COLLECTING DAY
It’s been eight long years since the Witch Collector took my sister.
Every harvest moon, he rides intoour valley, black cloak whipping in the wind, and leads one of us to the kingdom of Winterhold—home of the immortal Frost King—where we will remain forever. It’s been this way for a century and today is that day.
Collecting Day.
But the Witch Collector will not come for me. Of this, I’m certain. I, Raina Bloodgood, have lived in this village for twenty-four years, and for twenty-four years he has passed me by.
His mistake.
Some women long for a husband. A home. Children. Others desire feverish kisses in the shadows, whispers of seduction against their skin.
Me? I want my family together and free. I also want the Frost King and his Witch Collector.
Dead.
And today, I make my wish come true.
Under the bruised light of early dawn, I sneak through the rear door of the baker’s hut, swipe two loaves of fresh bread off a cooling rack and slip into the silvery fog creeping through our sleeping village. No one sees me. No one hears me. I’ve been quiet and stealthy all my life, used to being the overlooked witch without a voice. But I’ve never been a thief, and I’ve never been a murderer.
People change, I suppose.
With the bread bundled inside my apron, I rush into the empty cottage I share with my mother and drag my pack from beneath the bed. That sweet yeast-and-honey aroma makes my empty stomach grumble, but I must stay focused. The stolen bread could save my life in the coming days.
The last few weeks have given me reason to believe that those I love can have a different future than the one that has stretched before us for so many years—one of fear, dread, and loss. Finally, we can leave Silver Hollow and this valley, find a new life far away, someplace safe from the heavy hands of immortal rulers. I just need to manage the unthinkable: kidnap the Frost King’s right-hand man, force him to guide me throughthe forbidden Frostwater Wood, find a way to sneak into the kingdom’s guarded castle at Winterhold, kill my enemies, and take back my sister.
Alone.
Once I’ve added the loaves to the other items I’ve prepared for my journey, I shove the pack back to its hiding place. Most young witches in the village are probably huddled by warm fires with their families, worrying about being selected later today, while I’m plotting a one-woman uprising.
Unlike other witches in the vale, I’ve never feared being chosen. Witch Walkers sing their magick in Old Elikesh, the language of the Ancient Ones, something I’ve never truly been able to do. Born without the ability to speak, I learned to communicate using the language my mother taught me.
A language of signs spoken with hands.
Creating magick in this way is a difficult skill. Sometimes, when I attempt to translate Old Elikesh into signs, I get an incantation wrong. A word here, a refrain there. That struggle, and the fact that not a single witch’s mark lives on my skin, has made me invisible to the Witch Collector. The chosen Witch Walkers are taken to Winterhold, where they’re trained to use magick to protect the Northland Break’s borders and the kingdom seat itself. What would Colden Moeshka—our immortal Frost King—want with an unskilled witch like me?
A grin tempts my lips.
If only he knew all that I can do.
A hardthudsmacks the door, and the sound reverberates through my bones. I jerk around, worried it might be Mother, her arms overloaded with apples as she toes the door for me to let her inside. But the unmistakable scent of death wafts beneath the threshold. The smell is weak, but it’s there.
When I drag open the door, a dove lies on the ground, its wings splayed and unmoving. With a gentle touch, I cradle the bird in the bend of my arm, trail my fingers over its head and breast, and carry it inside. The poor thing’s neck looks damaged, but it’s still alive, though barely. I have a few minutes to save it, but that’s all.
More often than not, the chance to help a fading soul passes me by. It’s safer if no one knows I’m a healer. I’ve never dared tell my parents oranyone else, for that matter. Not even my closest friends, Finn and Helena Owyn. Only my sister, Nephele, knows I possess this skill. She always said to be thankful I have no witch’s marks, because the power living inside me makes me valuable.
And valuable things get locked away.
As the scent of death grows sharper, I sit in Mother’s chair near the hearth and nestle the dove in my lap. Its death smells like pine needles and damp moss mixed with a hint of chilly rain.
On a deep inhale, I close my eyes, absorbing that scent, and watch as the shimmering strands of the dove’s life unravel like a spool of thread in my mind’s eye. I’m not sure if this is the wisest decision, given what I face today. Healing can be exhausting, depending on how near death is and the size of the life I’m weaving back together. A tiny dove should be a small effort, though. I can’t just let it die.
Concentrating, I imagine the dim strands of life becoming a gleaming braid, and the dove soaring high over the valley. This is the first part of every rescue—manifesting a vision of my will. Next, I dredge up the ancient song I’ve known since the first time I saw the threads of life floating in the air around a dying doe and form the lyrics with my hands.
“Loria, Loria, anim alsh tu brethah, vanya tu limm volz, sumayah, anim omio dena wil rheisah.”
The strands glow and tremble, drawn together like iron to lodestone. I keep singing, repeating the words until the strands have entwined, and the gilded construct of life is once again solid and resplendent.
