Page 123 of The Arrow and the Alder

“Well?” asked the witch, with less patience than before.

“We…we followed them to the gorge near Amdell—” The creature made a grotesque choking sound on this last word, as if he’d gagged on it. Speech didn’t appear to be natural for the beast. “But there were too many archers?—”

“Bring me the child,” snapped the witch.

A moment later, Rasia’s captor drew his horse before the witch. Rasia was seated before him, blindfolded, but holding her head high—that sweet child. The bone-faced kith dismounted, then pulled Rasia down and brought her forward.

The witch clamped her hands on either side of Rasia’s head as she’d done a handful of times these past few days. Rasia went rigid as she inhaled sharply, and the witch’s eyes shuttered milky white.

Seph held her breath.

Finally, the witch released Rasia, and her eyes were black again.

But they were no longer empty. Fury burned within, and she looked at Fake Alder, whose arm flinched around Seph’s waist.

“I thought you said we needn’t worry about Lord Hammerfell,” said the witch.

A spark of hope lit within Seph. Could it be? Had Alder acquired his uncle’s help and followed them here?

“It seems I’ve misjudged him,” Fake Alder replied quietly.

“No matter,” the witch said at last, while the bone-faced kith picked up Rasia and put her back in the saddle. “You and Lord Massie will bring three of your best and come with me and Abecka’s heir. The rest of you will stand guard and defend the entrance, and be sure that our little scryer doesn’t run away.”

Prince Alder rode abreast of Rian and his uncle, leading their charge of five hundred kith. It was a sizable force, and Alder hoped it would be enough. Still, Alder knew his uncle’s support was nothing short of the Fates’ blessing over his wretched life. His hopes had been slim, and yet his uncle was all the hope they had left. Once Alder shared the whole story of what’d happened from the day he’d left Asra Domm till now—confirmed by Rian, an emissary his uncle actually respected—Lord Hammerfell had wasted little time in assembling his warriors, withdrawing those he could from the Rift, and contacting those he trusted most. All in all, preparation had taken nearly three weeks, and they’d returned to Velentis in haste, but the second they stepped through the glamoured gate, Alder knew something was wrong.

Trepidation hovered in the air like some ill portent, and as the people spotted him on the ramp, they started running toward him. Oddly, it was Serinbor who’d cut through the din, and the grim look on his face drew Alder up short. He didn’t see Josephine anywhere.

Alder leaped down from his horse before he’d even fully come to a halt, and Serinbor was there, standing before him.

“Where is she?” Alder asked.

Serinbor glanced askance at the gathering crowd, before he said, tightly, “Massie has her.”

Alder took two steps and gripped Serinbor’s tunic and jerked him close, holding him at eye level. “You?—”

“It wasn’t me, Alder!” Serinbor pleaded, gripping Alder’s arms. “I swear on my life!”

“Then who in the hell?—”

“It wasEvora.”

Alder froze, his fingers still gripping tight. Serinbor did not even attempt to throw him off. His uncle and Rian watched, while the small crowd stood silent.Waiting.

No one corrected Serinbor, and though Alder searched, he did not see his cousin anywhere.

A pit formed in his stomach.

“Check my vest pocket,” Serinbor managed.

Alder stared hard into Serinbor’s black eyes, and then he loosened one hand to reach into the vest, where he withdrew a paper thin but solid object.

A sheet of polished moonstone, the size of Alder’s palm.

Alder felt simultaneously cold and hot, his skin too tight.

He knew what this was—he’d seen it before, when he’d been imprisoned in the mines: two-way glass. He’d spotted one of the depraved using such a device to communicate with its master.

“I found it in Evora’s room,” Serinbor continued, still trapped in Alder’s vise-like grip. “We searched it after they disappeared?—”

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