At least that’s a worry I can forget. For now.
After changing out the water, I prick another finger and perform the simple ritual again.
“Nahmthalahsh. Show me the Witch Collector.”
The violet swirling slows and changes, stretching out and around until the surface grows still and flat, reflecting my answer. The Witch Collector rides his dark horse through Frostwater Wood, head ever hidden beneath that black cloak. Nearing what appears to be the clearing outside Hampstead Loch, he’s surrounded by bold, autumn colors flashing in the trees.
With a shuddering sigh, I toss the water out the window and steel myself for the coming night as quiet rage sparks to life inside me. I cling to it. Thrive on it.
Because the Witch Collector is still coming.
It’s only a matter of time.
The Witch Walkers guarding Frostwater Wood allow me passage, reconstructing the break in the boundary the moment Mannus has all four hooves on the valley side of the forest. I considered obeying Colden’s wishes about riding straight to Silver Hollow. If I ride fast enough, no stopping, I can probably avoid being caught in the valley come nightfall.
But I can’t, even with Colden’s worries niggling the back of my mind. I’m late, and I owe the villagers the relief of knowing that—for this Collecting Day at least—they’re safe from me.
When I arrive at Hampstead Loch, people scurry around the busy green where preparations for the evening supper are underway. I lower my hood, hold up my hand, and ride through the masses.
“It’s all right,” I shout over their murmured voices. “I’m only here to tell you I’ll take no one from your village this year.”
What must be four hundred folk stand frozen, though they thaw once my intent registers. Others pop their heads out of doors, the disbelief on their faces turning to elation.
An elder approaches, pressing his heavily marked hands together inthanks. “My lord.” Momentarily, he bows his gray head. “Join us for the harvest celebration. Let us feed you. Give you a place to rest.”
The offer is tempting. He cannot know how much so. I’m tired from a sennight on Mannus’s back and unsettled thanks to Colden’s visit. One glance around the village has me considering taking him up on his offer, but I decline.
“Much thanks,” I tell him. “But I cannot stay.”
A little light-haired boy appears at my feet—a halfling child who’s likely been taught to fear me, yet is too young to understand why. Smile bright and green eyes shining, he tugs on my boot, uprooting rare and precious memories that take over my rational thought. Before I can decide better of it, I dismount, grab the little one, and whirl him in the air as though I’m a father and he’s my son. It’s a foolish action. Themostfoolish.
The boy squeals with delight, and it brings me such immense joy to hear that sound, but as I slow to a stop, my smile fades. A woman stands at my side, face pale as snow and eyes round with alarm, her small hands outstretched and trembling. The boy’s mother, I assume, and my presence is not a welcome sight. With an apologetic smile, I carefully hand over the child.
The villagers gawk as confusion twists their expressions, but their glimpse of the real me quickly dissolves from their minds. Thunder rolls in the distance near the loch, followed by the sudden cacophony of horses screaming.
The entire village looks westward.
At first, there’s nothing but that terrible sound and an odd heartbeat in the air. But soon, smoke rises from the stables, the earth begins to tremble underfoot, and fire-tipped arrows fall out of nowhere, cascading in burning arcs across the bruised sky.
This can’t be real. There’s no denying it, though. Not when people begin wailing, thatch starts burning, and wardens run to save the beasts in the fired stables.
I mount Mannus and yell at the remaining elders and wardens, but they can’t hear me over the frantic voices of four hundred villagers trying to discern what’s happening. I turn to the woman with the little boy. Their eyes are wide andterrified.
“Run!” I shout. “Get to safety!”
As the woman bolts away, I ride west, determined to meet whatever fate awaits—until a wall of Eastland warriors on horseback comes into view at the southwestern edge of the glade. They’re garbed in dark bronze leathers from head to foot.
A flock of cawing crows accompanies them, a shrieking cloud blotting out the sky over the loch. Some Eastlanders carry pine-knot torches while a few dozen wave crimson flags—golden wings and an ever-watchful evil eye embroidered in the silk.
The symbol of the old king blended with that of the new prince.
Most Eastlanders carry swords, hatchets, or bows, aiming their blades and arrows with deadly precision. Leading the charge are three men and a woman whose faces I can’t make out, but they ride hard and swift ahead of the small army.
I yank Mannus around and head back toward the village. The promising rumble of hooves strikes the earth, and the eerie echo of a thousand wings beats at my back.
The reins bite into my palms as I draw back hard, pausing, uncertain. Hampstead Loch is a lone flower in a field surrounded by a swarm of bees. There’s no time. No way to run or call anything to order before the warriors and their summoned predators are upon us.
And just like that, they are.
