Chapter 2
The Owyns’ blacksmith shop sits on the eastern outskirts of Silver Hollow, near the orchard and vineyard. It’s a long walk, but I’m brimming with enough nervous energy that I should arrive quickly.
As I make my way across the green, I memorize the village’s every detail.
Frost glistens on the thatch of every cottage and hut, and the last thin breaths of nighttime fires curl from the chimneys.
Gardens are dying back, and the wildflowers lining the path to the fields have turned to colorless husks.
Soon, snow will pile on the eaves and creep knee-deep before every door, and life here in the vale will grow bitter and difficult.
I think a lot about how much I hate this place, but the truth is that I only hate my circumstances—not having a choice.
Because life could be worse. I could live in a barbaric clan in the Eastland Territories or deep in the sweltering Summerland sands, or I could live along the Northland Coast, constantly worrying about the war and danger across the sea.
Instead, I live in a peaceful village filled with good people—Witch Walkers, halflings, and those with no magickal ability at all.
The guardians of Frostwater Wood.
Our Witch Walkers, along with those from the villages of Hampstead Loch, Penrith, and Littledenn, serve as the second line of defense in the Northlands, second only to the Northland Watch, a combat-trained legion that protects our southern borders.
Hour after hour, Witch Walkers’ voices carry magick into the ether along Frostwater’s rim to reinforce a barrier we keep intact at all costs.
I’ve walked that boundary many times, helping to strengthen the protection with my silent song.
To a stranger, the barrier is nothing more than a shimmer in the trees, like dew sparkling on a spider’s web in morning light.
But it’s much more than that. It’s an impenetrable fortress with a single guarded entry point to the west, near Hampstead Loch, through which the king and his entourage—namely his Witch Collector—are said to travel.
Sometimes, I wonder if we’re keeping intruders out of the wood and the Frost King’s mysterious Winterhold.
Or if we’re keeping something in.
On the other side of the stone wall that separates the main village from the farmers’ steads, a handful of elders exit the temple after their customary morning prayer. Several villagers follow, including Finn’s mother, Betha, and his four younger sisters.
The Owyns are loyal Northlanders with deep ancestral ties to this break, unlike me.
They’ve long been dedicated to the worship of ancient gods, especially the last Northland god in recent memory—Neri, a selfish bastard who’s been dead for three hundred years.
Sometimes, being around the Owyn family makes me feel blasphemous, but then again, I’m anything but pious, and they know it.
I haven’t stepped foot inside the temple since Nephele was chosen.
And I never will. Ever again.
“Raina!” Hel, the second-to-oldest Owyn child, starts my way.
Not a day goes by that I don’t talk to Hel. I’ve known her all her life, and when I lost Nephele, Hel wouldn’t leave my side. She filled an emptiness in me that not even Finn could reach.
I wave, and the girls pick up their steps to meet me, their brown faces drawn tight against a cold wind. Betha seems reluctant, wearing a grim expression.
The twins, Ara and Celia, remain unfazed. They run and cling to my legs while Saira, the least of the Owyn family, leaps into my arms and hugs my neck. She pulls back and signs the only phrase her tiny hands have mastered, thanks to her mischievous big brother.
“Raina needs a wash.”
Saira giggles, and a genuine smile spreads across my face. She’s a small wedge of joy in an otherwise joyless day.
Hel approaches, her mane of ebony curls fighting the breeze. The dagger her father and brother gifted her last year when she turned eighteen is forever strapped to her side, even during prayer. She’s tall and strong like her father, but soft in the ways of her mother.
The Owyns dabble in fire magick—wise for blacksmiths—though the bulk of their skill lies in common magick like the rest of the villagers. Hel’s silvery witch’s marks are bold against her golden, brown skin, and outlined in a pretty shade of ochre.
She pokes my side and smiles, but her wild spirit doesn’t stir, not even in her eyes.
“Morning, Raina,” Betha signs. The usual bronzy glow in her olive-toned cheeks seems less vibrant today. She flashes a tight smile and glances at her small daughters, a silent way of saying she doesn’t want them to hear the worries so evidently etched onto her face.
After all the years she’s known me, Betha still hasn’t learned to sign anything beyond the most basic communication. Nor have the others, save for Finn and Hel.
I stare into Hel’s sparkling brown eyes. “Everything all right?” I sign.
