Things keep getting worse, but there’s a saving grace.
The prince has no hold on me anymore.
Save for Nephele and Helena, I have no one else to lose, and my sisters are in this wood with me.
If I kill the prince like I envision, if I destroy the Eastlanders, if I free the Witch Walkers and the Frost King, these crows can tattle all they want to the Eastern council. Rhonin’s family will be spared, the plan to torment Fia Drumera with Colden’s demise will be thwarted, the Prince of the East will no longer live, and no gods will rise. The God Knife will still exist, but if I can pilfer it from the prince or this camp, it will remain safe in my Keeper’s hand. The snake of the East will lose its head, and I can make it to the Iceland Plains with Nephele and Helena and find passage out of Tiressia before the council becomes a problem.
All that stands in my way is a prince and what’s left of his army.
Voices sound from outside the tent—the prince and Vexx. Rhonin places the mender’s pouch back where it was and shoves me toward the tree stump near the worktable. He stands at my side, hands clasped before him like a good guard while my heart thuds against the icy dagger.
“Just a little while longer,” he whispers. “Then you’ll be free, Raina Bloodgood. No victory without sacrifice.”
It’s impossible not to look up at him, and when I do, I see my old friend in the lines of his face, in the fire of his hair.
Oh, Mena. No victory without sacrifice.
I face forward, my blood stirring anew.
I’m ready.
Let the sacrifice come.
35
Raina
The Prince of the East sits before me in his bloody leathers, intrigue painted on his face. Behind him, a surprise.
Nephele.
She’s still tied, still gagged, and a woman I’ve never seen holds her elbow. Killian, Rhonin called her. Second general.
“I have questions.” The prince gestures over his shoulder. “I thought I’d bring your sister along so I can get answers. As long as you behave with those magickal hands of yours, I won’t make you regret that she’s here.”
Rhonin was right about Vexx hovering. He stands beside me, tying a rope around my neck. No knife to the cheek. No fisting my hair. Instead, he tightens a looped knot, the kind that will only constrict even more if I move the wrong way.
Vexx stands back, holding the rope like he’s leashed an unruly hound.
“Her binds, Rhonin,” the prince says.
I look prince over. No sign of the God Knife. It isn’t on Vexx or Killian either.
Though I can feel Rhonin’s hands trembling, he works swiftly, untying the impossible knot of rope that has rubbed my wrists raw. It doesn’t matter that Rhonin is nervous. The prince keeps his eyes locked with mine, even after my hands are free.
It’s a heavy moment. My thoughts dart everywhere, though I refuse to look away. Desperation will act as a catalyst for impulse if I’m not careful. I might be a rebel, but I need to be a smart one right now. If I reach for the dagger, Vexx will choke me down.
“How does this work?” the prince asks. “I’ve met many kinds of magick wielders in my day, but never a Healer. Do you know how rare you are?” His words are laced with a sick sort of wonder.
I do know, which is why I tried to keep it secret.
A lot of good that did me.
It’s cold, and my hands are stiff and achy from being in binds for so long, but more than anything, I want to talk to my sister. There’s nothing the prince can do about what I choose to communicate.
Lifting my hands, I sign. “I have missed you so much, Nephele. I am sorry I failed you and Mother. I love you, and I will make this right. Tell him that I weave the threads of the wound.”
The woman, Killian, removes Nephele’s gag and holds a knife to her throat.
“Same rules as before,” Vexx says.
Nephele’s eyes go glassy. Her love for me shines in her gaze.
“Raina weaves the threads of the wound,” she translates. Her ragged voice is soft but thick with tears.
“Ah. If only the rest of us could see the threads of wounds. We would live with no fear of pain or death.” The prince leans forward and trails a finger up my arm to the sliced, bloody fabric of my sleeve. “Show me.”
His touch disgusts me, but it quickly falls away, and I weave my threads, thankful for the chance to heal my wound.
When I lower my hands, he takes my arm and, with two fingers, stretches the material of my torn sleeve wide, revealing smooth, undamaged skin.
“Wonderful,” he says, his eyes flicking up to my face. “Now me.”
To center myself, I close my eyes, uncertain what I’m going to do—heal him or try to kill him? But then the threads of his wound make themselves known, slithering out from behind swirls of crimson shadows, distracting me from my dilemma.
This can’t be right. His threads are…smoldering. Crumbling into flecks of ash and just as fragile. This is what I smelled on him earlier, but the distinct scents are clearer now. I still smell the septic yarrow—it’s overpowering—but beneath it hides the aroma of fire, of a sweltering day, of dust and earth.
This is the scent of someone’s death, but the Prince of the East is very much alive.
I look closer. The threads of his wound need to be entwined to heal, but they’re not just burning. They’re all wrong. There are two threads for every instance there should be one, coiled around one another tightly.
I’m too curious not to look at his life threads as well. They’re not burning, but they’re not golden either. And again, there are two for every one. This time, it doesn’t look like any sort of weaving. One of the strands crawls up the other, clinging like a disease. Both bear the pallid colors of decay, but there’s something more. There are dozens of loose filaments floating around the main threads, whisper-thin as gossamer, like the dead husks of old strands.
I swear I sense another person, some presence writhing to break free, but that’s impossible. Except—it’s not.
Alexus’s threads had multiples, the residue of glimmering shadows.
Because he contained the soul of a god.
His threads still held the colors of life, though, and they felt precious, threads to be handled with careful hands and careful words. The prince’s threads are even more delicate given their state. They feel like—if I try weaving them—they’ll burst into ash or completely disintegrate.
I open my eyes, a little repulsed but more than willing to try. If he dissolves into nothing, all the better.
I dance my hands and fingers around the song, aware of the rope chafing my neck all the while. “Loria, Loria, una wil shonia, tu vannum vortra, tu nomweh ilia vo drenith wen grenah.”
“I can’t repeat her words,” Nephele says. “Unless you’re fine with me speaking Elikesh lyrics.”
The prince casts a glance over his shoulder. “No. Let her work.”
“Loria, Loria, una wil shonia, tu vannum vortra, tu nomweh ilia vo drenith wen grenah.”
The remains of his threads quiver, and then they flutter and rise like floating embers escaping a fire.