Chapter 34
Rowena and I hurry downstairs, donned in our coats and scarves.
Early this morning, shortly after the prince escaped the construct, I used the dregs of my strength to construct a veil around Winterhold. The other Witch Walkers are helping to fortify the magickal barrier, and yet it wavers, the threads swaying like rickety scaffolding caught in the wind.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I fight to steady the veil, just as I fought for the construct, trying with all my might to weave the loose threads back into the main structure. I’m so worn down that the effort almost takes me to my knees.
As pain ricochets through my temples, I catch myself on the newel post. The world spins as Rowena wraps her arm around my waist and blots my nose with a handkerchief quickly drawn from her pocket.
The white linen comes away stained with blood, bright as my crimson coat.
The same thing happened when the construct collapsed this afternoon. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t maintain the structure after the prince disrupted it with magick long enough to find a way through.
I desperately wanted to keep the soldiers he left behind trapped to prevent them from aiding him here at Winterhold.
But the blood came, then the stabbing pains through my skull, then I could barely think, and suddenly, thousands of complex weaves broke apart in my mind as easily as a hand through a spider’s web.
Now I can no longer locate anyone. Not the prince. Not Raina. Not Alexus.
Not without the construct.
“I don’t think I can hold the veil much longer,” I warn Rowena, tears rolling from my eyes. My muscles tighten almost violently as I try again to reinforce the magick.
“I know, dear.” She presses her cool cheek against my fevered face. “You’ve done all you can. Now I must get you to safety. King’s orders.”
I picture the underground tunnel that travels north from the castle, leading to a clandestine exit near the northern forest. The village’s infirm and elderly, and the children and their mothers, are already there, secure in an underground safe house, where they should be.
But in no world can I imagine myself inside that tunnel, running from this battle. Colden and I were supposed to face this together, not apart. And while I know I’m weakened, and I know he only wants me to survive this, I can’t believe that I’m a liability.
Shaking my head, I look into the eyes of this remarkable woman who’s like family to me. “I can’t leave, Rowena. Protecting this village is why I’m here.”
I gave up my life for this. My father believed I had a higher calling and that I needed to stay here and learn to become the best witch I could be.
I didn’t leave the people I love or work to build my magickal skill every day for the last eight years to sit back and watch Winterhold—or my king—be taken today.
Rowena’s wrinkled eyes soften. She slips my braided hair over my shoulder and wipes the blood and tears from my face. “Let the king and the others defend us now. There are more fighters here than just you.”
“You sound like Colden.” I try to smile, but it falters as shouting resounds outside.
My throat constricts painfully.
I cannot—will not—let this battle happen without me.
Nodding, I say, “You’re right. We should go. I’m steadier now.”
Rowena is so trusting. She suspects nothing as we walk arm in arm to the undercroft’s concealed entrance and make our way down the switchback stairs into cold darkness.
But the moment she pulls the hidden lever that opens the door to the secret passage, and I see the terrified faces within, I gesture for her to go first.
Once she crosses the threshold, I reset the lever. Rowena turns, mouth agape, the door closing between us. She rushes forward, but I stare resolutely at her shocked face through the closing gap.
“I love you, and I’ll see you soon,” I promise her. “Get everyone to the safe house.”
The last thing I hear as the door fastens is Rowena’s tender voice calling my name like a plea.
Though the veil is still wavering in my mind, and though I’m struggling physically, I stumble down the hall to the weapons room, pressing on one side of my nose to stop the bleeding.
When I swing open the door, I come face-to-face with the village bowyer, an Icelander by the name of Joran Dulevia. He holds several quivers in his gray-tinted hands.
He tilts his silver-haired head and narrows those matching eyes. “Well, well. You aren’t supposed to be here.”
Clinging to the door handle, I grit my teeth and ball my other hand into a fist. “Are you going to try to do something about that?”
He smirks. “Not at all. We need all the defense we can get, though I can’t say you’re looking your best.” His gaze travels over me without an ounce of empathy, even when he notices the blood I suddenly feel trickling from my nose again.
“Fuck you, Joran.” I swipe at the blood. As if I haven’t been fighting a war of my own since all of this began.
He stalks past, bumping hard into my shoulder, shoving me against the door, still smirking as he steps into the hall. “Anytime, Miss Bloodgood,” he calls. “Anytime.”
