He nods once, eyes gleaming with new and eye-opening clarity. “Yes. To the forest.”
Save for their magick-cast arrows, I’ve never seen Eastlander witchcraft. In truth, I’ve never seen witchcraft of this magnitude at all.
We’re a mile away from the forest’s tree line, sitting upon our horses atop Borier Hill. From here, we can see the ashy scar across the earth that was Littledenn, and the complex tangle of trees and thorny branches stretching east to west for miles. Frostwater Wood spans the valley’s length, from the base of the snowy mountains near Hampstead Loch to the glade below the rugged eastern range that can be found a short journey from Silver Hollow. The entirety of the wood now lies hedged by this barbed, malevolent barricade. Though a barrier like the valley’s veil, this wall is different. Our construct was a repelling boundary of magickal threads that made passage impossible.
This one was crafted from the forest itself, as if the Eastlanders used Frostwater Wood in some form of magickal alchemy. Such manipulation isn’t impossible. Even Nephele used to be capable of braiding grapevines with her mind, if she tried hard enough. That ability is herinherent magick, a talent she was born with. It’s just not something I’ve ever been able to do.
There’s also no one left behind to prevent the construct from crumbling to a pile of sticks and briars, unless there are dozens of Eastlanders on the other side of the blockadeorthey are somehow using vast magick, too.
“After what we witnessed in the valley, I suppose anything is possible,” Alexus says when I inquire. “But my instinct says there’s more to it. I feel it.”
I swallow hard and look to the sky. A dark cloud moves above us, the sun bathing us in gentle noon-day warmth as it burns away the crawling mist.
Alexus cuts a narrowed look across the thorny wall. “This is a sorcerer’s doing. A verypowerfulsorcerer.”
It can’t be the Prince of the East. It can’t. I don’t know if he’s a sorcerer or not, but he was clearly filled to the brim with some sort of power. I keep telling myself that the God Knife ended him. It had to.
“Can you break through such a monstrosity?” Alexus asks. “You can conquer death, see through time, and feel people’s emotions from miles away. Perhaps this won’t be the task I fear.”
I curl my fingers around words unspoken. Saving him was the grandest magick I’ve ever worked. I’ve saved a doe, Tuck the dog, a dove, and a few other small creatures, and I’ve performed a few minuscule healings, but stealing death for a person? Last night, through desperation, I’d held enough faith that I could save Mother and Alexus, but there was never any guarantee.
“We shall see,” is my reply.
A half-hour later, we ride along the forest’s thorny fringe, headed west toward Littledenn. We pass so many fallen Witch Walkers that I stop, wanting to bury the dead, or at least build a pyre piled with bodies and ashes and pray to Loria for their souls.
Alexus slows his horse, a hint of sadness lining his brow. “I’m sorry. It goes against all that I am to leave them here. They deserve so much better. But there isn’t enough time.”
I know there isn’t time, but my heart still breaks all over again, a crevice forming in my soul that might never heal.
Alexus dismounts anyway and retrieves a trampled flag that lies rumpled and dirty on the ground. Neri’s flag—ice blue and snow white, with a white wolf stitched in silver thread. He hands it to me, an offering, a piece of my home he thinks I might wish to keep. To cherish.
I accept the flag, but I unsheathe the dagger he gave me and stab it into the fabric, tearing the blade from one end of the material to the other, over and over, until there’s nothing left but shreds, and the rising pain inside me has abated.
A lone tear escapes down my cheek, but Alexus is watching, so I ignore it. Instead of wiping it away, I hand the flag back to him.
“I hate Neri,”I sign.
Alexus stuffs the flag into the back pocket of his leathers and plants his hands on his hips, raising his dark brows. “I see that.”
Concern flashes across his face, and something more as well, but he turns and mounts his horse before I can place it. I’m sure he finds me sacrilegious, but I don’t care.
“We need to ride as far west as we can,” he says, the previous moment seemingly forgotten. “So that we’re closer to Winter Road.”
Winter Road. Another part of my world that feels more like myth than reality. It’s supposedly the only clear route between the valley and the king.
“There’s an impassable ridge in the forest between Penrith and Hampstead Loch,” he continues. “So if we enter the wood too far east, we won’t be able to reach Winter Road unless we head north to circumvent the area. That route is much, much slower, and the terrain is quite difficult for horses. But we’ll have to take what we can get, I suppose.”
I don’t like the sound of that, but then again, I’m just hoping we can get through the Eastlanders’ wall at all.
“Look for any weakness in the barrier,” Alexus says as we ride. “Broken limbs. Thin vines. Missing bramble. We can mark possible entry points and return to them once we’ve made certain we can’t enter further west.”
I eye the thorny barrier with diligence as we ride, but the wall is so perfectly intact, the magick crafted with flawless precision. For Witch Walkers, if a refrain is chanted wrong or a lyric left unsaid, it manifests as a damaged thread in the fabric of our construct, weakening the entirework. I cannot imagine anyone creating magick as sure as this, especially from miles away, without even one imperfection.
Eventually, though, I’m reminded thatnothingis perfect.
As dusk falls across the valley, I spot a flaw in the Eastlander’s design. A weak spot in the barrier along the outskirts of Penrith, a place where the thick limbs are sparse enough to see through, providing a glimpse of the multi-colored expanse that is Frostwater Wood.
Alexus dismounts and uses what remains of Neri’s flag to mark the spot, then we keep traveling, chasing the last of the day’s light. We ride as hard as we can, given the rising elevation.
