Chapter 12
The next morning, I pace the water’s edge, awaiting the Witch Collector’s return.
The memory is unclear, but I recall him kneeling beside me, loose, dark hair framing his chiseled face.
Behind him, the sky had been bruised with the first rays of morning light.
He said something about going to Littledenn for food and clothes, and that he would come back soon, but I was still too heavily trapped in sleep’s grasp for the rest of his words to linger.
Wrapped in his cloak, I hunt for the God Knife in the grass with no success.
Then I sit by the crackling fire he built in the center of a stone circle while I slept.
Heart aching, I watch the sun rise as thin mist rolls over the vale.
I’ve been to this stream many times, stared over the land as hearth smoke rose from chimneys to the west.
For too long, I gaze at the horizon, hoping those gray curls and wisps will rise once more. When the sky lightens, the only smoke in the distance is what remains of the Eastlanders’ fires.
As the morning wears on, I keep finding myself staring into the low flames of the Collector’s fire, the sight dragging my mind to places it does not need to go.
To help get my thoughts off the attack and to stop the tears, I remove Finn’s dagger belt from my thigh, trying not to think about his last moments alive, and wade into the stream at the deepest spot behind two boulders.
This really is self-torture, but if I don’t distract myself, I’m going to go mad.
I’m anxious and eager to leave, yet I’m trapped here, waiting when there is no time to delay. But what can I do? Take off on foot alone? I will if I must, but for now, I’ll give the Witch Collector the benefit of the doubt and hope for his swift return.
The water is so cold it stings, but it washes the scent of fire and death and blood from my dress and hair well enough.
As I quickly bathe, I haul up my skirts and marvel at the new marks coloring my legs.
All this time, Mother was protecting me from being chosen, hiding what I am from everyone.
I know a mother’s love has no bounds, but I still can’t grasp why she didn’t reveal my marks to me at the very least, even if we told no one else.
What would it have been like to have learned from her?
To discover my abilities and practice magick with my mother as my teacher?
She was clearly more powerful than I ever dreamed.
My heart sinks at the thought, the pain of her absence weighing it down until I fear I might sink with it. Because of the Prince of the East, I will never know what it might be like to share my magick with her. Because of him, I will never see her again.
With fresh tears falling, my grief threatening to overwhelm once more, I take one last dip under the cold water.
Finally, I feel awake, my thoughts clearing, my sorrow and denial temporarily buried.
In their place resides only determination.
If I plan on finding Nephele, there’s magick to breach, so I need to focus.
If only I could remember what I did with the God Knife. I recall slashing it through the Prince of the East’s face, of course, and I remember him vanishing as I held the weapon in my hand. But after that, all I see is death and fire and…the Witch Collector.
When I finish, I wring out my hair and clothes and dry out by the fire, warming myself by placing several of the heated stones underneath my dress. The sun is bright today, the breeze blessedly gentle.
Eventually, my restlessness returns, so I take my mother’s wooden bowl and dip it in the stream. If the Eastlanders are trapped in the wood, and I pray to the Ancient Ones they are, perhaps we can circumvent them and reach Winterhold first—if the Witch Walkers’ magick lets us pass.
A thorn pricks my fingertip nicely, and once my blood swirls in the water, I center my every thought on the Eastlanders’ whereabouts.
“Nahmthalahsh. Show me the Eastlanders from last night.”
A faint scene forms on the water’s violet surface, a band of men riding through what looks like the dark of night in a forest. Wariness wafts off them. They look confused or lost, and I sense magick—strong magick.
I tilt the bowl, and the image remains. At least I don’t see the Prince of the East, and his warriors aren’t invading a castle or fortress—yet. That alone eases me.
I clean the bowl and prepare the water again. “Nahmthalahsh. Show me the God Knife.”
Though I can’t see the black blade, I can make out the white hilt. The knife is surrounded by darkness, making it hard to discern. Did it end up in the fire? Can god bone burn? Is it buried in Silver Hollow’s ashes?
Frustrated, I toss the water and stare at the bowl. I could look for Finn and Hel, but the thought terrifies me to the point I begin trembling. I know what I’ll see—piles of ash or something far worse—and I’m too raw. I cannot endure the images of their suffering imprinted on my memory.
