Resurrectionist.
Murderer.
Witch.
They were only wrong about one. I’m no resurrectionist.
Comfort caresses the bond, warming the rune above my left breast with awareness. When I glance up, Alexus’s concern seeps into me, warm and assuring. He’s so skilled with the bond, as though he’s been through this before. Magickal scholar he may be, but if I’m the first he’s claimed, how is this so simple for him?
For me, there’s an insurmountable distance between us when it comes to the rune. When Alexus reaches out to me, I feel it so wholly. But when I try reaching him, I find myself standing on a precipice, looming over a beckoning void. Callan says the chasm is manifested fear or worry or some obstacle my mind has conjured. One I can’t seem to conquer.
My thoughts are distracted because Joran is watching me. The gray of his eyes almost matches his gray-tinted skin, the argent ring around his irises gleaming.
He drags a wide-knuckled hand through his long, silver hair and gestures between me and Alexus, arm at rest on his bent knee. “Always so secretive, you two. Why not share? It’s rude having open conversations most of us can’t understand.”
“Maybe you should try learning Raina’s language like the rest of us,” Callan says, wiping the gathering mist from their tan scalp. Half of Callan’s head is shaved and marked with runes, the other half covered in black and silver hair, braided against their skull like Nephele’s.
“It isn’t easy, Joran,” Rhonin adds, “but if we can learn, so can you.”
A small smile forms on my face. I haven’t known Rhonin or Callan long, but they’ve already won pieces of my heart.
Joran huffs, as if the very thought of learning to communicate with me is ridiculous.
“It’s probably a wasted effort.” Hel pops a pine nut into her mouth. “According to Nephele, Alexus became fluent in a matter of weeks. It would probably take you eons.”
“Nice try,” Joran replies. “I don’t offend easily. Though I might find it embarrassing to be an immortal sorcerer with nothing better to do than learn a rarely used hand language so I can talk to a pretty girl.”
Alexus trains his stony focus on me. The irritation in his stare shimmers, his impatience with the Icelander visibly rising. Alexus is our leader, a preeminent sorcerer with one weakness when it comes to learned power.
Water magick has forever eluded him.
With fierce archery skills and command over water, Joran knows his importance to our group. He hasn’t been much aid with the unrelenting rain because of the physical demand while traveling for hours, but he may be critical in seeing us safely across the Malorian Sea and desert provinces of Ske-Trana, south of the Summerland’s main port city of Itunnan. For those reasons, he holds little fear of being cast out.
A muscle feathers in Alexus’s jaw. “All Raina said was that the prince is up to something.”
His fingers worry with an old key that hangs around his neck like a pendant. A memento from a long time ago, he told me shortly after we left Winterhold. A talisman. For what, he can’t remember.
“Up to something?” Joran mocks. “Genius deduction from our brilliant Seer.”
A growl resonates from Alexus’s throat. Joran sits dangerously within the Witch Collector’s reach, my sister the only barrier. And not a good one. She drags a small whetstone down her dagger’s edge and cuts a sharp glare at Joran before returning to her work. She and Joran are forever bickering, so I’m surprised when she holds her tongue, though thankful.
Another complication has been that some in our band—namely Joran—didn’t take kindly to learning that Alexus turned the soul of a vengeful god loose on their homeland.
For me.
It’s why I sit across from Alexus and not at his side. Why I sneak into his tent once everyone has gone to sleep. Why we keep our hands to ourselves until we’re alone. The last thing we need on this journey is more friction, but the constant closeness is beginning to rub everyone raw.
Our only salvation is that Neri isn’t in Winterhold. He and his wolves follow us instead, despite his bargain with Alexus being fulfilled. The wolves keep a healthy distance, and Neri has taken the form of a curious, cold wind at our backs. We don’t know what he wants or if he’ll make himself known. I figure there’s a reason he follows so closely, though, and that his appearance will come. Like most dreadful things, it’s only a matter of time.
At Alexus’s right side, Helena holds her hand out to Rhonin. A long, red braid slips over his shoulder as he offers her the pouch of pine nuts. With a hard flick, Hel thumps a nut straight into Joran’s chest. I’ve no doubt my friend had been aiming for the Icelander’s face.
How I wish she’d hit her mark.
Joran swipes the front of his sweater. “Are you always such an atrocious child?”
Hel arches a challenging brow. “Are you always such an atrocious asshole?”
“Only when he’s breathing,” Nephele says.
