“Why so worried?” Thamaos says. “I need him. I would not ask if it could not be done. Mount Ulra is not the City of Ruin, and that was Asha’s mistake. Do as I say, little prince. I have opened the way for you. All you must do is follow.”
The air moves once more, every firelight flares, then my lord’s presence is gone.
After long moments, I stand on numb legs, and in the ritual circle of the moon and sun, study the runes etched beneath the Stone of Ghent, the transparent amber orb fitted into the God Knife’s white granite hilt by none other than Un Drallag himself.
Take him, Thamaos said. Easier said than done. Then again, I’ve always enjoyed a challenge.
The thought of such domination makes me smile, much as it pains the knife wound Raina Bloodgood carved into me from temple to chin. I picture her then—the witch. See that pretty face contorted into her familiar scowl. Thanks to Un Drallag, I can no longer infiltrate her mind, and thanks to the Eastland Brotherhood’s protections, she cannot see me with her gift of Sight.
But as I step into the full dark stretching over the vast and shining city of Quezira, I send her a message anyway, willing it across the many miles of land and sea between us.
“The rise begins, Lovely,” I promise her. “And I’m going to make it hurt.”
2
RAINA
The Northland Break
Frostwater Wood, Winter Road
* * *
The gift of Sight comes with deepest intuition.
A vibration in my blood. Chills across my skin. A tremble in the wind. I’m still learning the many facets of this ability, my exploration a shallow one. But each of those things are happening right now, as though the night itself contains a message I can’t hear.
I feel the message though, tapping on the barrier Alexus erected around my mind to keep the prince at bay. The attempted intrusion is powerful enough to answer the question that has dominated our camp discussions since we left the castle.
“The prince is up to something,” I sign to Alexus. “I think he is on the move.”
Alexus sits across from me, a fire burning between us in a clearing on the side of Winter Road. The wood and all its creatures sleep, save for a white wolf howling mournfully in the distance, and a lone night bird singing a sorrowful song. Though the threat of a cold, hard rain hangs heavy in the air, Joran Dulevia, a water witch and Winterhold’s bowyer, maintains a shield over us tonight. He’s tired, so it won’t last for long, but the respite is much needed.
The journey thus far has been trying for several reasons, mainly the downpours that have slowed our travels. Many from our group rest on a bed of pine needles, drying out near the blazing warmth. There were over two dozen of us when this journey began. Now there are nine. Some gave up early on. The rest turned back yesterday, too weary to continue. We need this rain to stop so we can reach the valley and let Finn and the others know we’re alive.
Then we must head south. Malgros is a three-week ride from Hampstead Loch if we’re swift and the weather favors us. Once there, a new battle awaits: securing passage across the Malorian Sea and, even more difficult, a way through the magickal wards surrounding Fia Drumera’s City of Ruin.
Time is not on our side.
My sister looks up at me. She sits near Alexus, sharpening her dagger. To her left, leaned on one elbow, is Joran, hailing from the Icelander village of Reede. Callan Terzerak, a rune witch and diviner from the Mondulak Range sits beside me, drawing different runes in the earth. Hel and Rhonin are to my left, watching the flames dance as they share a pouch of pine nuts. Keth Rukano and Jaega Lor, warriors from the Iceland village of Tori, have already retired for the night.
“Did you see him?” Alexus signs. “The prince?”
I shake my head and toss the water from my wooden scrying dish, releasing the last crimson tendrils of a vision that wouldn’t form. I’ve seen Finn and the other survivors roaming the burned villages, burying the dead, and salvaging anything they can find. I’ve also watched Vexx riding south on horseback, and I’ve seen Colden, cast away in a dungeon for the last nine days.
But the prince? He’s as impossible to find as a mote of starlight in this lightless wood come midnight. All I see when I look for him is a red mist filled with dozens of floating runes linked by magickal threads, runes I’ve drawn for Callan, runes they say are for protection, invisibility, and blessing. Still, even though I can’t see him, I’m certain his plans are sliding into place.
A piece of wood shifts in the fire, sending sparks flying. I flinch from the heat that washes across my face. Our nightly fire sometimes feels like a torment rather than a means of survival, just another portal into painful memories and nightmares.
I’ve struggled ever since we crossed the remains of the prince’s campsite. One whiff of the death scent that lingered over the wood, and any memories I’d suppressed rose anew, sharp and violent. I relive it all too often. The fire, the death, the fear. Even the gates of the Shadow World antagonize me with their promise of an eternal cage.
I can still see all those souls waiting there, each one fixated on my presence when the prince dragged me under. I doubt I will ever stop hearing their hissing voices.
Keeper.
Seer.
Healer.
