“I love you, Raina,” Finn says out of nowhere.
My thudding heart all but stops. I snap my head around, searching his boyishly handsome face. Why is he saying this to menow?
The second that thought hits me, I realize that I already know why.
“I felt you needed to hear that before doing something rash,” he says. He takes my hand and presses a tender kiss to my fingertips. “I love you, Raina Bloodgood. Forever.”
At first, I’m without words. I want to be giddy, like hearing him say he loved meusedto make me feel. I want to be moved, so much that his confession changes my mind. It doesn’t, though, and I don’t know what to think about that.
“I love you, too,” I sign and rest my head on his shoulder. Those words are true, and I need him to know they’re true, but I can’t look at him with this other truth no doubt shining in my eyes. The one that says our love is not enough.
It never has been.
“Do you want to know why I hate the Witch Collector and the Frost King?” he asks.
I nod. His words from this morning haven’t left my mind.I hate them, too, he’d said.More than you believe or will ever understand. Finn’s reasons for loathing the two men are clearly different from mine. He still worships Neri, and I can’t understand why. Then again, no one from Finn’s family has ever been chosen on Collecting Day. He doesn’t know how much it hurts or how much the need to blame those responsible can shatter the strongest faith and harden the most devout heart.
He leans closer and lowers his voice. “Because they tookyoufrom me. Maybe not physically, but we can’t have peace thanks to them.”
I lift my head and hold his gaze.“Then why not help me?”I sign.“Why not fight? Why not?—”
He folds his hand around my fingers, silencing me. “Because I would rather havethislife, withyou, taking my chances in a land I know, than a life out there”—he jerks his head south—“where I have no idea what dangers we might face. You think you want freedom, yet you never consider that maybe the kind of freedom you long for doesn’t even exist.” He tilts his head, like nothing about me makes sense. “You and I aren’t capable enough with magick for the Collector to ever choose us, Raina. It takes the most talented of the vale to protect the far reaches of the northern borders. That is not us. Yet you’re willing to walk away from everything. For a dream.”
I yank my hands from his grasp, any moment of tenderness lost.“You cannot know who he will choose. And what if you one day have children? Would you want them to face this dreaded day every year as well? You are complacent, Finn Owyn. Willing to walk away from me and our future for the safety of a prison. Fear rules you.”
“Of course, fear rules me!” he snaps. “There is no love without fear, Raina! You’d understand that if you thought about anyone besides yourself and whatyouwant!”
His words strike me hard as a fist. We stiffen, breathing hard, and the inch between us becomes a chasm.
Focusing my watering eyes on the horizon again, I do my damnedest not to think of all I could lose. I’m not only doing this for me—for adream. I’m doing it for Finn and Hel and Saira, and anyone sweating with dread as we bide our time.
The God Knife is strapped to my thigh, and it’s so cold it burns. Tuck’s warm body presses it tight to my skin, frigid as an ice stake. I like the chilly reminder that it’s there. The cold focuses me. Any moment, the Witch Collector will ride over the western hills, and if I can be strong enough, if I can just out-move Finn and the Witch Collector and anyone else determined to stop me, everything will change. For the better. I have to believe that.
Except noon passes without any sign of the Witch Collector.
Finn and I stare past the village outskirts to the valley beyond. Everyone else on the green stares, too. A village holding its breath.
“Where can he be?” people ask. “He’s never late.”
“Something’s wrong,” others whisper. “First the hunters, now the Collector.”
The halfling and human families grow tired waiting for the spectacle of Collecting Day, so they begin the work of preparing for the harvest supper. The Witch Walkers still linger, watching the horizon with a mixture of exhaustion and hope in their eyes.
I shake out of my daze, press a kiss to Tuck’s head, and get to my feet. Finn squints up at me, his face hard.
“I need some time,”I tell him.“Alone.”
He glances at his family sitting a few strides away. The worry on Hel and Betha’s faces makes my chest tighten.
“Me too,” he replies.
I spot my mother and avoid her as I weave through the crowd and head toward the cottage. Inside, I snatch my scrying dish off the worktable and fill it with clear rainwater collected from the garden bucket. With a quick jab, I prick my fingertip using a sewing needle and squeeze a single red pearl into the liquid, focusing on the first question at hand.
“Nahmthalahsh. Where is Warek, Finn’s father?”
The water will only show me the present—not the past and never the future. I must also know what I’m looking for.Exactly.
Staring at the glimmering surface, I conjure a thought of Warek. The water turns violet, then ripples like a puddle disrupted by a stone. An image forms, and I let out a deep breath. Warek sits near his horsewith his back to a large boulder. He’s slumped over, legs outstretched, an empty flask lying in the dirt, inches from his hand. Mother was right. Too much drink.
