Chapter 16
Idon’t know much about Alexus Thibault, but I do know he’s as heavy as a fucking ox.
My blood is still ablaze from the fight with the Eastlander, and though I’m half Alexus’s weight, I manage to not only catch him before he slides from his horse, but I also have enough strength to shove him upright until he’s facedown against the animal’s neck.
The only death I smell is the earthy scent of the Eastlander, which means that Alexus is only wounded, but I don’t know where.
His hand is tacky with blood, and I’m trying not to panic.
He’s not dead yet, but if he dies—if I can’t keep him breathing—then I’m alone.
The very thing I hoped to prevent by agreeing to ride with him in the first place.
Calm, Raina. Think.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead and feel for the pulse at his neck. It’s sluggish and weakening. I have to find and stop the bleeding, or I will smell his death.
But gods. The night is thick, an ocean of ink. Contours are all I see thanks to the few buds of light struggling to remain aglow at the road’s edge, and even those distort if I gaze at one spot too long.
I run my hands over Alexus’s body—his powerful thigh, his wide back, his muscled side, his corded arm, his baldric and sword hilt. I slide a hand along his chest, too, from curve to curve, feeling his heartbeat, but there’s no sign of blood.
I go to his other side and am instantly met with a telltale metallic scent. It mingles with the smell of the Eastlander’s death still lingering in my nostrils.
My hands tremble harder. The rush from fighting turns into remorse over killing a man, but dissipates into awful realization. Alexus’s breeches are wet, sticky, and torn. I flit my fingertips over the hilt of a dagger.
Gods. I have to take it out if I’m going to heal him.
I count to three, then I jerk the blade free. He doesn’t stir.
Carefully, I touch the gash, assessing the open meat where blood pulses free. The stab wound is deep, maybe to the bone, and perhaps far too close to valuable vessels. He’ll bleed out soon if I leave him like this.
I sigh. How many times will I save the Witch Collector’s life?
As many times as it takes to reach Nephele.
“Loria, Loria, una wil shonia, tu vannum vortra, tu nomweh ilia vo drenith wen grenah.”
I form the words, and with an image of my will—a whole Alexus—I begin weaving the glittering red strands of his injury back together to stop the bleeding.
But something catches my attention as I sing and weave.
It’s so unusual that I almost stop, but I force myself to keep going.
The strands of the flesh are different from the strands of life or even of a spell.
They’re often easier to control, though in truth, I’ve only ever worked with minor injuries.
I’ve closed my own wounds a time or two, healed a little cut on Tuck’s paw, a nasty forge blister on Finn’s arm while he slept, and stitched a parchment cut on Mother’s finger once when she wasn’t looking.
What’s odd is that the strands of Alexus’s flesh have frayed edges, something I’ve never seen before. Even more curious, I swear I see multiple threads, though the duplicates aren’t precisely the same as the originals. They’re more of a vestige, the residue of glimmering shadows.
His life strands were like this as well. So much has happened that my mind didn’t unearth the memory until now, when his life once again rests in my hands. I’m not seasoned in healing or saving people from death, so I have to wonder what it means.
When I finish, I rest my head on Alexus’s shoulder, fighting heavy eyelids and the pull of a darkened spirit.
I saved his life, yes, but I also ended another.
I’m not sure if this disaster I’m still walking in has revealed that I’m a merciful giver of life, as murderous as the Prince of the East, or if I’m something selfish in between—like the Frost King.
Wintry snow swirls, building on my lashes, making me think of him.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve pictured Colden Moeshka as a burly man with a frozen crown sitting on an icy throne, a rime-coated white beard hanging to his waist. In my imagination, he’d blow a chilled wind through the wood, his breath freezing and falling to the ground in crystals and snowflakes.
It sounds ridiculous, but I don’t know how else to envision him.
I see him now, on the backs of my eyelids, but his face is soon replaced by another—a crimson-shadowed adversary I never expected.
Lifting my head, I shake off the thought and touch the place on Alexus’s leg where the gash had been, only to find smooth skin.
I slide my hand back up his chest, trying to ignore how perfectly and powerfully built he is, and rest my palm over his heart.
His skin is chilled from the cold, but his pulse is stronger, thrumming against my fingertips.
He will live. And right now, that is everything.
I feel around for Alexus’s pack in the darkness and free the flask I’d seen back at the stream.
