Bloodwitch

by Susan Dennard

  For Lady Fate makes all men choose eventually. Even Bloodwitches.

  EIGHT

  Somehow, Iseult had become the one in charge. She didn’t like it. Not one bit. First of all, she had never been to Tirla, and “follow the signs” was the only advice Aeduan had been able to give in his current condition.

  Second of all, Owl simply would not listen to her. Like her namesake, she was a fighter. If Iseult asked the girl to do anything—from washing up at night to simply staying within sight while they trekked onward—the girl instantly dug in her heels and refused. Or she just pretended she couldn’t hear Iseult at all.

  If Aeduan, however, asked her to do the exact same thing … oh, then Owl obeyed in a heartbeat. The sunset Threads stretching from her toward Aeduan sinewed stronger each day. Aeduan might not have Threads, but Owl was undoubtedly bound to him.

  Over their two weeks of travel, it had not been an issue. An annoyance, certainly, but Aeduan had always been there to sweep in and take charge of any stubborn situations. Now, with Aeduan barely clinging to consciousness and all of his focus on getting one foot in front of the other, Iseult had to control Owl all on her own.

  It wasn’t going well. In fact, since that morning when Owl had thrown their trout breakfast on the fire, Iseult had decided she hated the girl. She knew it wasn’t a good look, hating children, but Iseult was also convinced that even Safi, who had an actual knack for handling little ones, would call this child a “thrice-damned demon from beyond the hell-gates.”

  Owl argued with everything. Breakfast. Washing up. Wearing shoes. Staying on the path. And at any hint of sharp words from Iseult, she would scuttle into the nearest branches and hide among the trees. Or, when no trees were near, the stones served just as well.

  One moment, she’d be storming off. The next, she’d have vanished entirely, as if the earth had sucked her right in. Then before Iseult could try to find the girl, Blueberry would trundle over, nostrils huffing vast plumes of fetid air while his silvery Threads flashed bright with distaste for Iseult.

  The feeling was mutual.

  The closer they got to Tirla, the more people clotted the roadways, their mules and wagons churning the earth to mud. Nestled in the middle of the mountains, Tirla connected three borders, and with war coming after nineteen years of peace, people moved. Families fled the growing raider threat; soldiers mobilized to stop it; traders hoped to make coin off them all. At the first hint of one such artery leading to the city, Iseult had called a halt. She did not want to go traipsing into humanity with a mountain bat in tow.

  Aeduan, coughing heavily, had instantly dropped to the earth beside the stream Iseult had chosen for their break. Its shore was thick with blackberries, yet Aeduan had swept aside the thorns, no thought for blood or pain, and then gulped back water until his attack subsided. He was of absolutely no use in the argument that followed.

  “I do not like it either,” Iseult said to a pile of rocks that was vaguely girl-shaped and bore hateful gray Threads overtop. “But you have to tell Blueberry to stay hidden. We’ll soon be with other people, and if they see him, they’ll try to hurt him.”

  “Can’t hurt,” the stones insisted, a small mouth appearing amidst the pile. “He’s bigger.”

  “Yes,” Iseult was forced to agree. “And that’s the problem. If they attack him, he’ll attack right back.”

  Pink acceptance swirled up the stones’ Threads, as if Owl thought this was perfectly reasonable.

  “And,” Iseult went on, “we cannot have that. Owl, we need to get into Tirla to help Aeduan. Don’t you care about Aeduan?” As if on cue, the Bloodwitch started coughing once more.

  Actually, it was on cue, for when she glanced his way, she found the faintest smile brushing his tired lips.

  “Owl,” he said between dramatic hacks, “tell … Blueberry … to stay here. I promise we will not be away from him long.” Aeduan’s voice was in tatters and his posture pained, but still he sent a weary gaze to Iseult and mouthed: What else?

  And, Iseult mouthed back, no magic.

  A nod, but he did not speak right away. Instead, he wiped water from his mouth and motioned stiffly toward the trees. In gruff Dalmotti, he murmured, “It might be best if you leave. I do not think … That is to say, it is simpler with only two people.”