Disgusted, I brush at my shoulder where he touched me and move deeper into the room, strapping on daggers, knives, and a sword. I grab a shield, too. I might be too drained to fight with magick, but I can be a bitch with steel. Alexus and Colden have taught me well.
I climb the stairs to the first floor and go outside. The cold is biting, but it chases away the fog hovering over my mind, and the afternoon sun is bright upon the snow, the light providing a renewed sense of alertness.
Our warriors fill the courtyard, armed to the teeth and waiting. Many are on horseback, their swords and shields ready. The watchtowers are guarded, too, and witches line the village wall, singing their magick, helping me hold the veil.
Those witches don’t realize how weak they’ve grown over these last days, because the truth of the matter is this: if I lose my grip on the barrier, it’s going to collapse, no matter how loud they sing.
Head aching as I mentally reweave the faltering threads, I glance up at the ramparts, where the archers have readied three lines of defense. I spot Joran’s silver head easily, and with him, Colden.
Joran points down at me, and I swear Colden’s anger chills the already-frigid air between us. He pushes past Joran and stomps along the rampart in his blue velvet coat, blond hair whipping in the wind.
He’s coming to reprimand me, but I refuse to run.
We don’t get the chance to argue about it. The guards in the watchtowers sound the alarm, horns echoing across the village.
Apprehension ricochets through my chest as I run toward the gate for a better view of Winter Road. And again, the veil wavers, harder than before.
“Hold the veil!” I shout. “You can do it! Hold!”
The other witches look at me. I see the worry etched upon their faces. They’re scared and exhausted, and as their support fades one by one, I begin losing my grip, too.
“No!” I scream, feeling the veil—our last barrier—dissipating like it was never there.
Dizzy and tasting blood on my lips, I turn back to the castle, only to find Colden bursting through the main doors, hands at his sides, his fingers curled like talons.
The snow has been shoveled from the grounds these last few days, but everywhere Colden’s booted feet land, the snow seems to slink toward his feet, as if he’s gathering power.
The air between us crystallizes with frost, and snowflake-laden wind swirls around him.
He is the Frost King, and he is a storm.
“Get to the safe house,” he says as he passes me, heading for the main village gate.
I glance around, taking in the battle-ready faces and nocked arrows on the ramparts, the warriors hastening to guard the wall and gate with their swords and shields, the witches who are truly too exhausted to fight but, like me, refuse to cower.
Then I rush to follow my king, like a pup on his heels.
Colden sends a sharp glance over his shoulder. “Nephele, do as I say.”
I sling my shield over my back and finally catch up to his long strides. “I’m not leaving you. That was not the deal.”
Colden rubs his chest, digging his fingers in deep, as if an ache lives there and he can’t make it go away. He’s been doing it all day.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Why is that happening? It’s not normal.”
“It’s nothing. And stop trying to derail my anger.” Abruptly, he pauses and levels me with a look as he aims a deadly finger toward the castle. “Nephele Bloodgood. Get to the safe house. Now.”
“Why should I? You want me to hide, and yet you’re willing to place yourself in imminent danger.”
He recently confessed that he doesn’t think Fia will care if he’s delivered as a bargaining chip for the keys to her city.
They were in love a long time ago. The City of Ruin and its Grove of the Gods means far more to the Fire Queen than Colden.
How can I let him risk capture and that sort of demise?
Turning to dust on Summerland soil, all because he blames himself for all of this?
Resolute, I grab the front of his coat, pressing my hand over his heart as his coldness radiates through me more bitterly than any winter wind. “I’m fighting with you. If you want me gone, you’re going to have to carry me from this courtyard.”
He leans close. “That’s precisely my fear. That I will have to pick up your broken and bleeding body when this is over.” He grips my arms. “I’m begging you. Go.”
Horns sound again, and Colden and I turn toward the nearest watch tower. With one last look, he grabs my hand, and we run.
Then we’re climbing. I go first, and the world spins beneath me, my arms quivering from the effort. Colden pushes me up the last rung and onto the landing before hauling himself up behind me.
Brittle with irritation, he yanks me against him and kisses me like he might never kiss me again. “We’re going to fight about this later,” he promises.
“And you’ll have much groveling to do,” I add.