Whatever’s bothering them has nothing to do with Collecting Day.
The Owyns are Witch Walkers, and Finn and Hel are of age for the Witch Collector’s choosing.
The Owyns believe the Frost King does what he does for a godly reason, an immortal man gifted with insight from Neri’s eternal blessing, a leader who means to protect our lands because that’s what he’s supposed to do.
I know they’d be saddened to lose any member of their family today, but they view sacrifice as duty—unlike me. Something else must be wrong.
“The feast hunters should have returned last night,” Hel signs, “in time to prepare their kills for the harvest supper. There has been no sign of any of them. Not even Da.”
I set Saira on her feet and watch her skip toward the village.
Every autumn, the feast hunters journey south toward the Gravenna Mountains, hoping to trap and kill a few great horns for the harvest supper.
Scattered steads and at least a dozen small villages lie between our valley and the mountains, but other than that, the land is a stretch of rolling hills and open grassland.
It’s certainly not a dangerous trek for hunters who’ve traveled that ground and hunted its wildlife for years.
“I am sure they only lost track of time,” I reply.
“Warek will return with his merry band on his heels, as though he is the greatest hunter of them all.” I squeeze her hand in comfort because her unease is visible, tightening into twin lines between her eyes.
I don’t know if I’m right, but later, after I’ve talked to Finn, I will find out.
Healing isn’t my only gift.
Hel tucks an errant curl behind her ear. “I hope you’re right, but say a prayer to Loria just in case?”
“Of course,” I sign.
Hel knows me well enough not to include her Northland god in her request for my prayers.
Loria is the goddess of all creation, and though I can’t say I believe the Ancient Ones listen anymore, Warek was my father’s closest friend, and so—impious as I might be—I will pray to our maker.
Just not to Neri. Never to him. He’s the reason we must deal with the Frost King in the first place.
Hel and I bump forearms, then she presses her forehead to mine and manages a soft smile. “Tuetha tah,” she says, an Old Elikesh phrase that means my sister.
I press the signed form of the words against her chest, feeling guiltier with every passing second. I keep little from Hel, except the story of the God Knife. But I haven’t mentioned my plan, or that I’m leaving the vale—for real this time. Hel loves me, but she would never understand.
She gathers her mother and sisters and herds them toward the village’s stone wall. Although her face is still shadowed with worry, her smile brightens, and she winks playfully over her shoulder. “Finn is in the shop if that’s where you’re going. See you on the green at noon?”
I nod. As if I’d be anywhere else.
Outside the forge, I step over Tuck—the lazy, golden shop dog I adore—to reach the entry. A stroke behind his soft ear garners a beady-eyed glance, but other than that, he doesn’t move. Such love for the woman who stole death from him once when no one was looking.
Inside, I’m not surprised to find Finn sitting in a dark corner, leaned back in a chair with his feet propped on a worktable, sipping from a steaming mug of mead.
This used to be Finn’s father’s shop, and it shows.
Tiressia’s green and indigo flag hangs from the rafters while Neri’s pennon covers the wall above Finn’s head.
The image of a creature more wolf than man stares at me, embroidered in silver thread on blue and white silk.
The sight disgusts me.
As the door creaks closed, Finn glances up.
His short black hair is wild as usual, mussed and hanging over his forehead, and his eyelids are heavy, like he’d rather still be in bed.
In better light, his brown skin—more like Hel’s and his father’s than Betha’s—appears marked with silver, save for the outline of dim amber.
“From that look you’re wearing, I take it you saw my family.” He downs a long drink of mead and lets out an irritated sigh. “Father is fine. They’ll make it back in time for supper. They’re hunters—the best. I’m not worried.”
That’s Finn’s way of stopping a conversation he doesn’t want to have before it even begins.
I don’t mind this time. I agree with him. The feast hunters know our lands better than anyone. Besides, what could’ve gone wrong that all seven would not return?
“Yes. No need to worry,” I sign. Crossing the space between us, I set the wrapped knife next to Finn’s feet and flip the skin back. “Could you sharpen this for me?”
Finn looks at the God Knife, then back at me, and furrows his brow. “What for? That’s the knife my father found, right? A bit large for peeling harvest apples.” He takes another sip of mead, watching me with a curious eye.
“It is not for apples. I need it to help clean the great horns for the feast. It must be sharp enough to cut through flesh and sinew alike.”