And still, Alexus hesitated.
Helena leans close and briefly shifts her eyes in his direction. “You c-call him by his name now? Last week you were stabbing a scarecrow in h-his honor.” Though she lowers her voice, her question comes out wrapped in her usual husky tone that carries.
Alexus turns a glance in my direction, no doubt wondering how I might reply to this girl who doesn’t know what to think about the fact that I haven’t killed him yet. Though I didn’t tell her of my plan, my anger toward the two most influential men in the Northlands has never been a secret. There was certainly no hiding my animosity when she told me to pretend that scarecrow was him.
“He was the only other person who survived. Or so I believed. I needed him to bring me to Winterhold. To find Nephele.”
It dawns on me that Helena probably doesn’t know anything about what’s happening between the Eastland Territories and the Frost King, and I’ll explain, but not right now. Right now, the weather is worsening. The wind picks up, whipping us with bitter lashes and sleet. My hands tingle like phantom limbs, and my lips are so numb it’s like they’re no longer on my face.
Clutching the blanket at his chest with one hand, Alexus guides the horses nearer with the other. The animals tug against the reins, uneasy. My calming spell is fading.
“We can’t stay here any longer,” Alexus says. His face is slightly wind-burnt, his lips a paler shade than their usual red. “We’ll start losing fingers and toes if we don’t find shelter.”
Helena snaps her head around. She drags a hand along her thigh as though reaching for a sword that isn’t there.
“There is no shelter,” she says, spittle flying, her voice deepening. “I’ve been beyond here.”
Tuck blows a burst of air through her nose, and a twitch ripples down her back. Mannus shakes his head and steps ahead of the mare like a guardian.
Something isn’t right. There’s an odd tension in the air. Even the horses sense it.
I look at Hel, incredulous. She isn’t totally innocent, but for the most part, she’s obedient. The most defiant things she’s ever done have been her steady practice of sword-swinging in the thicket by the stream and sneaking off from occasional suppers to let Emmitt rattle her world in his father’s hayloft. To speak to the Witch Collector in such a manner—a man considered the right hand of the continent’s immortal king—is not like her.
It’s like me, but not her.
Again, I toss the niggle to the back of my mind. She’s just unraveled, and the horses are only shaken. Understandable given our circumstances.
Alexus’s nostrils flare at her words as he steadies the stallion and mare. “Would you rather sit here and freeze into statues? Or move and live?”
Hel stares at me, and I detect a war brewing behind her eyes when there isn’t an occasion for such conflict. Her dark irises lighten, reflecting the falling snow.
“We should go,” I tell her.
An odd shadow passes over her face, and an irritated huff trips off her lips. She stands abruptly, stiff, her shoulders squared hard, her chin lifted. Even the simple act of being is different from her norm, lacking the elegant grace of a gifted swordswoman that accompanies Helena’s every waking minute.
She stabs her arms through the gambeson’s sleeves and fastens the toggles from neck to waist with the steadiest of hands. She acts like she’s not cold anymore, not in the least.
Face hard, she snatches Tuck’s reins from Alexus and swings a long leg up and over the horse. “Raina rides with me.”
Another tremble quivers through Tuck from mane to tail, the whites of her eyes visible. Alexus’s gaze shifts, meeting mine in question.
His face seems to say, Is everything all right here?
I feel unsure but also convinced that Helena is just a young, sheltered woman experiencing trauma amid absolute calamity. I understand that far better than I want to, so I craft another calming spell for the horses and take my friend’s offered hand.
19
Raina
We’re going to die here.
My bodice and Alexus’s cloak are the only barriers between me and the wintry precipitation that falls heavier and heavier with every passing hour. We’ve been riding for two solid days, at least. I can’t tell because there’s no concept of time here. No sun, no moon, no dusk, no dawn. Just misery and aching muscles that have long since frozen stiff.
We rested once, many hours ago, before we reached this path. Now, the horses’ hooves are shod in ice, their strides much slower and labored. Snow sits on my shoulders, and frost coats my face.
I tried to summon my magick, to think of any spell that might help us. I even imagined walking a circle of protection, trying to conjure a hut made from forest limbs. But walking would be treacherous in the deep snow along the path’s edge, and my hands have grown even less flexible than they were at the lake. The necessary intricate movements for a complex spell are impossible to perform.
As for the wood, it appears the construct only allows for two passages, just like Helena said. Directly into the mountains or around them.
“There are dark things in those hills,” she reminds us, and Alexus agrees to stay to the dense woodland that skirts the range instead.
I have to agree with him now about my other routes idea. Mountains are difficult enough to pass without the added dangers of this ice-bound magick.
The old oil lamp Alexus found at Littledenn hangs from his hand. The wavering flame gives off enough soft illumination through its amber glass that we travel inside an orb of golden light. Worry for Eastlander’s spotting us has long passed, our dire need of light the larger worry. The world outside our faint little bubble is dark but white with cold. The snow and ice that glazes every limb and needle and leaf emits the faintest eerie glow—a forest made of silver and shadows.
The wood lies shrouded in absolute silence—beautiful but alarming. Occasionally, the flutter of wings rustles high in the trees, a caw creeps from a nest, or the distant cry of a white wolf howls through the wood. I can’t shake the sense of being watched or followed, so I keep an eye on the path at our backs. It’s all part of the construct, Alexus says, meant for confusion, deception, and fear. Like the darkness when we first entered the tunnel. Like the lake.
Mission accomplished, Witch Walkers.
Teeth chattering, I hold onto Hel’s waist, crushing our bodies together as we ride. Heat is a precious thing, and I cling to any I can find. It’s difficult, though. Her putrid odor stings my nostrils, making me wonder if I’m imagining the smell.
From Mannus’s back, Alexus glances at us, pressing his knuckles beneath his nose before letting out a rough cough that’s more like a gag.
It isn’t just me.