  “You mean she hates me.” Unwelcome heat rushed to Iseult’s face, but she did as suggested, and without a backward glance, she hauled up their packs—roped together so she could carry them both—and strode into the forest, aiming for the nearest road.

  She didn’t make it far before Blueberry materialized from the trees, as silent as a true bat and with Threads burning disdainfully. It was as if he thought it entirely Iseult’s fault that he could not join them in Tirla. As if he thought it Iseult’s fault that Owl was upset or Aeduan had been badly injured.

  Iseult couldn’t help it. In complete abandonment of all her Threadwitch training, she fixed the massive beast with a sneer—and goddess, it felt good. The way her eyes narrowed and her nose wrinkled. The way her teeth bared and heat plowed through her lungs.

  Burn him. Heat flickered in her fingertips. Burn his furry flesh and then burn the little girl too.

  Instantly, Iseult’s expression fell. Cold scoured through.

  This was not her temper. This was not her fire. And this was not her voice. She had been trained to keep her body cool when it ought to be hot, her fingers still when they ought to be trembling. She was trained to ignore the feelings that drove everyone else, yet here she was: driven. Dragged by emotions she could not control.

  By a fire she could not control.

  For half a seemingly endless breath, Iseult was overcome by guilt. By how much she hated herself and her magic and what she had done to that Firewitch. He wasn’t even the first person she had killed. All those soldiers and Adders in Lejna that Esme had cleaved …

  That had been Iseult’s doing. The Puppeteer had used Iseult’s mind to find out where Iseult was. Then Esme had used Iseult’s mind to ultimately make her attack.

  Iseult clutched her temples and stumbled away from Blueberry. Away from Owl or Aeduan.

  “Stasis,” she hissed at herself, thinking of ice, ice, and only ice. “Stasis in your fingers and in your toes.”

  Branches smacked against her. Mud from last night’s rain churned beneath her boot heels. The pack jangled and bounced with each step. No amount of moving had outrun the demons so far, though, and no amount of running had evaded the Firewitch. There was no reason to believe it would suddenly start working now.

  She would just have to be more vigilant then. No more flashes of anger. And absolutely no more sleep. She’d started a fire this morning when the blow to her head had pulled her under—thank the Moon Mother, only gravel had surrounded her and Aeduan.

  Tirla, she was certain, would be much more flammable.

  Iseult finally slowed at the first signs of people. Threads thick as a quilt wafted along the periphery of her magical range. Every type of emotion was covered, from iron pain to scarlet Heart-Threads, but needling through them all was one commonality: the green focus of people on a journey.

  Here Iseult waited, the minutes skippering past and her magic readjusting to so many people, so many Threads. The stasis that had eluded her earlier now anchored into place, comforted by rules she was accustomed to. She had grown up around people; she had lived many years in a crowded city: detachment and logic were easier when one was always on the outside looking in.

  With Aeduan, there had been no Threads. There had been no outside.

  Eventually, the Bloodwitch hobbled to her side. He clutched Owl’s hand in his, and though a pouty red rattled across the girl’s Threads, at least she was moving again—and Blueberry was nowhere to be seen.

  Aeduan fixed Iseult with his ice-blue stare, questioning. As if he wondered why she had jogged so far away. As if he wanted to know that she was well.

  She pretended not to notice. The flames were her problem an
d her problem alone. There was nothing he could do to help her. There was only moving forward and slogging on.

  Goddess, she wished Safi were here, though.

  * * *

  “Think like Iseult,” Safi whispered. It had been her prayer for the last two hours while she’d sat on the edge of her bed in these beautiful white quarters—wearing the same beautiful white dress the man had bled on.

  White, white, white. Everywhere Safi’s eyes landed was white, from the walls to the tiles. The first day, Safi had admired her quarters. Soothing and bright. Now, she saw it for the truly terrible shade it was. White showed blood too easily, and once that blood was dried, there was no erasing it.

  The footprints she’d tracked in were still on the ground, mottled to rusty brown. An inescapable reminder of what Safi had done. What Safi had caused—because the memories branded in her brain were not enough. The detached head, with its still-blinking eyes and spurting arteries. The man’s last words: What a ridiculous question.

