Because she was stolen from me.
Shoving my loathing down deep, I focus on Nephele and the need to save the only family I have left. My head feels fuzzy, made of clouds, but I push past him, not sure what I plan to do—steal his beast and flee into an enchanted wood?
I don’t make it far. His stallion seems a million miles away, and the world tilts, right as my knees buckle mid-step.
The Witch Collector folds his arms around my waist and turns me to face him, holding me flush against his body. The movement makes me more lightheaded, and instinctively, I grab hold of his tunic.
He stares down at me and glances at my mouth, the knot in his throat moving on a hard swallow. When he speaks, his voice falls from his lips with softer edges. “I’m afraid we aren’t going anywhere until you can craft magick again. We can’t get inside Frostwater Wood without it.”
Eyelids heavy, I shake my head, not understanding, and manage the words, “Why not?”
“I tried to enter the wood after we left the village. The Eastlanders threaded a wall along the perimeter. There’s no following unless you can summon enough power to break through their construction.” The pressure of his hand at the small of my back makes me cringe and heat up at the same time. “Somehow,” he continues, “I don’t believe you’re up for the task yet, much as you would probably like to disagree.”
He lowers me onto his cloak, hovering above me. I don’t know why I notice, but his lips—even though the bottom one now bears a swollen cut—are a perfect, scarlet bow nestled inside his short, dark beard.
“You need to recover,” he says. “We’ll ride once you’re able and pray to the gods we’re not too late.”
I want to argue, because I need to get to my sister. Now. Instead, I let go of his tunic as the world around me dims. I struggle to cling to awareness, only to be pressed down by impossible darkness.
Nephele is my last thought as consciousness gets carried away by an unstoppable tide.
12
Raina
The next morning, I pace the water’s edge, awaiting the Witch Collector’s return. The memory is unclear, but I recall him kneeling beside me, loose, dark hair framing his face. Behind him, the sky had been bruised with the first rays of morning light. He said something about going to Littledenn for food and clothes and that he would come back soon, but I was still too heavily in sleep’s grasp for his words to stay.
Wrapped in his cloak, I hunt for the God Knife in the grass with no success, then watch the sun rise as thin mist rolls over the vale. I’ve been to this stream many times, stared over the land as hearth smoke rose from chimneys to the west. For too long, I gaze at the horizon, hoping those gray curls and wisps will rise once more. When the sky lightens, the only smoke in the distance is what remains of the Eastlanders’ fires.
Tired of so many reminders of the attack, I remove Finn’s dagger belt from my thigh, trying not to think about his last moments alive, and wade into the stream at the deepest spot behind two boulders. I’m anxious, wanting to leave, yet I’m trapped here—waiting when there is no time to wait.
The water is cold, but it washes the scent of fire and death from my dress and hair well enough. As I bathe, I marvel at the new marks coloring my skin. All this time, Mother was protecting me, hiding what I am from everyone. I understand, but I wish I’d been able to share my magick with her, to learn about my abilities without the threat of being chosen hanging over us like a dark cloud.
With one last dip under the water, I finally feel awake, my thoughts clearer, my sorrow and denial fading. In their place resides only determination. If I plan on finding Nephele, there’s magick to breach, so I need to focus.
If only I could remember what I did with the God Knife. I recall slashing it through the Prince of the East’s face, and I remember him vanishing as I held the weapon in my hand. But after that, all I see is death and fire and…the Witch Collector.
When I finish bathing, I wring out my hair and clothes, wishing it was warmer out. Too soon, my restlessness returns, so I take my mother’s wooden bowl and dip it in the stream. If the Eastlanders are trapped in the wood, and I pray to the Ancient Ones they are, perhaps we can circumvent them and reach Winterhold first—if the Witch Walkers’ vast magick lets us pass.
A thorn pricks my fingertip nicely, and once my blood swirls in the water, I center my every thought on the Eastlanders’ whereabouts.
“Nahmthalahsh. Show me the Eastlanders from last night.”
A faint scene forms on the water’s violet surface, a band of men riding on a narrow road through what looks like the dark of night in a forest. Wariness wafts off them. They look confused or lost, and I sense magick—strong magick.
I tilt the bowl, and the image remains. At least I don’t see the Prince of the East, and his warriors aren’t invading a castle or fortress—yet. That alone eases me.
I clean the bowl and prepare the water again. “Nahmthalahsh. Show me the God Knife.”
Though I can’t see the black blade, I can make out the white hilt. The knife is surrounded by darkness, making it hard to discern. Did it end up in the fire? Can god bone burn? Is it buried in Silver Hollow’s ashes? How will I ever find it if it’s in Silver Hollow’s ruins?
Frustrated, I toss the water and stare at the bowl. I could look for Finn and Helena, but the thought terrifies me. I know what I’ll see—piles of ash or something far worse—and I feel too raw. I cannot endure the images of their suffering imprinted on my memory. Instead, I decide to look for the prince. He wasn’t in that band of Eastlanders, but I need to know if the God Knife worked, if it’s even worth searching for. I’d so believed that it was.
A third time, I fill the bowl and bleed into the water. “Nahmthalahsh. Show me the Prince of the East.”
The water swirls longer than usual, and the violet-tinted clearness becomes nebulous. Shadows and smoke roll over the bowl’s edge like a bleeding mist. I lean closer, pulse racing.
Surely I’ll see a dead man.
His face forms and stares back at me with wide, unblinking eyes. I can’t tell if he’s alive and watching me from the other side of the waters or dead somewhere, staring into nothingness. The sight of his open wound makes me shudder, and again I toss the water, watching as the smoky mist floats across the grass and melts away.
Dead, I tell myself. The God Knife’s power is real.
I’m standing beneath the great oak wringing out my skirts again when the Witch Collector returns, riding at a quick pace. Though he’s leading a strong-looking white mare behind his glossy, black stallion, something in me dies when he approaches. His face is pale and expression bleak, his broad shoulders not so high and strong anymore.