Whatever waits inside is so stout that one whiff burns my nostrils.
I place it to my lips and turn it up anyway.
The liquid scorches my throat and settles in my aching chest like a warm fire, reviving and relaxing me.
My mind buzzes with questions about why the Eastlander was there, waiting, how he knew we’d be there, or if he was only searching for a way out. I doubt I’ll ever know, but the fact that he was just there, at the perfect time, unsettles me.
After I’m done with the flask, I secure Alexus to Mannus using the rope from Littledenn. His sword isn’t that heavy, but it still keeps weighing him to one side, so I strap it to the saddle. Once I’ve covered him with the gambeson, I lead the animals onward.
The thought to bed down again enters my mind, to somehow huddle with Alexus until he wakes, maybe even until morning. But it’s best if we keep moving. It’s so cold here, and besides, he’s far too big for me to handle alone.
Magick is everywhere. I’ve never walked inside a construct, and neither have the horses.
That fact—along with worry about what might lie beyond the heavy darkness surrounding us—fills every step with expectation.
Nothing awful ever comes, though, save for shivering and a few crow caws, and thankfully, the horses don’t give me too much trouble.
Ages pass before bluish light tints the wood like a wintry twilight. The path is clearly visible now, covered in snow and frost. Its gentle curve gives off a muted glow in the darkness.
By the time we round the bend, my hands, feet, and face are so chilled I hardly feel them anymore, but my discomfort is the least of my concerns. Ahead, the path ends, and what lies beyond turns my blood to ice.
I stop the horses, my legs leaden and numb. My heart lodges itself in the base of my throat.
A frozen lake.
The dense forest wall of the tunnel widens, stretching along the lakeshore for as far as the eye can see. This must be a distortion of magick, a trick for the eye, because the lake goes on forever, east and west. Odd, because to my knowledge, there is no lake in Frostwater Wood.
Turning back to the stretch of ice before me, I try calculating the distance to the other side—at least a few hundred yards. But the distance isn’t what worries me. I’ve been to Hampstead Loch in the winter, played on its solid, crystalline expanse.
This lake is riddled with cracks. Frigid slush struggles to flow beneath the shattered pale blue surface, just waiting to swallow someone once they break through.
Unless I can summon the energy and power to part a solid body of water or build wings to fly us over, our only option is to travel across.
A whistling wind whips around the lake and tears away my hood. The gust is so loud it almost drowns out the groan behind me. Almost.
“Raina.”
It isn’t lost on me that I’m Alexus’s first thought upon waking. I wrestle with how that makes me feel, how the sound of his voice brings me a strange assurance, but only for a moment, because he’s suddenly thrashing, his broad body straining against the ropes that hold him bound.
I hurry to his side, clasp his face between my hands, and make him look at me.
The second he meets my gaze, his eyes clear, and he settles.
His long, dark hair is loose and wild, his green eyes a silvery jade beneath this pearly, icy light.
The gambeson has fallen to the ground, and snow clings to his tunic and beard.
He sighs and rests the weight of his head against my palm. “Thank the gods you’re all right.”
I nod, swallowing a foreign tightness in my throat, and let my hands fall away. I busy my frozen fingers with untying the ropes.
Once he’s free, Alexus examines his thigh, only to find frozen blood on his leathers, but no injury.
He looks up, brow scrunched. “I didn’t dream what happened?”
“No,” I sign and shake my head.
“You…healed me, then?”
I shrug. “It was that or let you die.”
He stares at me as though he doesn’t know what to think, like I’ve sprouted a horn between my eyes.
“So you not only see things and conquer death, but you can heal, too?”
Something Nephele didn’t tell him. That knowledge gives me a sliver of hope that my sister won’t be utterly unrecognizable to me.
“I can,” I answer, too cold to even think about denying it. My fingers can’t sustain an argument right now. With a rigid hand, I motion toward the lake. “And you said I would never survive this wood without you. So, what do we do now, Oh wise one?”
He dismounts, keeping a firm grip on Mannus’s reins for support. His movements are slow and a little wobbly at first. He did lose a lot of blood. Add in the frigid weather, and I’m sure he still needs time to regain his strength.
Studying the blue-white ice that looks like a shattered sheet of glass, he groans. “Damn. Not good.”
That seems like a severe understatement.
“At least we have a little light now,” he adds. “And I’m no stranger to ice.”