We keep riding. I force my eyes to remain open, searching for any sign of a place we might shelter. No matter how far we travel, though, there are only tangled, thick trees rising high into the sky on either side of the winding path.
Eventually, I give in and close my eyes, resting my head on Hel’s shoulder. I’m so terribly frigid, down to the iced marrow in my bones, that I’m uncertain if I’ll wake up should I fall asleep.
My thoughts drift to Nephele.
Tuetha tah, if you can hear me, help us. Bring us through this wood, bring us to Winterhold. Please do not let me die here.
I repeat the words in my mind like a song. What else can I do to make her hear me? This construct is so far beyond my comprehension. No strands hang in the ether or even within my mind’s grasp. The inner workings of this magick are hidden away, making it impossible to reach out to her by simply plucking a few threads.
More time passes, perhaps an hour or two. It’s so hard to stay awake, so every now and then, I mentally recite my plea to my sister. Having a task, even if only in my mind, helps me keep from giving in. Sleep seems like such a comfort. Such relief.
I close my eyes, and for too long, they stay closed.
A face fades into my mind’s eye, on the edge of a dream. Once handsome, the face now bears a gaping slash.
The Prince of the East stares at me, eyes narrowed in curious study. Nothing lies beyond him, only a scarlet halo of swirling shadows.
The carved corners of his mouth turn in a deep scowl. “Hello, Keeper,” he says. “I see you.”
I jerk awake, heart racing, and blink away the sight of him. Gods, that felt so real. His voice was so clear.
But it was just a dream.
Wasn’t it?
I swallow hard, remembering something faint. Something distant. The prince called me Keeper after I cut him open. Surely dreaming of him is only my mind conjuring that same moment, reshaping it into a new torture.
A long sigh pushes out of me, leaving a frozen breath cloud hanging in my wake. It’s snowing so hard that I can barely see the pale light of the lamp, and the horses are moving with such labored steps.
Unaware, I’ve tightened my arms around Helena’s waist like a vise, and so I loosen my hold. Hel doesn’t seem to notice. She doesn’t shake like me either, and her shoulders aren’t slumped from my weight. Somehow, she’s unaffected by the cold, and so very warm. It must be the gambeson.
I sit up straighter to give her some relief and press the signs for All right? into her thigh. She barely flinches and makes no reply.
It’s just the cold, I tell myself. The kind of cold that makes teeth feel like they might shatter and renders the skin and brain too numb to comprehend something like the pressure of a sign.
“There’s a path cleared ahead,” Alexus calls. “We’re bedding down. It’s getting impossible to see.”
Bedding down sounds impossible too. In this snowstorm? And what would’ve made a path large enough for Alexus to see his way through the wood?
Helena agrees, her sigh sounding more like a hiss. But soon, we’re leading the horses off the path into the trees, Alexus leading the way with his dim light.
I glance over Hel’s shoulder, worried about the horses making it through the deep drifts. All that’s visible ahead is a gray haze and packed snow, like more horses have already tread this ground—which doesn’t ease my worries. Nothing about this scenario is wise, and I want to say so, but what good would it do? It isn’t like we can turn back and go home.
Alexus draws Mannus to a halt, and the soft circle of lamplight moves toward Helena and me. When I can finally make out Alexus’s face, it’s like he’s been painted in the tones of the night, all color leached by the cold.
He looks at Hel and holds his lamp high. His dark hair whips in the snowy wind. “You have fire magick, yes?”
She bristles, and after a moment, says, “I’m not good at fire magick.”
Alexus arches his brow. “You don’t have to be good. I just need you to help me get a fire going.” He looks at me and jerks his chin toward Mannus. “There’s a rocky overhang over there. I’m hoping this is Nephele’s doing.”
He walks away, and Helena huffs.
“Foolish man,” she says in a manner that isn’t her at all.
Alexus stops, broad shoulders stiffening, and turns back, lifting the lamp again. “I’m wiser than you think, girl. You would do well to remember that.”
Sometime later, the horses are standing beneath the tallest part of a stone shelter, shielded from the snow and most of the wind. I begin clearing a place for a fire a few strides away, under the lower end of the ledge, while Alexus gathers wood and brush. Helena sits huddled on the ground, silent.
When I’m done clearing snow, I take a seat a few feet from her, feeling a little unsettled by the way the lamplight casts our silhouettes on the stone wall at our backs and sends wavering, fingerlike shadows reaching through the trees. I want to believe that this shelter is my sister’s gift, but I don’t feel her presence.
Alexus dumps the kindling on the cleared ground and, shielding the oil lamp, works at taking flame from the wick using the wool from the tinder box. It will make a grand start to a fire if the damp wood catches, but a harsh wind sucks away Alexus’s stolen light. He tries again, and again the wind blows the flame to nothing.
“Gods’ death,” he curses, closing the glass door on the lamp. “I can’t risk losing the only light we have.” He sits at my side, staring across the pile of twigs and broken limbs at my friend. “Fulmanesh,” he says after a while, directing his voice at Helena. “That’s the word for summoning fire. Iyuma if it needs urging.”
She knows this. I even know this, not that I’ve ever handled a fire thread in my life. Witch Walkers are born with specific skills that manifest at different times and in different ways for all of us. But many forms of magick can be learned, however. Like Finn’s family learning fire magick. I’ve never been keen on learning to manipulate any more threads than I already contend with. But Helena loves fire magick, even if she hasn’t excelled. And yet, at Alexus’s words, she just sits there, biting her lip, staring into nothingness while we freeze.
“I told you, Witch Collector,” she says through clenched teeth. “I’m no good at fire.”
Her dark gaze lifts from beneath heavy black lashes, and there’s an odd tilt to her head. Without another word, she stands, still wrapped in the gambeson, so tall that—like Alexus—she has to stoop beneath the ledge’s low ceiling. She heads to the far edge of the stony haven and sits against the rocks, scooting down on the ground and turning her back to us, like she’s going to sleep.
I haven’t thought about her missing witch’s marks much until now. They were there the last time I saw her, lighting her skin like she held fire within. Now there’s nothing on her visible skin, and she’s acting more than strange.
Worried, I start toward her. Alexus grabs my wrist, his hand falling away when I face him.
“Let her rest,” he signs. “Perhaps she needs to sleep it off.”