  The thirteenth chimes clanged outside; the sun beamed down, though only a gauzy gray light filtered through the iron shutters over Safi’s lone window. A small courtyard garden bloomed out there, and at this hour, katydids clicked and clattered.

  She wrapped her fingers around the Threadstone at her collarbone and rested her head on her knees. This stone had been a gift from Iseult, and it—like the matching one Iseult had—lit up when either girl was in danger.

  “Think like Iseult. Think like Iseult.” Safi’s Threadsister would see some solution out of this disaster. Cool, logical Iseult would work through it like a knot in a fragile necklace, plying Safi with questions and coaxing out the facts of the situation.

  The facts were that twice in her life now, Safi had carved her own path, had played her own cards—with no one to guide her—and this was where her choices had led. She had become Truthwitch for Empress Vaness in exchange for trade with the starving nation of Nubrevna. Then she had made a similar choice in Saldonica. The mark on her thumb was a reminder of that.

  A day after her duel with Admiral Kahina and her resulting agreement with the woman, a thin red line had appeared right where Kahina wore her jade ring. The ring had flashed when Safi had promised to give Kahina whatever she wanted; Safi suspected that meant the deal was far more binding than mere words. Like everything else here, though, she tried not to think about it. Her choice had saved her, and it had saved Vaness and the Hell-Bards too.

  Of course, the Hell-Bards were gone now. The Marstoki Sultanate had opposed having any more Cartorrans than Safi in the palace, as had the generals, admirals, nobility, and Adders. The uproar that the Hell-Bards had caused as Safi’s guards and companions—it hadn’t been safe. For them or for Safi.

  Which left Safi with another fact: she was all alone in the imperial palace, surrounded by Lake Scarza waters on all sides, the Kenduran foothills beyond that, and thousands of local enemies who wanted her dead. A thousand more foreign enemies too.

  She knew Rokesh and the other Adders would protect her, but while she and Vaness might have become allies in Saldonica, even friends, if it became a choice between Safi’s life and the empire’s future …

  One life for the sake of many was a truth Safi understood all too well.

  Perhaps the most important fact of all, though, was that the Truthwitchery Safi had hidden her entire life was now public knowledge. The one thing she never wanted to be, that she had run from for nineteen years … It had all come to pass. She was a tool for an empire, a knife for Lady Fate, and men would die because of her magic.

  True, purred Safi’s power, an unwelcome warmth in her chest. She squeezed her eyelids all the tighter. She wanted to leave. She wanted to abandon this post she had chosen, and she wanted to run as fast and as far as she could go.

  Safi wasn’t so foolish, though. If she tried to escape, she would end up in chains, and chains would keep her from ever leaving Marstok. Chains would keep her from ever finding Iseult—the only thing in all the Witchlands that mattered.

  Iseult now traveled with a Bloodwitch. With the Bloodwitch who had hunted them across the Jadansi, and though Iseult might have claimed she trusted him, Safi did not believe her. She couldn’t. Both times the girls had spoken in Safi’s dreams, something had been wrong. Something had made Iseult’s thoughts skitter and her words fret with lies.

  Safi feared Iseult did not travel with that Bloodwitch monster by choice—and she had no way to find out. Iseult hadn’t come to her dreams again in a week and a half.

  Safi groaned. The knot in her chain of thoughts had led her back to the beginning: trapped in court with Iseult far, far away. She was no good at this. She needed Iseult to help her isolate the best course of action.

  As she sat there, toes tapping on the tiles, a squawk tore through the room. Her gaze snapped up, and she found a crow staring at her from the garden door. An old crow, if the white around its beak meant anything.

  Its head cocked sideways, eyes eerily sentient.

  “I don’t have food,” Safi said, rising. “Go on, crow.” She shooed at the creature. A halfhearted gesture at best. “Leave before I call the Adders on you.”

  The bird looked thoroughly unimpressed. Though it did hop backward when Safi approached, its wings fluttering.

  “Go on,” she said, a bit more forcefully this time, her own hands sweeping like wings. “Get out before a poisoned dart finds you…” She trailed off as the crow kicked up and flapped onto a telescope at the heart of her small garden.

