I hurry toward her. In those impossibly long seconds, my hold on the glamour slips, but it doesn’t matter with Mena. She saw my marks the last time we were together, inside her burning cottage. And somehow, I think my marks are something she would love to see.
We pause two strides apart, taking one another in. Mena cups her hands over her mouth, laughing through her joy, and I smile so big it hurts.
When we close the distance, our meeting is a gentle thing. I clutch her fingers, then she presses her chilled palms to my face. The scent of soil and herbs accompanies her, so welcoming that I inhale a lungful of her earthy aroma. It’s a scent that awakens memories of days long past in Silver Hollow, of the cottage and summer moons and midnight fires.
“Raina, my girl. You are such a beautiful sight!” The wrinkled corners of her mouth quiver. “You cannot know how happy I am to see this face!”
“Happy as I am to see yours!” I sign.
She embraces me. “I could hardly believe Finn’s news. But here you are. Here you are. Whole and divine as any witch I’ve ever seen!”
Though her words are filled with love, my stomach still sinks. She must know that I hurt Finn too.
We hold one another for a time, swaying in the breeze, until Mena pulls back and brushes the tears from my cheeks. She directs a feeble smile behind me, and I turn to find Helena, Saira, and Rhonin, all wearing soft smiles.
With a shaky hand, Rhonin runs his palm down the laces of his leather vest. For all the days I’ve known Mena, I’ve only heard her daughter’s name mentioned on a few occasions, as though the word brought too much pain. Rhonin, on the other hand, has talked about his mother many times on the trip from Winterhold, sharing tales of their life in the East. He loves his family. Prays every night that his mother and siblings are safe after his obvious deception. He believes his mother is clever enough to lie her way out of her son’s betrayal. At least that’s always been the plan if one of them were found out.
Mena is part of that family, the mother and grandmother Bronwyn left behind for the sake of Tiressia. Now Rhonin gets to know her, after all this time.
A moment of wonder crosses Mena’s face as I take her marked hand with its many shimmering whorls and flourishes and place it inside Rhonin’s bare, calloused palm. From that simple touch, Mena’s eyes shine with distant knowing, the kind of truth that creeps up slowly before landing a stunning blow to the heart.
“Mena Shawcross,” I sign. “Meet Rhonin. Your grandson.”
While Mena and Rhonin get to know one another, and Hel plays with her sister, I reconstruct my glamour and spend a little time studying the wards between me and the prince. Now that I know what the runes mean, I must learn to track the quickly moving web of lines that connect the floating sigils, a required skill if I ever plan to open a doorway through the Brotherhood’s blockade.
It’s never been clearer that I have no idea what I’m doing. I might as well be facing a journey over the craggy mountains of the Mondulak Range with my hands tied behind my back.
When I can’t stand staring at that red, nebulous cloud and the labyrinth of glowing lines any longer, I abandon the waters and join the others, helping raise shelters and tend horses. After an hour or so we finish, every tent prepared for the night.
Alexus is still with Warek, and a couple of elders have joined, so I grab my bowl and the hairpin from Winterhold that I’ve been using to prick my fingertips and meet Hel and Saira by the lakeshore.
As the girls play with Tuck the dog, I sit on a smooth boulder, legs crossed, and search for Finn. According to Hel, he didn’t tell their father where he was going, only that he couldn’t be here when we arrived. But I can see him. He isn’t far. He’s lying on a blanket somewhere along this very lake, arm bent behind his head, eyes closed against the cold day and bright sun.
Next, I try to see Neri, a fool’s errand. An icy, white cloud appears over the water and dissipates, leaving a slick of frost on my hands. Though I can’t decide if it’s real or just my imagination, I swear I hear him laughing in the distance.
I scrub my frosted hand on my tunic and curse the northern god in my mind.
After rinsing and refilling my bowl, I search for Colden. He’s still in the dungeon, though he’s finally resting, lying on the dirt floor of his cell, head propped on the crumpled ball of his blue velvet coat. This time, a tin dish and mug sit near him. At least the prince isn’t letting him starve.
Before I can stab another finger and begin the work of looking for the prince yet again, Nephele appears from behind and slides onto the rock next to me, a bundle of clothes and bath linens in her arms.
“Any change?” she asks, a dull sparkle in her eyes.
I shake my head. “Colden is resting though,” I sign. “And he has eaten.”
Relieved, she takes a deep breath and sets the bundle aside. “Some of the villagers offered to launder our clothing before we leave.” She retrieves four lumps of soap from her pocket and holds them to her nose. “They gave me these too. They smell divine. Herbs and wildflowers. There’s a good bathing area down the way. What do you say?”
Thanks to the rain, Joran’s water magick, and Hel’s growing ability with fire magick, we managed a moderate cleanliness while traveling. But now there’s an entire lake at our disposal, and I’m filthy from handling dirty tent stakes and horses. Still, I hesitate. Every time I look at the bowl, the duty I feel to see the prince overwhelms.
Nephele arches a sharp eyebrow and faces me, glancing at my reddened fingertips. “Raina, I love that you check on Colden as often as you do, and I appreciate how much you want to break through the barricade between you and the prince. But the Brotherhood—an entire council of sorcerers—is protecting him. Alexus nor I possess any ability to see them or reach them with our magick. If we are no match for them, imagine how incredibly difficult it would be for you to dismantle their wards, even if Alexus had months to instruct you.”
“I understand,” I sign. “I know I am no match for them. But the Seer Joran mentioned could have done it. So I must try. If I could just—”
“Just what?” She tilts her head and shoves the soaps in her trouser pocket. “What can you possibly do? Listen. The woman Joran spoke of was Petra Anrova, one of Loria’s descended. Even with the power of the goddess of creation in her veins, she spent years learning to see more than what the gift of Sight alone allowed. You and I come from two common Northlanders. A father who was a reaper and a mother who—”
She stops abruptly. I hold her gaze while her mind works behind her eyes and mentally finish her sentence for her. A mother who was more than we ever knew. A mother who went to the grave with a host of secrets.
“Perhaps that is why I should try,” I sign. “Mother and Father hid so much. The truth about the God Knife. Father being a Keeper of the blade. Mother’s power. What else do we not know? What might we find if we dig a little deeper?”
