Wincing, he touches his cheek.
I can’t help but think about the fire magick he and his warriors used on Silver Hollow, the way their arrows burned villagers from the inside out. But how? He’s been to the Shadow World, but the afterlife doesn’t grant magick or teach ancient workings. What has the prince tangled himself in that he’s corrupted his entire existence for a little power?
A strange compulsion comes over me. I reach out and touch the prince’s temple. He flinches but doesn’t stop me.
An image flashes across my mind, a man in a dank cell, a tower overlooking a foamy, wild sea. He lies on a stone bed in a threadbare shift, unmoving. His skin appears leached of all color and spirit. His cheeks are hollow, his muscles wasted. There is skin, and there are bones, and there’s a breath of life, but it isn’t much. Just enough to keep him a hair’s breadth from losing his soul to the Shadow World.
Gods. Losing his soul.
Recoiling, I yank my hand away from the prince and press it to my chest, remembering my father’s words. The Prince of the East is a man who somehow steals life and magick from others to grant himself immortality and power his own dark desires.
A man made of shadows, souls, and sin.
The shadows are indeed here, always, and gods know he’s filled to the brim with sin.
But he also carries a soul. One who is an unwilling participant. One whose life and magick are being stolen. And if I had to guess, I’d say it’s the soul of a Summerlander in a dank cell overlooking the sea.
The prince looks at me and smiles with one side of his mouth, an evil glint in his eyes. “See something you didn’t like?”
My heart pounds in my ears. I’m shaken to my core. Those gossamer filaments—are those old souls he’s used up?
The prince leans closer. “I felt you. Inside me. Do you rummage around in other people often?”
I’m breathing so hard, trying to wrap my mind around what just happened. I’ve never been able to see into someone’s soul before, but then again, I’ve never attempted it. There’s never been a need. Could I have seen Neri if I’d looked deeper when I healed Alexus?
As the prince sits there, analyzing me, I think of the dagger. It’s an inch from my fingertips.
I could do it—kill him. Right now.
I lower my hand a fraction, pearls of cold sweat breaking across my brow.
A sudden commotion outside draws my eyes to the tent flap a second before the clamor of birds fleeing their nests ripples across the canvas. A warrior barges inside, panting, face reddened.
Eyes wide, he bows to his prince. “Forgive me, my lord, but something’s wrong. You should come. Now.”
With a sigh and groan of irritation, the prince gives me a long once over and then heads outside. Moments later, he returns, a beady-eyed crow perched on his shoulder. Ire fills his stare, his body thrumming.
He lances Vexx with a sharp look. “You and I need to have a little chat.” He all but spits the last word before motioning to Rhonin and Killian. “Get these two in the holds and ready the men. We have a rather unexpected visitor on the way.” He turns to Killian. “Get the prisoners on the road south. All of them. Immediately.”
I glance up at Vexx. He looks bewildered.
And afraid.
The prince’s crows have seen something—this unexpected visitor—and it set the eastern lord into a frenzy. I think of Helena. Please, gods, don’t let it be her.
Rhonin begins retying the ropes at my wrists—though not as tightly as before—while Vexx removes the noose and follows the prince outside. It’s just me, Rhonin, Nephele, and Killian.
I meet Rhonin’s stare, pushing all my thoughts onto my face and into my eyes. If he could subdue Killian, Nephele and I could run.
But two more warriors enter the tent. They grab Nephele’s arms and lead her into the night while Rhonin finishes securing my binds. He shakes his head, a minuscule movement, warning me that this is not the time for an escape effort.
Killian peers outside. When the woman turns around, her face is grim.
She stalks across the small space and grabs my arm. “Come on. Let’s get her to the wagons.”
Rhonin tightens his hold on my wrist and levels a cerulean glare on Killian. Everything about him takes on a defensive air. “I’ll take her.”
She tilts her head, her flat, gray eyes assessing. Not in the least bit intimidated, she drops her free hand to a ring of iron keys dangling at her hip. “We’ll take her. Because I’m carrying her south. Like the prince ordered.”
The moment we step beyond the tent, wolves howl, their voices united in one terrible, wailing cry that seems to stretch and stretch. Rhonin and Killian pull up short, and my skin prickles, goosebumps rising along my arms. The energy I felt at the ravine has returned in full force, that unnatural presence rolling in on a cold, white mist hugging the ground, floating over our boots. A chill wind nips at my face and rustles the boughs above us, whistling and meandering through the snowy wood.
Rhonin looks down at me, wary as we start up the torchlit path, the flames struggling to survive the wind. Everything feels wrong, and hesitance traces my steps. Killian glares at me and picks up her pace, all but dragging me. The prince and Vexx are nowhere in sight, but ahead, across Winter Road, the camp is alive, the tall shadows of warriors bustling in the firelight.
As I scan the wood, I notice that the attendants have abandoned their posts in caring for the injured men, their buckets of wine haphazardly discarded along the roadside. I can hardly distinguish the mens’ wounded forms in the frosty fog, but I hear their moans plainly.
When we reach the camp, the warriors are ready, eyeing the wood and trees, prepping their weapons, lighting more torches. There’s chatter and murmurs—discussion—and enough apprehension tightening the air that it would ping if I could pluck it. The prince and Vexx are inside the tent from earlier, their bodies reflected in silhouette behind the canvas. Vexx is on his knees, clearly begging mercy, the prince curled over him in a threatening shape.
I don’t know what’s happening, but I’m almost thankful that I’ll be locked away for it.
We rush past the campfires to the wheeled prisons where warriors hurriedly harness horses, hitching them to wagons. The conveyances are solidly built, wood on all sides reinforced with steel frames. The doors are fastened with heavy chains and padlocks.
Killian starts toward the wagon in the middle.
“Wait.” Rhonin thrusts his chin to the right. “That one might be better.”
The woman pauses. “I can’t imagine how.”
“I don’t think we need to put her with her sister, is all,” Rhonin replies. “And the other wagon is already packed.” He jerks me forward. “She’s valuable. Valuable enough to be—” he juts his chin to the right again “—in there.”