vek-torn Issachar?”
Viktor’s eyes glowed, ice-blue fire.
Marith grasped his hand.
“Come,” she called with urgency. “You must come. The wounded need you.”
He let go of Amerei and followed the woman down the hillside. Once they’d reached the horses, she took Ruby by the reins.
“Make haste to Westport.” Her weary eyes widened. “You can heal them, Vek-torn Issachar.” She folded the reins into his hand. “You must.”
Viktor glanced back at Amerei, his hands finding the pack across his chest. A jar of lachlaren from Saecily, a smaller jar from the Kryonites. Would he have enough?
Amerei nodded and he answered, “I will go.”
The woman touched his arm and pointed, “The monks prepared a place on the east end of the monastery. You’ll find them there.”
Amerei mounted Obsidian, guiding him onto the path. Gabriel followed close behind.
“Whatever he needs,” she murmured, “we will do.”
“Of course.”
The elders gathered around Viktor as he pulled himself into the saddle.
“Hurry, Ruakite,” one said.
Another: “Go with strength. Go with fire.”
He urged Ruby onto the path, leaving the elders on the hill.
He clutched the jars to his chest. Their glass was cool, the contents pressing solid against the clay. Not just medicine—judgment of how many he could save, how many he could not. The weight crushed against him.
“I won’t have enough to heal them all,”he whispered to The Midnight.
The seer’s voice dropped deathly low.
“You do not yet realize how few survived.”
Chapter Eighty-Two
Take Me Home
He carried the weight of mercy. She carried him back to where he belonged.
Viktor searched for The Midnight.
“Call to me, brother. I need you.”
Before him—the monastery of Westport, tents strung up off the east end. The smell of incense hung heavy, prayers whispered low. Heat pressed from the canvas, air thick with dread.
“I’m here,”The Midnight answered.“It is you who calls to me.”
Just—like that?
Viktor focused ahead.
