I closed my eyes on a dying horse and reached for a river no living thing should touch.
I did not know if I could. The Wend had given me one crossing, one call, to bring a soul back. She had never said I could reach into a crossing already happening and put myself inside it. But I had learned, across two lifetimes, that the line between impossible and done is usually just a woman willing to try the thing nobody told her she could.
So I reached.
And I arrived.
One breath I was on a horse in the snow. The next I stood on the grey bank of the water the dead cross, and the cold of it went through my soul the way the flagstones had gone through my dying body. Total. Familiar. Wrong.
Wynn was there.
Her soul stood on the near bank, silver-eyed, lost, furious, a young woman watching a thing
