“I’m not telling Father about Finn,” Hel says as we ride. “Not yet.” With Northland and Tiressian flags heralding our approach, she and I lead our band. If the flags don’t ease the survivors when they notice a band of warriors riding their way, perhaps two recognizable faces will. “I’ll tell him later,” she continues. “After all the news has been delivered. If Finn didn’t beat us here.”
To keep my mind off what Finn did or didn’t do, I concentrate on erecting a glamour over my witch’s marks to avoid unwanted discussion when Warek sees us, in case Finn didn’t come this way. It isn’t an easy task with my emotions still running high, but I remind myself that this is a means of protection I need to be able to maintain, no matter what I’m facing. I must master the skill. And soon.
The moment one of the survivors glimpses our horses, the villagers form a wall, though no weapons are drawn. I tell myself it’s because of the flags, but after Warek, Saira, and Tuck greet Hel with a tearful homecoming, her father turns to look at me. I can see the knowledge in his eyes, the uncertainty in his every move as he lets go of Hel and starts toward me and Nephele.
My sister and I dismount, and Warek pauses an arm’s length away. Stiffly, my father’s oldest friend kisses my forehead, then Nephele’s. “I’m so proud to see both of you. So proud you endured, and the Ancient Ones saw you home.”
Home. Home was the cottage and Silver Hollow. It was hot summer afternoons playing in the stream with Nephele before she was chosen, my parents watching from the grassy bank, folded in one another’s arms. Home was my sister’s laugh, my father’s knee, my mother’s soft hands. It was Finn’s hungry mouth on my body behind the forge, Hel catching us under the stars with wide eyes and a giggle. It was the excitement of harvest celebrations and trading days in nearby villages.
It was the dread of Collecting Day.
It was also years of blissful innocence and ignorance about the real world beyond the valley. Days I can never get back.
Glancing eastward, I realize this valley isn’t home anymore. Not for me. For the first time in my life, I am completely unmoored to this stretch of land.
Warek takes a shuddering breath, snapping me out of my thoughts. He tightens his hand on my shoulder, but there are no more words spoken between us.
If he didn’t know the truth about me and Alexus, he would tell me Finn is okay. He would tell me Finn is only out hunting, that he will shout to the gods when he beholds my face. That’s what Warek Owyn would say if he didn’t know I’d broken his son’s heart in two and will probably shatter it to unrecognizable pieces before all is said and done.
Instead, he lets go of me as unease creeps across his expression like a rain cloud, and his shadowed stare slides past me. Nephele and I turn. Alexus, Rhonin, and Joran approach. Still draped in black, Alexus carries twin double-edged swords crossed over his broad back, and long daggers are strapped to his thighs. Rhonin left his bow with his horse, but his sheer size is enough to garner wary glances.
As for Joran, he might not have the other men’s stature, but with his belt of knives, that silver hair blowing behind him, and that sleek, dark crossbow hanging from his belt hook, he’s still intimidating. The three of them, a stalking force against the wind, would raise anyone’s hackles.
Alexus pauses at my side, keeping a comfortable distance from the villagers but a close stance next to me. Though he brushes his finger along the back of my hand, I can sense his tension, the way his body stiffens as he endures their stares, each face unsure about the Collector’s presence.
Including Warek.
“My lord.” Warek’s voice is quiet, yet stern and cold. “My son has been here and gone. Forgive me if I’m at a loss right now. I’ve yet to tell everyone the details. In truth, I’m still struggling to parse everything that’s happened.” Warek glances at me. “I don’t know what to think right now.”
Alexus lowers his voice as well. “There are far more important matters at hand than your son’s love life, Mr. Owyn. Or what Raina and I have been through. I’m happy to go somewhere private and talk with you if needed. I can explain what happened with the prince and Thamaos and Neri, and what it means for the days ahead. Then you can decide how to inform your people. We ride south to Malgros come morning regardless. Then on to the Summerlands.”
“We?” Warek strokes his graying beard and peers at Hel from the corner of his eye. “As in?”
“As in anyone who wishes to travel with us,” Alexus answers.
Warek hesitates, the wheels of his mind visibly churning with concern for his daughter, the beginnings of a father/daughter battle in the making. But instead of getting into the matter now, he drops his hand and says, “Of course, my lord. This way.” He gestures at the villagers still waiting behind him. “Help our guests with their horses and tents. Then prepare an evening meal in their honor.”
As everyone scatters in our direction, the camp is revealed. It’s no village, but a makeshift green with rough-hewn tables and benches encloses an area of cut switchgrass, and at the green’s center stands the pyre for the bonfire, encircled by a ring of perfectly placed rocks from the lakeshore. The familiar stone circle is Mena’s doing, of that I’m certain. Knowing that she’s here lifts my spirits.
Before he follows Warek, Alexus takes my hand and squeezes, sending a flood of comfort through the bond, easing my tense muscles. When I squeeze back, he kisses my temple and winks a dark-lashed eye, clearly no longer worried about anyone knowing just how intimate we’ve become.
“Glad I’m not a part of this,” Joran says as Alexus trails behind Warek. “I’d rather peel my own hide with a splintered twig as endure that fucking story again. I’ll be back come nightfall.” Snagging a leather flask from his pack, he takes off toward the lake’s north end without another word, not even to Keth, his apprentice, who sighs and drags a hand through his chestnut, spiky hair as Joran stalks away.
“He’s not a people person,” Keth says with a shrug, to no one in particular.
Jaega rolls her eyes as she and Callan hand their horses off to a villager. “As if we don’t know.”
“Hey.” Rhonin bumps into my shoulder and jerks his strong chin toward the willow trees where an old woman pushes through the swaying green curtain, a basket of harvested herbs in her grip. Her hair, a shock of copper and silver, blows wildly behind her.
The sight steals my breath.
“That is her,” Rhonin signs, spelling the words, and quite well for such a new learner.
Tears prick my eyes. “Indeed.”
“She moves like my mother,” he adds, his voice cracking on that last word.
As though sensing us, Mena lifts her head. She freezes, and a moment of disbelief passes, snatched by a cool breeze. She drops her basket, and with her skirts gathered in her fists, begins hobbling across camp.
