I lock that nugget of information and question in the back of my mind for later.
“You saved me because of all the feelings that flooded your soul,” he says. “Fear. Anger. Grief. Suffering.” He stabs a finger at the wall. “This magick is no different. Those who created this barrier did so with their hearts, corrupt as they might be. Hatred, greed, and vengeance are not to be ignored. The Eastlanders understand how to harness that emotion and channel it into their work, like Witch Walkers infuse feeling into song.” He taps my chest and, much as I know I should, I don’t flinch from the contact or pull away. “You must listen to your soul, Raina. Listen to the emotions boiling deep and use them.” He stands and holds out his hand, motioning with a flutter of his fingers. “Up.”
He stares down at me when I hesitate, and gods, that face is persuasive in ways I wish it wasn’t.
I slip my hand into his and stand, trying not to think about the held-back strength in his grasp or the way he folds his fingers so delicately around mine when I look him in the eyes. He lets go, and with a firm touch takes me by the shoulders, aiming me toward the weak area in the wall. I force back a shiver when he comes closer, standing behind me.
“Like I said, I can give you the words.” Gently, he grips my wrists and brings my palms together. “Close your eyes and keep them closed. Now think about that night. Think about what the Eastlanders did to your friends, your family, your home. Think about the fires. Remember the devastation. Do you see it?”
I don’t want to remember, but at his mention, images appear in my thoughts. Flames and smoke. Mother bleeding. Others lying dead. Alexus staring at me when death approached.
“How do you feel, Raina? Listen to your misery. Listen to your rage. If you’re angry, let it boil. If you’re heartbroken, let your heart shatter.” His lips graze my ear, sending a rogue chill down my spine. “And if you hate, hate with the fire of a thousand suns.”
My pulse pounds, and memories drift in and out of my mind, one horrific event after another until fury rises inside me like the storms I always wished I could harness.
“That’s it,” Alexus whispers. “Now weave your magick. Lunthada comida, bladen tu dresniah, krovek volz gentrilah.”
Bladen. I know that word. It means sword.
The ancient chant falls from his lips so naturally and so beautifully that the tiny hairs on my neck and arms rise. I listen as he repeats each word, memorizing the intonations and soft rolls of his tongue, his voice stirring my blood. This chant—falling from his lips—sings to me.
I form the haunting song now echoing within my heart, no longer trying to give life to a weak bolt of hope but what I know is a sword of intent.
“Lunthada comida, bladen tu dresniah, krovek volz gentrilah.”
Alexus walks me forward, still reciting the words, and I imagine the wall of thorns and wood before us, blocking our path. I can’t help but falter and tense.
“Relax. I’ve got you.” He runs his rough hands up and down my arms and wraps his fingers lightly around my wrists once more.
I swallow and build my song, focusing on the silver strands of my magick, blending it with the words he’s still reciting against my hair.
But then his mouth touches my ear. “Think the words. Carry the song in your heart. Hear it. Don’t let it fall silent.”
An involuntary shudder ripples through me, but I cling to the words, even as Alexus’s fingers thread with mine, stilling my fingers.
I flinch. Finn always silenced me like this, and though I don’t feel like that’s what’s happening now, the reality is that I can’t work magick without my hands.
“Trust me, Raina,” Alexus whispers, and I try. “Hear the song. Sing it in your mind. Lunthada comida, bladen tu dresniah, krovek volz gentrilah.”
With a firm and steady touch, he begins guiding my movements in a different manner. He might as well be teaching me to swing a blade against bracken and undergrowth. A downward arc here. An upward slash there. Over and over as we move, his body flexing and tensing behind mine, one fluid stroke after another. A dance that I feel in my bones. A connection I cannot deny. I’m beginning to feel like I did at the harvest supper, linked to something far more powerful than myself as I become a conduit—thrumming and alive.
We come to a standstill. My heart races as I stand there, hearing the song, my body wrapped up in Alexus Thibault.
“Open your eyes.” His voice is soft and warm at the shell of my ear.
I obey, just as his touch slides away, only to find that I’m holding a sword made of amethyst light.
In my awe, the song in my mind stops, and the magickal weapon evaporates like stardust on a breeze. Nevertheless, relief washes over me, and I take in the surrounding wood.
When I turn around, Alexus stands flanked by our horses, wearing a proud, closed-lip smile. The Eastlanders’ wall still stands behind him, a truly mighty work, only now a path exists through the blackened thorns and twisted trees.
“I…I did it,” I sign, half-believing.
Alexus’s smile brightens, and a dimple dips deeply into his left cheek, unobscured by his beard. I bite my lip and silently damn him, because that smile is a lovely sight that I want to hate but somehow can’t.
“Be proud,” he replies and then signs, “You conjured the perfect song, and your magick delivered us.”
Much as I want to feel powerful and excited, the thrill of conquering the wall fades. For one, I didn’t truly conjure the perfect song. He sang it to me. Secondly, I have a feeling the hard part of this journey is only beginning.
With a worried eye, I study the landscape around us, feeling so small and insignificant in comparison. I’ve never seen the forest’s immensity from the inside. It’s always been a mystery realm lying at the edge of my world. Witch Walkers never cross the tree line, never step foot in the wood’s shade. Frostwater is as foreign to me as Winterhold will be.
If we ever get there.
The trees here appear as ancient as Tiressia, colossal and mostly evergreen, though there’s plenty of timber showing autumn’s burnished shades, bearing soon-to-be naked limbs. Thousands of trees stretch as far as the eye can see, creating a sense of confusion I’m certain could trap anyone here.
Though the wood is intimidating, it’s also a wonder. Gnarled roots sprawl across the forest floor, twisting beneath soft moss and winding around verdant ferns with retreating fronds turning brown for winter. It’s darker here and cooler, the sun struggling to stretch through the forest’s thick canopy. Frost has settled and survived on exposed branches and in windswept dunes amid fallen leaves.