When I finish, I wring out my hair and clothes and dry out by the fire, warming myself by placing several of the heated stones underneath my dress. The sun is bright today, the breeze blessedly gentle.
Eventually, my restlessness returns, so I take my mother’s woodenbowl and dip it in the stream. If the Eastlanders are trapped in the wood, and I pray to the Ancient Ones they are, perhaps we can circumvent them and reach Winterhold first—ifthe Witch Walkers’ magick lets us pass.
A thorn pricks my fingertip nicely, and once my blood swirls in the water, I center my every thought on the Eastlanders’ whereabouts.
“Nahmthalahsh. Show me the Eastlanders from last night.”
A faint scene forms on the water’s violet surface, a band of men riding through what looks like the dark of night in a forest. Wariness wafts off them. They look confused or lost, and I sense magick—strong magick.
I tilt the bowl, and the image remains. At least I don’t see the Prince of the East, and his warriors aren’t invading a castle or fortress—yet. That alone eases me.
I clean the bowl and prepare the water again.“Nahmthalahsh. Show me the God Knife.”
Though I can’t see the black blade, I can make out the white hilt. The knife is surrounded by darkness, making it hard to discern. Did it end up in the fire? Can god bone burn? Is it buried in Silver Hollow’s ashes?
Frustrated, I toss the water and stare at the bowl. I could look for Finn and Hel, but the thought terrifies me to the point I begin trembling. I know what I’ll see—piles of ash or something far worse—and I’m too raw. I cannot endure the images of their suffering imprinted on my memory.
Instead, I decide to look for the prince. He wasn’t in that band of Eastlanders, but I need to know if the God Knife worked. If it’s even worth searching for. I’d so believed that it was.
A third time, I fill the bowl and bleed into the water.“Nahmthalahsh. Show me the Prince of the East.”
The water swirls longer than usual, and the violet-tinted clearness becomes nebulous. Shadows and smoke roll over the bowl’s edge like a bleeding mist. I lean closer, pulse racing.
Surely I’ll see a dead man.
His face forms and stares back at me with wide, unblinking eyes. I can’t tell if he’s alive and watching me from the other side of the watersor dead somewhere, staring into nothingness. The sight of his open wound makes me shudder, and again I toss the water, watching as the smoky mist floats across the grass and melts away.
Dead, I tell myself. The God Knife’s power is real. My father would never have lied to me.
I’m standing beneath the great oak, wringing the hems of my skirts again when the Witch Collector returns, riding at a quick pace. Though he’s leading a strong-looking white mare behind his glossy, black gelding, something in me dies when he approaches. His face is pale and expression bleak, his broad shoulders not so high and strong anymore.
Earlier, while I watched the sun rise, I let go of any faith he might return with survivors, but I can see that he went to Littledenn with a double-edged shard of hope in his heart.
He dismounts, and I help him lead the animals to the stream.
“Mannus, eat.” He smooths a comforting hand down the horse’s side and clicks his tongue. The beast’s ears prick back, listening, and the animal does as told, chomping on clumps of grass.
The Witch Collector says nothing to me, though. I’m a little unnerved by his silence and the fact that he hasn’t looked at me since he arrived.
I set to inspecting the even-tempered mare he’s brought me so we can leave. Stroking her head, I decide her name is Tuck. I spell the word against her shoulder, needing to hold on to something from my life before this disaster. She lifts her muzzle from the stream and presses her nose against my thigh, almost as if in recognition. I pat the top of her head, confident she’ll provide a safe journey.
The Witch Collector leans his sword against the great oak and kneels in the grass. With quick hands, he unloads clothes and boots from a bundled blanket crammed with rope, an iron-framed oil lamp with amber glass on the sides, a leather satchel, a small tinder box, a couple of skins of water, a flask—probably filled with something stout enough to down a boar—a tin mug, several apples, and two loaves of stale bread. It makes me think of the pack I hid beneath my bed. Such a failed effort.
At random, he grabs a tunic and holds it between us. Finally, he looks up, and though his eyes lock with mine, his attention quicklydrifts, skimming down my body like a touch. “You’re wet,” he says matter-of-factly. “And calm.”
“I bathed,” I reply, damp dress and hair still drying in the cool breeze.“And I consulted the waters.”
His gaze catches on Mother’s dish, and he lowers the tunic. “See anything?”
I nod.“The Eastlanders have not reached the castle. Yet. They were traveling. Lost. Worried. Confused. Magick surrounded them. Powerful magick.”
“And the prince?”
Hesitating, I consider telling him about the God Knife, and that I’m fairly certain I killed the prince. But what would he do if he knew such a thing as the God Knife existed? That with one slice, he and his immortal lord could be destroyed. Even with the dim chance that the blade isn’t as powerful as Father said, the Frost King wouldn’t risk having such a weapon out there somewhere, ready for the taking. There’d be more than one of us trying to figure out how to find it, and so I keep that information to myself.
“Lost as the rest of them,”I lie, hoping he can’t read the untruth on my face.
Hands pressed to his thighs, the Witch Collector relaxes, like a yoke has fallen from his neck. “At least Winterhold’s witches are guarding the forest, and we haven’t run out of time,” he says. “That means everything.”
