After giving me the tiniest appreciative smile, he turns, leaving me standing there, drenched in foreign and conflicting sensations I need to ignore. Because moons and stars, I don’t trust him. Not in the least. But some ridiculous part of me is beginning to think that maybe—just maybe—I should, and that’s the most unfathomable notion I’ve ever imagined.
While he gathers our things, separates our provisions between his pack and the leather satchel, then loads them on our horses, I slip on the hosen and the too-small boots, then strap the gambeson on the mare.
I hand the Witch—no,Alexus—his cloak, which he accepts, but he whips the garment aroundmyshoulders instead of his own.
“It suits you,” he says. “As does this.” He retrieves Finn’s dagger belt and produces a fire-singed dagger he must’ve taken from Littledenn. “You’re good with a scythe. Hopefully, you’re good with a small blade, too.”
Good enough to slice open the Prince of the East’s face—an act I suppose Alexus couldn’t have seen from his vantage point during the attack.
“Why do they want the king?”The thought blurts from my hands before I accept the belt and weapon and begin strapping them to my thigh.
He stares down at me, black hair catching in the wind before he begins tying it back. “Long story. Just know that the Eastlanders needhim, so if they manage to get their hands on him, they won’t take his life. Not yet. But there’s an excellent chance we’ll regret letting them succeed.”
I want to tell him that mylastconcern is the Frost King. That he could melt into a puddle, and I would feel nothing but satisfaction. I’m only curious why the Eastlanders want the king now when all has been silent here for so long.
“We could always use your gift with the waters before we go.” He hangs the oil lamp from the saddle, then snatches my mother’s bowl, which he extends between us. “To determine where the king is.”
I take a deep breath, dreading my next words. Another glimmer of hope shines in Alexus’s eyes, and I’m about to dash it to pieces.
“I fear I cannot help,”I sign.“Not in that way.”
His brow twists. “Explain.”
I shake out my fingers and begin.“I cannot see whatever I choose. I must form an image in my mind, and I only see things as they are happening. Like with Nephele. I did not become skilled at scrying until a year after she was taken. I mastered the art, but the image of her no longer matched the woman she had become. I could not see her.”
He flinches at that, and in truth, so do I. It all makes sense now that I’ve said it. Nephele reallyhaschanged, beyond just the physical, and it happened soon after leaving Silver Hollow.
It makes me despise the Frost King even more.
“I have never laid eyes on that cold bastard you call a king,”I add.“I do not know what to look for when it comes to him. The most I can do is watch for Eastlanders and hope I see the right group.”I’m rambling, and my words have clearly shaken his faith, so I lower my hands.
Alexus scrubs his face, half-smothering a groan. “All right. Let’s do that, then. One last look before we go.”
I take the dish and refill it at the stream’s edge. This time, I use my new dagger to pierce my finger.
My blood runs into the water and, once again, the forest at night appears. The faint glow from a snowy wood outlines the silhouettes of tree limbs and horses and men. I can sense the Eastlanders’ distress, feel their racing hearts.
Alexus stands over my shoulder, clearly curious.
“I cannot see their faces, but at least one band of warriors is still in the wood,”I tell him.“They’re cold and worried about never getting out.”
He frowns. “Wait. You can tell what they’re feeling?”
“Sometimes.”I shrug, empty the dish, and stand.
He suddenly looks slightly uncomfortable. “Is that…normal for you? Reading people’s emotions?”
I raise a brow.“Why? Worried?”
Alexus opens his mouth but shakes his head instead, as though thinking better of speaking whatever words tempted his tongue. Instead, he motions me closer and bends to help me mount the mare.
I do my damnedest to ignore the way he looks up at me once I swing onto the mare, not to mention the way his fingertips brush mine when he hands me the reins.
He’s the Witch Collector, Raina. Don’t fucking forget that.
After he climbs astride his horse, we sit quietly, facing Frostwater Wood in the distance. I look over at him, still stunned that we’re here, together. The weight of all the things neither of us can seem to say hums between us.
“To the forest, then,”I sign.
