Hector gathered Beru in his arms and lifted her easily. Ephyra and the others followed, stumbling away from the Paladin closing in. The Wanderer led the way to the dock. Ephyra didn’t dare glance behind her as she trailed the others over the rickety wooden planks to board the ship that floated beyond.

“We’ll be setting sail immediately, if you don’t mind,” the Wanderer said mildly to one of the ship’s crewmen as they boarded.

“Aye, aye,” the sailor replied, and strode off barking orders to the others.

“Let’s get her inside,” the Wanderer said, turning to Hector and Beru. She glanced over her shoulder at another sailor. “Take them to the infirmary.” She indicated Hassan and Anton, who had Jude’s unconscious form propped between them.

Hector turned to Ephyra. “You need to go with them.”

“With them?” she repeated. “But Beru—”

“Jude needs you,” Hector said. “He’s in bad shape. You need to heal him.”

Ephyra gritted her teeth. The swordsman didn’t matter. Beru did.

“You owe me,” Hector said darkly. “Heal Jude and consider it a debt paid.”

She let out a breath and gave one short nod. She did owe Hector. For more than just taking his life. He’d also saved hers in Behezda. And she owed the rest of them, too. Hassan, Jude, Anton. Even Illya. Despite how disastrous their help had been, they had ultimately freed Ephyra and Beru from Pallas.

“Fine,” she said, and with a last glance at Beru, she hurried after Hassan and Anton.

As Ephyra entered the infirmary, Anton looked up, wild-eyed and frantic. Ephyra recognized the expression, had felt that same delirious panic herself. His arms and chest were wet and dark with blood. Jude’s blood.

The swordsman lay in a ragged heap on one of the thin, narrow beds. His arms were torn up and bloody, his face a mess of bruises. Burned skin blistered his neck and chest, and one particularly deep gash down his torso continued oozing blood. Ephyra had grown used to death, but her kills were always clean. Nothing like the ruin that the Witnesses had made of Jude.

“Can you heal him?” Anton asked, voice shaking, hands balled in the sheets beside Jude.

Ephyra knelt at Jude’s side, breathing through the nausea that gripped her stomach. She wasn’t really made for healing. Killing came more naturally. She looked up at Anton, throat tight. Jude was minutes from bleeding out on this table if she couldn’t heal him.

“You can use my blood,” Anton said. “My esha.”

Ephyra shook her head. “The amount that I would need to use … it could kill you.”

“I’ll risk it,” Anton replied brusquely.

“I want to do this right,” she said, realizing the truth of those words as she said them.