But secondly, the part I can’t make my brain process is that Nephele sent the Witch Collector for me. Told him my secret. Even if she overestimated me, she still revealed something we swore to never tell—to our greatest enemy no less.
She left the village a short time after I learned I could see things through scrying. It had been a game, a joke, until the waters spoke to me. We didn’t truly understand such magick then, and I didn’t learn the rules for some time. She’s been gone for eight years, but has she changed so much that she would sell her sister’s soul to the king?
I glare at the Witch Collector. “She would never do such a thing.”
But clearly she did, even if Sight isn’t so easily wielded as she made it seem.
The Witch Collector takes a long step in my direction. His torn linen tunic billows in the breeze, revealing a thick, corded arm and the flexing muscles covering his ribs where terrible stab wounds should exist. Instead, I glimpse perfect, lightly bronzed skin—thanks to me.
“With your gift,” he says, “we could’ve foreseen an attack. Maybe we could’ve found a way to stop the Eastlander army before they became a threat. Maybe we might’ve saved everyone in the vale. Nephele knew that and knew she had to tell us what you were capable of. She was only doing what anyone who loves their homeland would do. She was trying to protect it. Do not fault her.”
My flaring temper cools and chills into a ball of ice as his words settle deep. The Eastlanders didn’t come to the vale to kill villagers and leave. It was never about us at all. We were only in the way. A deterrent to remove. A threat to silence.
“They want to reach Winterhold,” I sign. “Why?”
The muscles in the Witch Collector’s jaw tense, and his eyes turn hard as river-worn stones. “They want the Frost King. They are on their way to capture him now. They breached the forest last night.”
Unsure which rising emotion to hold onto, I glance toward Frostwater Wood in the distance. In truth, I don’t care about the Frost King’s safety. But my sister, and all those Witch Walkers…they’re the strongest of the vale. Will their voices be enough against the Eastlanders? Or will they be cut down for protecting an unworthy king?
“There were so many,” the Witch Collector continues. “They obliterated Hampstead Loch. The elders and wardens at Penrith cut the Eastlanders’ numbers, but the enemy had only been reduced by half when they reached Silver Hollow. And not because they all fell to the blade. At Littledenn, the army divided further when most of their number took off into the wood. Those Witch Walkers manning the boundary were slaughtered.”
Again, I glance toward the forest and back to the Witch Collector. My pulse races and my palms dampen.
I take an angry step toward him. “Why are we here, then? We have to help them. The Eastlanders are so far ahead of us.”
A twinge of dizziness sets the world to spinning.
We.
I can’t believe the Witch Collector and I are on the same side. A day ago, I planned his end. Envisioned it. Tasted the sweetness of revenge and wondered if I was brave enough to take the life of a man who threatened all I hold dear. Now I stand here with the deaths of dozens painting my hands, speaking with one of the three people I hate most in this world, forced to be his ally because we share a common goal.
At least I think we do.
I blink to steady my dizzy head and move to step past him. He blocks me, his green eyes shimmering in the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves. He’s so tall and broad, casting me in his shadow.
Instinct sends my hand to my thigh, reaching for the knife I haven’t thought of until now. The God Knife isn’t there, and its absence hits me so strongly. I can’t recall when I held it last.
Images flip from one to another in my mind’s eye. They’re hazy, like my brain is blurring them from memory. I glance back at the cloak on the ground. Maybe it’s there.
“Listen to me,” the Witch Collector says, and I face him. His eyes dart toward my hand, which is still pressed against my empty side. “Nephele and the others protected themselves and Winterhold,” he continues. “They were to enchant the boundaries around the king’s land so that if anyone infiltrated those lines, a difficult journey was ensured. Those Eastlanders might have traveled through the wood undeterred for a short time, but at some point, they will meet with magick the likes of which they have never seen, and they will regret ever coming here.”
I cock my head and arch a brow. “You do not imagine Eastlanders can unravel Witch Walker magick? A trap? Silver Hollow’s magick was no match for them. They wiped us away like no more than an annoyance.”
I have to hope that, at the very least, the Eastlanders are now without their leader. I did cut him with the God Knife.
“The Witch Walkers of Silver Hollow had but minutes to sing,” he replies. “There was no time to walk magick around the village to strengthen it. I’m certain that Nephele and the others have been singing and weaving vast magick since last night at sundown. I do not doubt the king’s witches. I know their skill.”
Vast magick? That knowledge should soothe me, but it doesn’t. It’s one thing for elders waiting near the barrier to unweave a small portion of magick so the Witch Collector can pass and then put it back together again. It’s another for witches to control their magick from miles away. Vast magick is an arcane form of power. I’ve never seen it. There’s never been anyone in the vale skilled enough to teach it. Such ideas are legend—the stories of witches projecting their magick and will across space and time.
I don’t know how practiced the witches at Winterhold have become, obviously enough that they’ve learned inscrutable forms of magickal ability, but if the lore is true, vast magick has limitations. The sheer magnitude and number of required voices limits control. Even beyond that concern, something Father used to say remains: With the right hands, most any magick can be undone.
“I am not as talented as my sister,” I confess, “but I have never heard of vast magick being selective. If the forest offers harrowing passage, then we will face the magick in the wood as well.”
He wants to take me to Winterhold, and I want to go, but what will we endure to get there? The Eastlanders are skilled as well, but at least there’s a good chance they no longer have the Prince of the East on their side. Something tells me he possessed the sort of magick we all should’ve probably feared more than we did.
With his hands resting on narrow hips, the Witch Collector leans close. “I will let no harm come to you, Raina. The wood will let us pass. The Witch Walkers’ magick knows me, especially Nephele’s.” His face darkens, and a gloomy shadow drifts across his pupils. “I can’t say it will be easy or fast, but a way will make itself clear. Your sister is more capable than you give her credit for.”
Irritation roils inside me. The Witch Collector has a bond with my sister, the kind of bond I once had, but that has since faded.