Snow still falls, but it’s not as cold here as when we arrived, feeling more and more like the cold of home—crisp and calming. It’s peaceful here, too, so I take my time, giving Raina space to think without my presence clouding her thoughts. I know what that’s like. She’s all I see, awake or asleep, and that’s not how any of this was supposed to go.
Get in. Get Raina. Get home.
Deny my feelings. My heart. My body.
That had been the original plan and then the new plan.
And I’ve failed at both.
Spectacularly.
When I come upon a small thicket of saplings, I gather what little kindling I can and turn to head toward the cave. Without warning, something crashes into me from behind, knocking the air from my lungs, sending me careening toward a snow-covered boulder.
It takes a split second to realize that what struck me is not athingbut aperson.
Kindling scatters across the snow, and I’m plowed into the rock, the weight of another body driving me forward as my arm is wrenched behind me. Breathless, I move to turn over, to fight, but the person holding me stabs a blunt knee into my kidney, pressing my wrist against my spine, all while their other colossal hand seizes my neck, thoroughly pinning me against the stone.
“Be very still, very quiet, and listen,” a man whispers. “We’re being watched. I don’t have much time.”
My free hand is splayed on the boulder. I stretch my fingers wide and lift my palm from the snow, an effort to show a silent moment of surrender.
He leans close. “I’m a spy for the king. You don’t remember me. I was just a boy when I left Winterhold with my mother for the EastlandTerritory. She was from Penrith.” His grip tightens, and he speaks through clenched teeth. “I sent a warning through the spy chain that the prince was coming. Why did you not heed?”
Gods. The rumor.
Faces flash across my mind. People who volunteered to work along the spy chain that has become more of a web, in truth. I’ve escorted scores of Witch Walkers, Icelanders, and even people from the tiny mining villages from the Mondulak Range to Winterhold. Several later enlisted their services.
This man could be anyone.
“The Prince of the East and a band of warriors escaped this godsforsaken place. He’s on his way to Winterhold, so now you must face General Vexx, and I won’t be able to save you.” He pauses, breathing hard against my face. “We’ve been following you ever since you blew up the godsdamn forest. The prince left others behind to find you, but they failed, so he commanded Vexx and his squad to remain in this hellish place and find this special knife you two have so pathetically protected.” He lets out a long, annoyed breath. “Warriors are coming down from the cliffs as we speak. Where is the woman you were with? I can only help her if I know where she is.”
“What do you want with her?” I strain against his hold, but he only doubles down.
“Not a damn thing. The prince wants her, probably to kill her. She sundered his face with a gash as wide as this ravine. He’s going to punish her, I’m sure, and believe me, you do not want her to meet his wrath.”
I squeeze my eyes against the image that forms in my mind—of Raina beneath the prince’s hands. I would skin him alive, hang him from a tree, and call the wolves.
Boots crunch in the snow. The sound grows closer.
Louder.
It would be so easy to wipe these Eastlanders from existence, but Raina could be buried alive from the ripple effect with this much loose and fallen rock. I have to protect her, somehow, but I can’t trust this man to be her savior.
“Let me see your face.”
“They can smell your fire, Thibault. They can’t see it, but they can smell it. They will sniff her out, unless I get to her beforehand.”
I grit my teeth. “Face. First.”
He flips me over, and it takes a moment, but his face registers. If he was a boy when he left, and if he knew me, I have long forgotten his name.
But I do recognize him. The red-haired Eastlander I faced in Hampstead Loch. The warrior with the bloodless blade who stared me down and rode the other way. I recall a family of redheads, too, who went to Quezira over two decades ago, led by their fierce and intelligent mother, Bronwyn. Her husband, a spy, had gone ahead of her, thanks to his sense of duty, and she eventually followed.
“The name’s Rhonin,” the man says. He glances up, only moving his eyes, his sharp gaze scanning the ravine. A heartbeat later, he raises a meaty fist and meets my stare.
“Sorry about this, but I’m doing you a favor.”
Above him, that odd and silent silver lightning splits the red sky.
