Raina’s face hardens, and her hands—lovely as they are—move in an almost threatening manner when she signs.“You said the wood would let us pass. That the magick knows you. Why does it not allow safe passage now?”
“I also said this might not be easy or fast,” I reply, keeping my voice steady. “But wewillget through. Winterhold’s witches are trying to contain an army from many miles away. Their construct cannot distinguish between the invaders and us. Not until we’re inside, anyway. Theirmagick must taste us first for the Witch Walkers to know we’re here, and even then, they have to single us out amid the chaos of this type of construct and manipulate the right strands—out of thousands—just for you and me. They’ll deal with us the best they can.”
None of this is a lie, but what I don’t say is that it isn’t the Witch Walkers’ magick that I’m worried about hurting us.
It’s the desperate enemy lurking within.
She glances at the tunnel, then back to me. From her measuring look and the annoyed expression on her face, my words have provided little convincing. She stiffens her spine, sets her hands firmly around the reins, and jerks her chin toward the intimidating path anyway.
The horses require urging into the tunnel, but the moment we cross beneath its archway, a looming cold grows ahead. The sure way out begins closing behind us.
Raina peers over her shoulder, her attention drawn to the unnatural creak and moan of wood groaning like the tunnel trees have come alive. I half turn in my saddle but say nothing as I continue to watch her. In the corner of my vision, a mass of trunks begins braiding across the entrance, shutting us in and slowly shutting out the daylight.
“The lamp?”she signs.
“No. If the construct stands, that means there are Eastlanders trapped in here. We can’t light ourselves for all to see, and there’s only so much oil. Communication is more difficult this way, but I’ll ride close. If you need me, can you whistle?”
She signs the word,Yes, melancholy softening her features when she whistles quietly. It’s such a lovely sound, like the trill or warble of a nesting bird. Still, she looks so forlorn.
I’m not sure what I said to cause such a reaction, but I give her the best reassuring look I can muster under the circumstances, and we ride on, side by side as the tunnel darkens.
We move deeper into the construct, still encouraging the horses, and I study a flicker of movement along the path. Little white flowers—similar to stardrops—pop up from the leaves of meandering vines, opening wide and shining dim light along the path. It’s just enough illumination that the horses can see where they’re going, and the lines of Raina’s face and hands are outlined in a diffusedsilver glow.
When she looks at me in wonder, I smile. “Told you. Their magick knows me.”
She gives an exaggerated roll of her eyes, but I also note a smile teasing her lips.
We keep moving.
The tree trunks lining the path are so numerous that if we needed to find cover amongst them, we couldn’t. Dense briar bushes grow in every gap, covered in thorns, long and sharp as bear teeth. At the tops of the trees, little eyes watch us, like birds are perched on the limbs. This part of the construct is certainly Nephele’s doing.
Over the years, she’s developed a tendency toward more…intimidatingmagick.
I can’t say I don’t appreciate it now.
As we ride, the autumn cover changes, the dirt and rotting foliage becoming marred by branching veins of crystallized frost. The awaiting cold reaches for us, clawing at the ground to drag us closer.
Ahead, light snow swirls in a coming breeze, depositing a white dusting of frost all around us. With flurries dancing, I almost miss the second flicker of movement along the path’s edge.
Turning a glance over my shoulder, I look more closely as we pass. Snow clings to a thick patch of curled briar vines that have been hacked away, leaving a barbed hole big enough for a man to crawl into if he were desperate enough. Beyond, I think I see the whites of eyes. An animal, perhaps, but I can’t be sure.
To be wise, I wrap my fingers around the hilt of my sword and look down as Raina reaches across the small distance between us. She closes her hand on my wrist a moment before the white flowers begin withering on the vine. The blooms fight their unwanted death, trying to open again, straining to glow. Most lose the battle, but a few stay strong, barely illuminating the path at our horses’ feet.
Only two things can be causing this. Either my witches are already too exhausted to maintain a change like these flowers, or someone is killing the light.
Someone capable of fighting vast magick.
Unease cascades over me, the way an unwanted stare makes the skincrawl. “It’s all right,” I whisper, squeezing Raina’s hand as the world grows colder.
She lets go, and as we ride, the sound of our beasts’ soft hoofbeats changes, the snowy ground crunching under their weight. I focus on guiding the horses. They falter and balk, no doubt sensing wrongness, but they thankfully obey and carry on.
There’s no way to know what lies ahead. No moon shines here. No stars. Just night and more lightless night.
My eyes adjust, and though our horses have excellent night vision, heading into an abyss is still unsettling. Enough time here would drive someone to the brink of despair and desperation. That’s likely the point.
Raina grips my forearm hard, digging her fingernails into my skin. I can hardly distinguish her outline now, but her energy is palpable. It pulsates into me, and an unmistakable tension fills the air.
We are not alone.
