Raina’s face hardens, and her hands—lovely as they are—move in an almost threatening manner when she signs. “You said the wood would let us pass. That the magick knows you. Why does it not allow safe passage now?”
“I also said this might not be easy or fast,” I reply, keeping my voice steady. “But we will get through. Winterhold’s witches are trying to contain an army from many miles away. Their construct cannot distinguish between invaders and us. Not until we’re inside, anyway. Their magick must taste us first for the Witch Walkers to know we’re here, and even then, they have to single us out amid the chaos of this type of construction and manipulate the right strands—out of thousands—just for you and me. They’ll deal with us the best they can.”
None of this is a lie, but what I don’t say is that it isn’t the Witch Walkers’ magick that I’m worried about hurting us.
It’s the enemy lurking within.
She glances at the tunnel, then back to me. From her measuring look and the annoyed expression on her face, my words have provided little convincing. She stiffens her spine, sets her hands firmly around the reins, and jerks her chin toward the intimidating path anyway.
The horses require urging into the tunnel, but the moment we cross beneath its archway, a looming cold grows ahead. The sure way out begins closing behind us.
Raina peers over her shoulder, her attention drawn to the unnatural creak and moan of wood groaning like the tunnel trees have come alive. I turn in my saddle too but say nothing as I watch her. In the corner of my vision, a mass of trunks begins braiding across the entrance, shutting us in and slowly shutting out the daylight.
“The lamp?” she signs.
“No. If the construct still stands, that means there are Eastlanders still trapped here. We can’t light ourselves for all to see, and there’s only so much oil. Communication is more difficult this way, but I’ll ride close. If you need me, can you whistle?”
She signs the word, Yes, melancholy softening her features when she whistles quietly. It’s such a lovely sound, like the trill or warble of a nesting bird. Still, she looks so forlorn.
I’m not sure what I said to cause such a reaction, but I give her the best reassuring look I can muster under the circumstances, and we ride on, side by side as the tunnel darkens.
We move deeper into the construct, still encouraging the horses, and I study a flicker of movement along the path. Little white flowers—similar to stardrops—pop up from the leaves of meandering vines, opening wide and shining dim light along the path. It’s just enough illumination that the horses can see where they’re going, and the lines of Raina’s face and hands are outlined in a diffused silver glow.
When she looks at me in wonder, I smile. “Told you. Their magick knows me.”
She gives an exaggerated roll of her eyes, but I also note a smile teasing her lips.
We keep moving.
The tree trunks lining the path are so numerous that if we needed to find cover amongst them, we couldn’t. Dense briar bushes grow in every gap, covered in thorns, long and sharp as bear teeth. At the tops of the trees, little eyes watch us, like birds are perched on the limbs, much like the crows last night. This part of the construct has to be Nephele’s doing. Over the years, she’s developed a tendency toward more…intimidating…magick.
I can’t say I don’t appreciate it now.
My thoughts drift to Raina’s magickal sword. It’s possible she could cut through the tunnel walls, but I doubt that would do any good. The tunnel would only find us again.
My attention is drawn back to the path. As we ride, the autumn cover changes, the dirt and rotting foliage becoming marred by branching veins of crystallized frost. The awaiting cold reaches for us, clawing at the ground to drag us closer.
Ahead, light snow swirls in a coming breeze, depositing a white dusting over a forest that only held a bit of frost before. With flurries dancing, I almost miss the second flicker of movement along the path’s edge.
Turning a glance over my shoulder, I look more closely as we pass. Snow clings to a thick patch of curled briar vines that have been hacked away, leaving a barbed hole big enough for a man to crawl into if he were desperate enough. Beyond, I think I see the whites of eyes. An animal perhaps, but I can’t be sure.
To be wise, I wrap my fingers around the hilt of my sword and look down as Raina reaches across the small distance between us. She closes her hand on my wrist a moment before the white flowers begin withering on the vine. The blooms fight their unwanted death, trying to open again, straining to glow. Most lose the battle, but a few stay strong, barely illuminating the path at our horses’ feet.
Only two things can be causing this. Either my witches are already too exhausted to maintain a change like these flowers, or someone else is killing the light.
Someone capable of fighting vast magick.
I swallow hard and hold back a shiver, unease coming over me, the way a stare makes the skin crawl.
“It’s all right,” I whisper, squeezing Raina’s hand as the world grows colder. Her touch falls away.
In time, the soft hoofbeats of our beasts change, the snowy ground crunching under their weight. I focus on guiding the horses. They falter and balk, no doubt sensing wrongness, but they thankfully obey and carry on.
There’s no way to know what lies ahead. No moon shines here. No stars. Just night and more lightless night.
My eyes adjust, and though our horses have excellent night vision, heading into an abyss is still unsettling. Enough time here would drive someone to the brink of despair and desperation.
That’s likely the point.
Raina grips my forearm hard, digging her fingernails into my skin. I can hardly distinguish her outline now, but I feel her energy. It pulsates into me, and an unmistakable tension fills the air.
We are not alone anymore.
Again, I reach for my sword, but the icy bite of a knife buries deep into my thigh before I can free my weapon. Too stunned to do anything else, I roar and wrap my hand around the blade’s protruding hilt.
Mannus rears, kicking wildly. I try to regain control with one hand on the reins, but my thighs instinctively tighten around his sides, and the knife digs deeper.
I cannot breathe around the pain. For a moment, all I can think is that I’m fucking tired of being stabbed. My shock passes swiftly, though, and my thoughts shift to Raina. I yell her name, but the only sound that meets my ears is that of two bodies colliding.
She’s fighting an Eastlander, and I can’t see her.
The parts of me that I keep locked away jerk against the prison of my ribs, longing to be free, tasting a fight, tempting me for release. I grab the hilt of the knife instead and yank it free from my muscle.
The wet heat of fresh blood courses down my leg, but I can’t let a little cut slow me. I turn, ready to swing off Mannus’s back, and pray the blade in my hand finds an Eastlander heart and not Raina’s.