Rhonin grabs my good arm, and for the first time, actually helps me. He lifts me, setting me firmly on my feet, but when I move toward Nephele and her to me, the Prince of the East comes between us, holding up his hands to stop us.
“Oh, come now. Do you really think I’d let you two have a special bonding moment without anything in return?” He tips his head toward me. “How long has it been for you two sisters, eh? I do see the resemblance.”
I can’t stop looking at her. She’s so lovely. Long, pale curls, fallen from a loose braid, hang around her fair face. A few lines crinkle her delicate forehead, and she looks beyond exhausted, with purplish bruises shadowing the thin skin beneath her bloodshot eyes. But she is otherwise unchanged. Her eyes are still like Father’s, light as a spring sky and so wide that as she looks at me, I swear I see to the bottom of her heart.
My sister. Here. A handful of feet away, yet there might as well be eight more years separating us—thanks to the Prince of the East.
It strikes me then. He shouldn’t know that Nephele is anyone to me, certainly not my kin. We favor, but she’s Father whereas I’m Mother. My features are darker, and my body has more curves and muscle from working where Nephele is lithe and willowy.
How could the prince know?
He yanks the gag from Nephele’s mouth, but Vexx is there immediately, pressing the tip of a dagger deep into her cheek. “One utterance of Elikesh. That’s all it will take for me to cut out your tongue, witch. You’re to speak only when the prince tells you.”
Much as I wish otherwise, I fear my sister’s magick will not see us out of this. She’s drained from holding the construct for days.
The prince repeats his question to Nephele. “How long?”
“Eight years.” Her voice is gravelly and ragged from singing magick, her eyes hard as steel as she holds his gaze.
The prince paces a short path, slowly, between us, and slides those insidious eyes at me. “I brought your sister here so that I can make you an offer, Raina. Several of my men died thanks to you and your ilk, and several more are severely wounded. We’ve a long journey to the coast. I need as many men at my back as possible should there be surprises along the way. If you want time with your sister, I will allow it—” he glances at Vexx and Rhonin “—with proper supervision. But only if you agree to heal my men and show me what you’re made of.” He gestures to his face. “And there’s me, of course. It’s only right that you clean up after yourself, yes?”
I try to lift my hands, to tell him to crawl in a hole and die, but the rope tying my wrists and ankles together doesn’t have enough slack.
“You have to free her hands, you cretin,” Nephele says.
Vexx digs his blade into her face, and she winces as a shiny drop of blood slips down her cheek.
I move toward her, but Rhonin yanks me back by the laces of my bodice.
The prince stops pacing and faces me. “A simple nod will suffice. Do you agree to my terms?”
I flash a glance at Nephele who gives me an almost imperceptible nod. I don’t want to be the reason the prince’s wounds heal, and I don’t want to be the reason he and his men live to ride across the Northlands and kill another day. But I need my sister. At least long enough to figure out what in gods’ death we can do to get out of this.
Finally, I nod. Once.
Vexx stuffs the gag back into Nephele’s mouth, and with a look from the prince, Rhonin drags me from the tent.
34
Raina
Rhonin saws a knife through the ropes between my ankles so I can walk with longer strides. He leaves my hands tied and linked to the short rope leading to my feet. He reminds me of someone. Maybe Mena? It’s the hair.
When he finishes, he grabs a woolen blanket from a pile, hangs it over my shoulders, and leads me up a small embankment to Winter Road. As we walk, snow crunching beneath our boots, I take in the encampment. To my right, the Prince of the East and his general stroll to a larger tent pitched beneath two tall trees, its canvas glowing in the falling dusk. Obscured figures wait inside, backlit by lamplight. Unwounded warriors, at least fifty, sit around a few scattered fires, roasting various small animals for a meal. They’re guarding three wagons nested in a clearing and a few dozen tied horses. Far fewer than they need.
I think of Mannus and Tuck. They have to be here.
Above, heralding the coming night, the prince’s spies roost, a thousand beady eyes staring down. How I’d like to Fulmanesh every single one of the little pricks.
From the corner of my vision, Nephele’s pale hair catches my eye. An Eastlander leads her along the road’s edge, then across the wood to one of the wagons. A woman unlocks the doors, and the man throws my sister inside.
Not wagons. Transportable prisons.
Is Colden Moeshka in there too?
To my left, along a snowy path, sounds of pain float through the forest. Rhonin guides me toward those sounds and the injured, and also toward another tent set back in the wood.
“I hope you’re not weak-stomached,” he says. “It’s like a battlefield out here.”
I shake my head, but the truth is that I’ve seen more death and wounds in the last week—or however long I’ve been trapped inside Frostwater Wood—than I’ve seen in my whole life. I haven’t had time to be sick. I’ve been functioning within a survival state. But I have enough years in me to know that all of this horror is going to crash down on me at some point.
Those cresting waves.
Torches have been staked into the ground every ten feet or so, creating a path, and to each side, more fires burn. In the pools of firelight, on woolen blankets and against trees, dozens of warriors lie wounded, with no relief save for the wine that a few attendants ladle from a wooden bucket. Stolen from Winterhold, I’m sure. I can smell the bitterness.
Wine won’t do much to stave the pain, though. These warriors have broken limbs, disjointed bones, blade wounds, burns, and pieces of iron and steel wedged into muscle.
And frostbite.
No. It’s more than frostbite. Some have blackened hands and arms that might need amputation if I cannot weave them back to health.
Damn, Rhonin. The sight makes my stomach queasy.
Alexus’s words come back to me. As restitution, the gods gave Colden and Fia a certain degree of command over their elements. He can breathe an icy fog. Freeze an enemy with a touch.
The Frost King. If he did this, and I’m confident he did, then surely the Eastlanders couldn’t reach him. These men have to be a sign that Colden Moeshka kept himself from becoming a weapon against Fia Drumera. At this point, we need any advantage we can get.
Rhonin and I reach the tent. He flips back the flap and leads me inside. I can’t help but notice how quickly he seals us up, away from the rest of the world.
When he faces me, straightening to his full and towering height, I take a step back. Another. There’s a tree stump in this tent and a scorched worktable behind me. Another find from Winterhold, no doubt. Two oil lamps burn instead of one, and a pouch of mender’s tools sits on the table.