Instead, I decide to look for the prince. He wasn’t in that band of Eastlanders, but I need to know if the God Knife worked. If it’s even worth searching for. I’d so believed that it was.
A third time, I fill the bowl and bleed into the water. “Nahmthalahsh. Show me the Prince of the East.”
The water swirls longer than usual, and the violet-tinted clearness becomes nebulous. Shadows and smoke roll over the bowl’s edge like a bleeding mist. I lean closer, pulse racing.
Surely I’ll see a dead man.
His face forms and stares back at me with wide, unblinking eyes.
I can’t tell if he’s alive and watching me from the other side of the waters or dead somewhere, staring into nothingness.
The sight of his open wound makes me shudder, and again I toss the water, watching as the smoky mist floats across the grass and melts away.
Dead, I tell myself. The God Knife’s power is real. My father would never have lied to me.
I’m standing beneath the great oak, wringing the hems of my skirts again when the Witch Collector returns, riding at a quick pace.
Though he’s leading a strong-looking white mare behind his glossy, black gelding, something in me dies when he approaches.
His face is pale and expression bleak, his broad shoulders not so high and strong anymore.
Earlier, while I watched the sun rise, I let go of any faith he might return with survivors, but I can see that he went to Littledenn with a double-edged shard of hope in his heart.
He dismounts, and I help him lead the animals to the stream.
“Mannus, eat.” He smooths a comforting hand down the horse’s side and clicks his tongue. The beast’s ears prick back, listening, and the animal does as told, chomping on clumps of grass.
The Witch Collector says nothing to me, though. I’m a little unnerved by his silence and the fact that he hasn’t looked at me since he arrived.
I set to inspecting the even-tempered mare he’s brought me so we can leave.
Stroking her head, I decide her name is Tuck.
I spell the word against her shoulder, needing to hold on to something from my life before this disaster.
She lifts her muzzle from the stream and presses her nose against my thigh, almost as if in recognition.
I pat the top of her head, confident she’ll provide a safe journey.
The Witch Collector leans his sword against the great oak and kneels in the grass.
With quick hands, he unloads clothes and boots from a bundled blanket crammed with rope, an iron-framed oil lamp with amber glass on the sides, a leather satchel, a small tinder box, a couple of skins of water, a flask—probably filled with something stout enough to down a boar—a tin mug, several apples, and two loaves of stale bread.
It makes me think of the pack I hid beneath my bed. Such a failed effort.
At random, he grabs a tunic and holds it between us. Finally, he looks up, and though his eyes lock with mine, his attention quickly drifts, skimming down my body like a touch. “You’re wet,” he says matter-of-factly. “And calm.”
“I bathed,” I reply, damp dress and hair still drying in the cool breeze. “And I consulted the waters.”
His gaze catches on Mother’s dish, and he lowers the tunic. “See anything?”
I nod. “The Eastlanders have not reached the castle. Yet. They were traveling. Lost. Worried. Confused. Magick surrounded them. Powerful magick.”
“And the prince?”
Hesitating, I consider telling him about the God Knife, and that I’m fairly certain I killed the prince.
But what would he do if he knew such a thing as the God Knife existed?
That with one slice, he and his immortal lord could be destroyed.
Even with the dim chance that the blade isn’t as powerful as Father said, the Frost King wouldn’t risk having such a weapon out there somewhere, ready for the taking.
There’d be more than one of us trying to figure out how to find it, and so I keep that information to myself.
“Lost as the rest of them,” I lie, hoping he can’t read the untruth on my face.
Hands pressed to his thighs, the Witch Collector relaxes, like a yoke has fallen from his neck. “At least Winterhold’s witches are guarding the forest, and we haven’t run out of time,” he says. “That means everything.”
He isn’t wrong. The image of the Eastlanders is the only thing keeping me composed.
Clearing his throat, he gestures with the tunic. “For you. I couldn’t find any armor your back could bear. There’s a quilted gambeson here, though. A bit large, but still better than a dress.”
“I fight fine in a dress,” I sign.
A small smile curves one corner of his mouth. “That you do. I cannot argue. But a tunic and breeches will make riding easier.”
I press my hand to my bruised chest. The boning Mother sewed into the bodice provides support. The summer-linen tunic is thin and loose. Too thin and loose for a woman to wear while jaunting across the valley and through a forest.