  It had been a gift from the Empress, purchased in Veñaza City during the Truce Summit. Constellations had guided Safi and Vaness on their travels though the Contested Lands, so Vaness had thought Safi might enjoy having the telescope to “view the heavens more closely.”

  Safi knew Vaness had meant the gift kindly, yet it had felt more like a cruel reminder that Safi was trapped behind walls, with stars as her only escape.

  The bird perched on the telescope’s edge. Its wings stretched wide, feathers glimmering in the sunlight. It wasn’t the crow she stared at, though—it was what the crow had trapped in its beak: a chunk of rose quartz. At first Safi thought it was a Painstone, except it wasn’t glowing. Besides, why would a crow have one?

  But then the bird dropped the stone, gave another urgent squawk, and flapped away—although not before leaving a glorious splatter of shit on the brass telescope’s casing.

  “Thanks,” Safi muttered, although she was grateful he hadn’t shit on her head instead.

  Curiosity propelled her into the hot garden, the nearest insects quieted. Her stained slippers crunched on yellow gravel.

  It was a Painstone. She couldn’t believe it. The magic was clearly drained, but the shape and size were right. And when she crouched to pick it up, she spotted a hole at the top where string was meant to go through.

  For several breaths, Safi remained kneeling, staring at the stone while the knot in her mind unwound. Cautiously, she tugged at the idea-chain. Gently, she traced it around, around, around, all while a small smile towed at the edge of her lips.

  Then there it was: a plan that might save her. Simple, clear, and one that Iseult would like too. It would require tools and books. And tomorrow, when the grouchy Earthwitch healer came to check on her foot and nose—neither injury had healed quite right—she would pester the woman with questions. Because if other witches could apply their magic to stones and salves and locks and drums, why couldn’t Safi?

  If she could make a Truthstone then Vaness wouldn’t need her here at all. It wouldn’t be Safi’s words consigning traitors to death anymore, and best of all, she could go after Iseult without delay.

  Lungs suddenly brimming, Safi snatched up the dead Painstone and stood. She had a task, she had a plan, and it felt good. Enough standing still inside a palace. Enough waiting for the corruption to come to her. Enough being someone else’s tool.

  Safi got to work.

  * * *

  Vivia stood barefoot at the edge of
the underground lake. Shadows played across the rippling surface, cast by the lantern she had left on the shore. She’d left her boots there too, as she always did when she came here.

  This was the heart of Lovats, fed by miles of underground rivers and aquifers long forgotten. It was Vivia’s heart too, and the only place she could go when the panic became too much. Here she could breathe. Here she could be Vivia. Just Vivia.

  This is the source of our power, Little Fox, Jana had told her. The reason our family rules Nubrevna and others do not. This water knows us. This water chose us.

  “Extinguish,” Vivia whispered to her lantern, and darkness draped the cavern. After three rib-bowing breaths, her eyes adjusted to reveal sprinkles and sprays of luminescent foxfire. Six spokes that crawled across the cavern’s ceiling.

  Two weeks ago, there had only been three spokes, because two weeks ago, the city had almost fallen. But Vivia and Merik had fended off the raiders and the monster called the Fury. They had repaired the dam, and shortly thereafter, the foxfire had returned.

  Two weeks ago, Serrit Linday had also called this place an Origin Well.

  Ever since that seed had been planted in Vivia’s head, she’d been unable to stop its roots from spreading. There was one elemental Well unaccounted for in the Witchlands, and though Vivia’s magic wasn’t bound to the Void, there was no denying that this lake was more than just a pool where water collected.

  Of course, if she really did have the Void Well hiding beneath her city, then what did that even mean? It was one more problem, one more question to add to her ever-growing list.

  Before her lungs could cinch with panic at that thought, Vivia darted into the waves. The lake embraced her, warm and welcome. Shivering and alive. Grounding in a way that true ground never was.

  This water didn’t care about fathers or mothers or distant best friends. This water didn’t care about messages from empresses or speeches stolen away. The water cared only for this moment and this place. It flowed where the land allowed it. It changed as the seasons demanded. And it never fretted if it couldn’t be what others wanted.