I start to roll my eyes but remember who I’m with. This is the WitchCollector, a man who—much as it pains me to admit—seems to truly know the Witch Walkers in his care, as well as their talent. A few days ago, the thought of allowing him to teach me anything would’ve likely made me implode from the sheer absurdity of it all. But now I nod, annoyed and embarrassed that my lack of skill is so painfully visible, regardless of the marks now decorating my skin.
“You’re thinking too hard.” He taps his chest. “Magick can be created from a song, but singing it has never been required. It’s simply part of the valley’s culture. In truth, the most powerful magick is conjured from the deepest parts of our souls, not with voices or hands or anything else. No matter how a conjurer builds their magickal constructs, it must come from the heart. Born of emotion, love, hope, sadness, desperation, all tied to ancient commandments of the old gods. The words are easy. Reaching for the emotion is what’s hard.”
“Easy?”I sign, giving him an incredulous look.“You cannot fathom how hard the words are for me.”
Everything about the ancient language of Old Elikesh is different from how we speak in Tiressia, down to the way the words in each sentence are ordered. I don’t have the luxury of mimicking sound. The emphasis on certain syllables must be correct as well, something I do with precise movements, or else the entire construct fails. It’sanythingbut easy.
I glance down, but Alexus tilts my chin up, forcing me to look into his bottomless eyes.
“Forgive me,” he says. “It was wrong of me to say that. I only meant that I could give you the words. I may no longer have power at the ready in my blood, but I know Old Elikesh like no one else in the Northlands. I know the right words to say if you can translate them.”
I nod, slipping my chin from his touch. I’ve never thought about what kind of magick the Witch Collector possesses. It’s never mattered. He’s the king’s man, which gives him power regardless. I wasn’t even sure he had magick until now. There are no marks on his skin, which leaves me curious.I may no longer have power at the ready in my blood,he’d said.
Which means that hedidhave it, once upon a time.
“You saved me because of the feelings that flooded your soul,” hesays. “Fear. Anger. Grief. Suffering.” He stabs a finger at the wall. “Thismagick is no different. Whoever created this barrier did so with their hearts, corrupt as they might be. Hatred, greed, and vengeance are not to be ignored. The Eastlanders understand how to harness that emotion and channel it into their work, just as Witch Walkers infuse feeling into song.” He taps my chest, and as much as I know I should, I don’t flinch from the contact or pull away. “You must listen to your soul, Raina. Listen to the emotions boiling deep andusethem.” He stands and holds out his hand, motioning with a flutter of his fingers. “Up.”
He stares down at me when I hesitate, and gods, that face is persuasive in ways I wish it wasn’t.
I slip my hand into his and stand, trying not to think about the held-back strength in his grasp or the way he folds his fingers so delicately around mine when I look him in the eyes. He lets go and, with a firm touch, takes me by the shoulders, aiming me toward the weak area in the wall. I force back a shiver when he comes closer, standing behind me.
“Like I said, I can give you the words, and then you can use your hands to control the manifestation of your magick.” Gently, he grips my wrists and brings my palms together. “Close your eyes and keep them closed.” It takes a few moments, but I do it. “Now think about that night. Think about what the Eastlanders did to your friends, your family, your home. Think about the fires. Remember the devastation. Do you see it?”
I don’twantto remember. I’ve tried so hard not to think about it. But at his mention, images appear in my thoughts. Flames and smoke. Mother collapsed in a pool of her own blood. Others lying dead. Alexus staring at me with a plea in his eyes as death approached.
“How do you feel, Raina? Listen to your misery. Listen to your rage. If you’re angry, let it boil. If you’re heartbroken, let your heart shatter.” His lips graze my ear, and a rogue chill tumbles down my spine. “And if you hate, hate with the fire of a thousand suns.”
My pulse pounds, and memories drift in and out of my mind, one horrific event after another, until fury rises inside me like the storms I always wished I could harness.
“That’s it,” Alexus whispers. “Now, weave your magick with your hands. Lunthada comida, bladen tu dresniah, krovek volz gentrilah.”
Bladen. I know that word. It means sword.
The ancient chant falls from his lips so naturally and so beautifully that the tiny hairs on my neck and arms rise. I listen as he repeats each word, memorizing the intonations and soft rolls of his tongue, his voice stirring my blood. This chant—falling from his lips—sings to me.
I form the haunting song now echoing within my heart, signing each word carefully, no longer trying to give life to a weak bolt of hope, but to what I know is a sword of intent.“Lunthada comida, bladen tu dresniah, krovek volz gentrilah.”
Alexus walks me forward, and I imagine the wall of thorns and wood before us, blocking our path. I can’t help but falter and tense, my hands balling into fists.
“Relax and trust me. I’ve got you.” He runs his rough hands up and down my arms and wraps his fingers lightly around my wrists once more.
I swallow and build my song, focusing on the silver strands of my magick, blending it with the words he’s still reciting against my hair.
But then his mouth touches my ear. “Now I want you to think the words, Raina. Carry the song in your heart. Hear it. Don’t let it fall silent.”
An involuntary shudder ripples through me, but I cling to the words, even as Alexus’s fingers thread with mine, stilling my fingers.
I flinch. Finn always silenced me like this, and though that’s not what’s happening now, the reality is that I don’t know how to work magick without my hands. I don’t know how to let emotion be all that I need.
“Trust me, Raina,” Alexus whispers, and much as it pains me, I do try. “Hear the song. Sing it in your mind. Lunthada comida, bladen tu dresniah, krovek volz gentrilah.”
With a firm and steady touch, he begins guiding my movements in a different manner. He might as well be teaching me to swing a blade against bracken and undergrowth. A downward arc here. An upward slash there. Over and over as we move, his body flexing and tensing behind mine, one fluid stroke after another. A dance Ifeel in my bones. A connection I cannot deny. I’m beginning to feel the way I did at the harvest supper, linked to something far more powerful than myself as I become a conduit—thrumming and alive.
We come to a standstill. My heart races as I stand there, still hearing the song, my body wrapped up in Alexus Thibault.
“Open your eyes.” His voice is soft and warm at the shell of my ear.
I obey, just as his touch slides away, only to find that I’m holding a sword made of amethyst light.
