The Eastlander jerks back, but blood sprays from the gash opening across his sweaty face, from his left temple to his right jawline, right through his lips.
The howl of pain that leaves him is an unholy thing in the night.
“My lord!” someone cries.
The Eastlander holds up his hand to silence them. “Go!”
I don’t know what damage to expect from the God Knife. I half imagine he might rupture like the villagers he and his men had killed with whatever evil magick they wield.
Wait.My lord. He and his men. He’s a leader. But…gods.This is no normal Eastlander. I think I’ve just butchered the face of their prince. Maybe even killed him if the God Knife is as deadly as Father claimed.
The prince presses his hand to his bleeding cheek, holding his face together at the seam.
Then he looks at me.
Fast as any animal, he lunges in my direction. Bloody fingers clamp around my throat, and he shoves me to the ground,rattling my teeth when my back hits the earth. Straddling my hips, he uses his other hand to pin my wrist to the ground, the God Knife still in my grip.
Dark eyes lit with violence, he glances at the God Knife, the blade slick with his blood. His eyes dance and dart wildly, his head turning back and forth between my face and the blade, as if listening to something or someone I can’t see.
The moment passes, as if whatever confusion or communication he was experiencing ended. And just like that, everything about him changes, the deep red of his entire being blackening.
With pointed concentration, he tries to pry the knife from my hand, but my grip is relentless, stronger than it’s ever been.
He grabs my wrist, slamming my hand to the ground, but I don’t budge, keeping a death grip on the hilt. Does he recognize this knife for what it is?
When he can’t best me, he clenches his teeth so hard his head trembles, fury boiling from the rage of defeat. With one last wicked roar, he lowers his heinous face an inch from mine, blood dripping from his gaping lips onto my chin and into my mouth.
“We’ll meet again, Keeper,” he mutters. “And when we do, I’m going to drive that knife into your heart and inhale your pathetic little soul.”
He won’t if he’s dead.
I thrust the blade toward his heart, but once again, he transforms into curling tendrils of darkness and fades away.
I lie there, breathless, staring up at the sooty sky as shock rolls through me, wave after wave. The God Knife is so oddly warm against my palm, all but humming in my hand.
Was that the God Knife’s power just now? Erasing the Prince of the East from existence? Or was it just him vanishing? Will he die from the wound to his face?
It hurts to sit up, but I make myself.
There’s not an Eastlander in sight anymore.
Shaking, I wipe the blood from my face and lips on my sleeve and slip the knife into my belt. I then struggle to my feet and stumble past the Witch Collector to my mother’s side, where I fall to my knees. Her lips no longer move, but those witch’s marks…
Eyes burning from the looming smoke, I plead to the Ancient Ones, casting the song of life into the night like so many prayers, calling upon the moon from which I descend, willing my magick to repair the damage done to her gentle soul, all to breathe life back into her witch’s blood.
“Loria, Loria, anim alsh tu brethah, vanya tu limm volz, sumayah, anim omio dena wil rheisah.”
I can feel the power inside me. Feel it growing.
“Loria, Loria, anim alsh tu brethah, vanya tu limm volz, sumayah, anim omio dena wil rheisah.”
I envision my beautiful mother living, laughing, dancing, and I try so hard to weave the glimmering strands of her precious life back together again.
“Loria! Loria! Anim alsh tu brethah! Vanya tu limm volz! Sumayah! Anim omio dena wil rheisah!”
She never stirs.
I sit by her side, stunned and in anguish. There’s no sound but the crack and creak of burning wood and the hiss and whipping roar of fire spreading from stead to stead. I sweep a tear-filled glance across the village.
