Earlier, while I watched the sun rise, I let go of any faith he might return with survivors, but I can see that he went to Littledenn with a double-edged shard of hope in his heart.
He dismounts, and I help him lead the animals to the stream.
“Mannus, eat.” He smooths a comforting hand down the horse’s side and clicks his tongue. The beast’s ears prick back, listening, and the animal does as told, chomping on clumps of grass.
The Witch Collector says nothing to me, though. I’m a little unnerved by his silence and the fact that he hasn’t looked at me since he arrived.
I set to inspecting the even-tempered mare he’s brought me so we can leave. Stroking her head, I decide her name is Tuck. I spell the word against her shoulder, needing to hold on to something from my life before this disaster. She lifts her muzzle from the stream and presses her nose against my thigh, almost as if in recognition. I pat her back, confident she’ll provide a safe journey.
The Witch Collector leans his sword against the great oak and kneels in the grass. With quick hands, he unloads clothes and boots from a bundled blanket crammed with rope, an iron-framed oil lamp with amber glass on the sides, a small tinder box, a couple of skins of water, a flask (probably of something stout enough to down a boar), a tin mug, several apples, and a loaf of stale bread. It makes me think of the pack I hid beneath my bed.
At random, he grabs a tunic and holds it between us. Finally, he looks up, and his eyes lock with mine.
A moment later, his gaze skims down my body like a touch. “You’re wet. And calm.”
He says it like I’m some sort of freakish creature.
“I bathed,” I reply, damp hair drying in a cool breeze. “And I consulted the waters.”
His gaze catches on Mother’s dish, and he lowers the tunic. “Did you see anything?”
I nod. “The Eastlanders had not reached the castle. Yet. They were traveling. A dark road. Lost. Worried. Confused. Magick surrounded them. Powerful magick.”
“And the prince?”
Hesitating, I consider telling him about the God Knife and that I’m fairly certain I killed the prince. But what would he do if he knew such a thing as the God Knife exists? That with one slice, he and his immortal lord could be destroyed? Even with the dim chance that the blade isn’t as powerful as Father said, the Frost King wouldn’t risk having such a weapon out there somewhere, ready for the taking. There’d be more than one of us trying to figure out how to find it, and so I keep that information to myself.
“Lost as the rest of them,” I lie.
Hands pressed to his thighs, the Witch Collector relaxes, like a yoke has fallen from his neck. “At least the forest is guarded, and we haven’t run out of time,” he says. “That means everything.”
He isn’t wrong. The image of the Eastlanders is the only thing keeping me composed.
Clearing his throat, he gestures with the tunic. “For you. I couldn’t find any armor your back can bear. There’s a quilted gambeson here, though. Bit large, but still better than a dress.”
“I fight fine in a dress.”
A small smile curves one corner of his mouth. “That you do. I cannot argue. But a tunic and britches will make riding easier.”
I press my hand to my bruised chest. The boning Mother sewed into the bodice provides support. The summer-linen tunic is thin and loose. Too thin and loose for a woman to wear while jaunting across the valley and through a forest. As for the gambeson—it looks made for a giant. It would swallow the Witch Collector, let alone me. Still, the softer armor will provide modest protection from a blade and arrows if it comes to that.
But I can’t ride in such garb.
The Witch Collector seems to understand my thoughts. His cheeks flush, and a strange kind of tender innocence fills his eyes.
“Oh. Right.” He drops the tunic, sits back on his haunches, and studies my gown.
After a moment, he snatches a pair of leathers from the pile—much like his own though smaller and less worn—likely belonging to a boy who hoped to one day break them in. Another thought that makes my heart hurt, yet also stokes my fury.
With a toss, the Witch Collector says, “Slip these on and come here. I have an idea.”
He looks away, and I hurry into the bottoms. I wear britches when working in the fields and orchards or when training with Helena. This pair is snug and a little long but otherwise perfect.
With my dress covering the leathers, I approach him, feeling awkward as he faces me and looks up, still on his knees. He pulls a knife from the sheath fashioned inside his boot and begins cutting a line up the middle of my skirts. It’s tedious work. The layers of wool and linen are thick and waterlogged, despite my earlier efforts.
Again, I think of the God Knife. The Prince of the East vanished while it was in my hand, and when I got up to go to Mother, no one was around, save for the Witch Collector, but he was dying. Had I even carried it with me then? Gods, I need my memory to clear.
I study the Witch Collector’s body. His wide, wing-like back stretches the fabric of his tunic, tapering to a narrow waist. The material clings to him, not only because he fills the garment so completely, but also because a cool breeze plasters the linen to his skin. His long legs are folded under him, his leathers hugging every muscle and curve like a second skin. I don’t see anywhere he could hide another knife, perhaps save for his other boot. There’s certainly no hidden belt beneath that shirt.
Did I even have the God Knife around him? My mind’s last image of the weapon is the blade clenched in my hand, the bone dripping with the prince’s blood as he promised to one day kill me.
The Witch Collector sets his knife aside in the grass and stares at me, resting his hands on his knees. He’s made it halfway up my skirts.
“I’m trying to be gentle-mannered,” he says, “but sometimes a rough hand is best.”
I take a deep breath. “Do what you must, Witch Collector.”
Tears sting the backs of my eyes, and I swallow the tightness forming in my throat. My mother made this dress for the harvest supper. She worked so hard harvesting the woad and extracting the dye. Other than her wooden dish, it’s all I have left of her.
The Witch Collector takes hold of the fabric on each side of the cut, and with a grunt, rips the layers clean to the bottom of the bodice. Stumbling under his strength, I grab his shoulders, and he grips the backs of my thighs to steady me.
Our eyes meet, and he studies my face, no doubt seeing my sadness. Again, I find myself too aware of him, of the taut muscles rounding his shoulders beneath my palms, the firm feel of his fingers clutching my legs, of how comforting it is to be close to another person.
Even him.
We release one another like we touched something hot, pulling back as much as possible. The Witch Collector takes up his knife again and begins separating my skirts from the bodice.
“Turn around?” he asks, and I obey.