Those desperate words are meant to persuade himself to leave, and I can’t imagine why he’s even still here, so I jerk my head toward the hills. “Go south or west. It’ll be easier.”
He’ll find ruin either way, depending on how the Eastlanders got here in the first place. But his death is waiting in Silver Hollow, not back at Littledenn, Penrith, or Hampstead Loch—not even in the valley or near the southern mountains. I sent all those other villagers east earlier, to the orchards, a mistake made in the heat of the moment. Now a band of killers—led by the gray-haired general I fought back in Hampstead Loch—rides in that direction, on the hunt for fresh blood.
They’ll find it, thanks to me.
The boy runs with the little girl and his dog. The three of them disappear through a cloud of smoke and cawing crows. Throughout the village, fire races from thatched roof to thatched roof, chasing along any piece of wood it touches.
In the ashy haze that too soon settles over the green, I see Raina again. It’s impossible to turn away. In all the years that I’ve looked upon her face, I’ve only ever witnessed nervousness. Dread. Fear. Even repulsion, and maybe hatred.
Like tonight.
Tonight, she’d stared at me like she could kill me. Brutally.
But I’ve never seen her cloaked in pure rage. It rolls off her, hot and bright as the fires around us, lighting her up like a virago. A fury among men.
An upward swing of her blade catches an Eastlander in the chin, his end gruesome. She spins, and her next strike lands in the bend of a warrior’s neck. In her hand, a farmer’s scythe is deadly as any sword, her movements so swift and precise that I’m momentarily mesmerized, even in the midst of such devastation.
I’m brought out of my admiration by a flash of silver through the air. I twist to miss an Eastlander’s sword, but not before it slices deep into the meat of my wounded arm.
Pain fuels my anger, and though the weight of my weapon makes it feel like I’m holding the world on the ends of my fingertips, I swing the tip upward and jab, piercing the Eastlander’s throat where I’m certain it will end him.
I withdraw, and he slides from his horse, lifeless, like the sack of bones he is.
My sword arm falls limp. The wounds burn and throb as blood streams to my fingertips. Mannus wanders around the green’s rim, confused by the thickening smoke and cries for help. The number of crows and Eastlanders has thinned, but villagers are still fighting, and so many lie dead or dying, burned or burning.
And I no longer see Raina.
A few feet away, an enormous Eastlander struggles to rise out of a daze. He fixes his eyes on me. With a groan, I draw my injured arm up and sheathe my blade before retrieving my dagger from my boot. I don’t know how I’ll win this fight if he heads in my direction.
I glance toward the stone wall to the east where more Eastlanders ride, followed by a flock of deadly crows. Could that be where Raina’s gone? To help the helpless? If she’s anything like Nephele described, that’s something she would do.
With my good hand, I yank the reins and turn Mannus toward the east, but the sight of Raina and Nephele’s mother standing in the middle of the ceremony circle, surrounded by a translucent smoke cloud, stops me. I recognize her silvery gray hair and lovely face. She’s the older version of Raina, though I see Nephele in her features too. The power emanating from her body is the one thing I don’t recognize.
Her lips move with earnestness as she sings magick, her hands and eyes lifted in prayer. Dead birds drop at her feet, and the raging fires engulfing nearby cottages dim. The flying sparks fade, the smoke clears, and a rain cloud rumbles overhead.
Gods’ teeth. She’s doing that. Her alone.
In all my years, I’ve never sensed such power in this woman, Just like I never sensed it in Raina, and only once in Nephele—the year I chose her. Now I think I understand why.
Ophelia Bloodgood did the impossible. She hid her family’s power.
An Eastlander stalks toward her, teeth bared and dagger raised, and at her back, another assassin appears. He forms from a plume of red smoke, a smiling wraith stepping from a scarlet shadow, testing the heft of a spear in his hand. Darkness swirls around him, and a crow sits on his right shoulder.
I know those shadows, and I know him. We met once, after King Regner died. He seemed so innocent at the time. I never dreamed I’d see his face in this valley, let alone with murder burning bright in his eyes. He’s the man who rose from nothing and nowhere and no one to become the leader of an entire continent.
The man who broke his word.
The man with no real name.
The Prince of the East.
9
Raina
The Eastlander crushing my throat in her elbow is as strong as a bear, but I’m slippery and quick. I spin and bring a knee to her gut, and she staggers back enough that I’m able to break free of her hold.
I stand crouched, arms wide, in front of Mena. She sits huddled behind me, chanting in the smoke-filled corner of her cottage. Powerful as she is, her magick is too weak for any weaving now.
She’s bleeding. From where, I don’t know. I didn’t have time to look. I only knew I had to help her when I saw this behemoth Eastlander woman shove her inside her cottage. That same woman blocks the open doorway—and the path to my scythe.
She picks up my blade, and with a snarl, lunges at me. In the same second, she freezes, face blank. It takes a moment to understand why.
The woman crumples to her knees and collapses face-first on the slatted floor. Blood flows from a puncture wound to the back of her blonde head. Behind her stands Helena, bloody sword still raised, on guard.
Lowering her weapon, Hel steps over the Eastlander and throws her arm around my neck, her words coming out in a rush. “I was so scared I wouldn’t find you! Meet Finn and me at the fallow fields! I have to find my mother and the twins!”
And just like that, she’s gone, a flutter of blood-stained golden silk flying out the door.
I turn to Mena and kneel before her, uncertain what to do.
“Leave me.” She lifts a hand from a gash in her stomach. “My time is here.”
But it doesn’t have to be. There’s so much death in the air that I can’t tell if hers is as close as she believes or not.
Not caring if she learns my truth, I begin signing my song. “Loria, Loria, una wil shonia, tu vannum vortra, tu nomweh ilia vo drenith wen grenah.”
These are the words for healing, for when death hasn’t crossed too near. I start to repeat the lyrics, but she grabs the fingers of my right hand.
A faint smile tilts her lips. “I knew there was more to you. But I won’t let you waste your energy on me.” She jerks her chin toward the door. “Go. Find your precious mother. Get to the fields.”
I ignore her and try again.
“Loria, Loria, una wil shonia, tu vannum—”
“Go, Raina!” she yells. “Your mother needs you more than me. Go!”