And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Fury lights my blood, and I tighten my grip on the reins. Go or stay. Colden and Winterhold? Or the innocent people of the vale?
I mutter a prayer to the Ancient Ones, hoping with every fiber of my being that Nephele and the others have done as Colden asked, and that it’s enough to somehow prevent the Eastlanders from breaching the wood. I must believe they have. I know their power and determination. I know their hearts.
And I know their magick.
Littledenn is ready when we arrive. Its children, along with those from Penrith and Hampstead Loch, have been hidden in the village’s root cellar. However, my messenger from Penrith and a stray Eastlander I must not have seen leave Hampstead lie dead in the middle of the village green, having clearly fought to the death.
I grab the hood of a passing elder. “Did you send someone to warn Silver Hollow?”
He pales as awareness strikes. “We didn’t, my lord. We…” He scrubs his face, tears falling. “We were too overwhelmed with the news and the women and children. We had so much to do. We failed them, my lord!”
Gods’ death. It’s too late to send anyone now, because the second I look away from him, Eastlanders descend.
Littledenn’s numbers are small in comparison to the other villages. Still, there are many hunters in our midst, and they hold their own, setting fire to any savage crows that dare cross their path. At this rate, they might be capable of annihilating the remains of this army since so many entered the forest earlier.
The villagers edge up enough of an advantage that I glance eastward, Raina Bloodgood heavy on my mind. The Eastlanders are here to kill, though there’s always the chance they could take prisoners, especially pretty ones. The possibility that Raina, a seer, could fall into enemy hands is too dangerous a thought. The Prince of the East obviously has larger plans of destruction than this. He must.
I won’t make it easier for him.
Loathing this wretched circumstance, I wrench Mannus around and head for Silver Hollow.
The problem is, I am not alone.
The harvest moon hangs like a pearl in the night sky, and the tang of smoke floats heavy on the air. Torches crackle beneath the evening’s silver glow, a circle of warmth blazing around the chilly village green.
Feasting tables are laden with summer’s final blooms and boast more food than I’ve seen in years past. In the center of the green lies the roasting pit, whichshouldbe empty since the hunters still have not returned. Instead, a boar hangs on the spit—thanks to the animal’s poor decision to flee the western hills and head toward Silver Hollow not long after sunset.
Surrounding the pit are barrels of ale and fermented wine, men singing and making music, and a crowd of villagers losing their senses to the drink. Everyone is dressed in whatever finery they own, our traditional homespun put away this one night of the year. Some are happy, while others are sad, worried for their loved ones who never came home from the hunt.
I stroll to an empty table and sit. Earlier, when I returned from the cottage to find Finn, he and his family had gone home. I’d wanted toease his worry about his father, somehow. To try to assure him that Warek is all right. But Finn is bitter with me, and I can’t blame him.
I’m leaving, and I think he knows.
The day’s events have left me with a sour stomach, but the sweet scents of stone-fired bread and baked apples awaken my hunger. I break off a chunk of the loaf, dip it in the soft fruit, and savor the warm bite.
I turn when a herd of children runs behind me, laughing and playing war. One snatches a torch, and then they disappear into the valley’s darkness.
Smiling, my mother walks up and sets her wooden custard bowl beside a spray of stardrop blossoms and jasmine. “Don’t you look beautiful. I knew you’d be lovely in blue.” She runs her hand over the sleeve of the dress she made me and begins braiding stardrops into my hair. “There. That’s perfect,” she says when she’s finished. “All this white is so pretty in your dark hair.”
I look up at her tender eyes and kind face. Am I doing the right thing? Will I even be able to convince her to come with me to see the world when this is over?
She pinches my chin. “Do try to be happy, Raina. You look as though you carry the moon on your shoulders. There’s no collection this year, and tonight we must say goodbye to the light and welcome winter, a night of celebration and earthly balance. Let us show the Ancient Ones our thanks for the giving season and the time of rest to come. They’ve blessed us.”
She’s wrong, but it isn’t like I can tell her that.
In time to the music, she dances around the table and toward the roasting pit, where she plunges a mug into a barrel of wine. Smoke from the torches and bonfire twirl around her while little glowing embers flicker and float into the night sky.
My mother is sun and warm breezes, always comforting, and tonight, in her white gown, with her graying curls waterfalling down her back, she shines brighter than moon or flame. Her joy is a living thing. I stare in amazement as the villagers become enthralled with her laughter and merriment. She’s life and light and love, and for a moment, I do as she asked. I smile and allow myself a few seconds of true happiness.
Because if I’m thankful for anything, it’s her.
Mother’s stare finds mine, and she catches my smile. She grabs a second mug, dunks an amphora into the barrel to fill it, and then dances over to me.
“Thereshe is.” Face glowing, she fills the mug with rich, ruby liquid. “Drink, my girl.”
One glance at the wine’s dark red surface makes me think of my scrying dish and what Ishouldbe doing right now: watching for the Witch Collector and Warek. But the wine smells so delicious…
