She did not look convinced, but fortunately, she also did not press. “Here.” Two long strides brought her to him, and she offered him a worn leather satchel. “Clean up.”
Aeduan squinted at the brown case. A small healer’s kit, he realized. Then he shook his head. “It … won’t help. I need the Painstone.”
“Well, it’s this or nothing.” She waved it in his face. “Your choice.”
He took the kit.
By the dappled light of a turning maple, Aeduan did his best to tend his wounds. The arrow marks had worsened, the skin around each gash puffy and red while the holes themselves oozed black blood. Each touch made his teeth grind and his eyes roll back in his head. Somehow, though, he managed not to pass out.
He dabbed the final smears of a Waterwitch salve on the largest slash below his breastbone, when a question split the day: “What’s it like?”
Lizl sat on a fallen tree, oiling her sword. Her cloth whispered rhythmically against Carawen steel.
“What is … what like?” It took Aeduan three tries to get the jar closed again. His fingers shook.
“What’s it like being unable to die?”
“I can die,” he answered. I am dying right now.
Her gaze flicked to his, unamused. “You know what I mean.”
Perhaps it was her detachment that spurred him, or perhaps it was the pain and the haze and the bloodred light through a maple tree. He could not say. All he knew was that a reply fell from his tongue, raw and honest.
“It means that I forget how easy it is to kill people,” he said gruffly, “so I must always be on my guard. It means I do not know what fear is, so I can never be brave. It means that I live when everyone else around me dies. And it means,” he finally wedged the salve’s cork back in, “I am not like you. Or anyone else.”
Her cloth paused halfway down the blade. She considered him, eyes thinned and inscrutable.
Until at last she murmured, “No. You are not like me or anyone else, are you?” She broke the eye contact. “And it’s why the world hates you. Why we will always hate you. Death follows wherever you go, yet by the grace of the Wells, you always outrun your own.”
“I did not ask for this.”
“No one asks for what life gives them.” She sniffed and scrubbed harder at the blade. “What matters is how you use it, and far as I can tell, you have squandered a magic that others would kill for. You ascended through the ranks faster than any other acolyte. You took all the best assignments, hoarded all the employers and coin, and the entire time, you looked down on the rest of us. We were mud for you to stomp through on your way to higher ground. You had no loyalty to the Monastery, no interest in the Cahr Awen.”
For the first time since her leash had wrapped around his neck, anger sparked in Aeduan’s shoulders. His fingers flexed.
Because she had it all wrong. Everything she said was backward. He had not looked down on the other monks; he had been cast aside. He had not wasted his magic; his magic had wasted him.
“Now,” she went on, voice bitter as she scooped more lanolin from a tub, “it turns out you’re son to the Raider King. I don’t know why I was so surprised to learn this. Of course you would be loyal to a man who kills innocents and burns the Witchlands—and of course he would breed a demon like you.”
Aeduan’s wrists rolled. The rage spread hotter inside his veins.
Why, he wanted to ask, should he be loyal to anyone? He had lived his entire life as a tool for others, a blade no different from the one she now cleaned. Even the Threadwitch had used him, tricking him with his own coins so he would track her friend across the Contested Lands.
Aeduan said nothing at all, though. Instead, his spine hardened and he inhaled deep. Rage was stoking his magic to life, a weak flame. Vicious and welcome within his heart. Though he was not strong enough yet to control Lizl’s blood and flee, if he was patient, if he was angry …
Maybe enough of his power would return. And maybe this curse would not claim him just yet.
* * *
The Carawen Monastery was everything Iseult had hoped it would be.
It was more than she had hoped, because now it was real. Now it was right before her with only minutes of flying before they arrived.
The sky-ferry approached from the south, and as it creaked past peak after peak, more and more of the Monastery emerged. It was as if Iseult were peeling back a page in her old book on the Carawens, slowly revealing the full scale of the monks’ home.
A black fortress clutched the side of a mountain. Imposing, impenetrable, and isolated atop its white peak. Snow-tipped trees clustered around its lower half, a dense forest that stretched into the valley below. Stone steps, ramparts, and towers fixed with trebuchets stacked their way up to the highest point of the mountain—and all around that dark stone, over it and through it, moved tiny figures in white.
They were too far away for Iseult to sense Threads, but there was no mistaking their urgency. They moved in clusters, sprinting toward the highest tower. Some drill, perhaps? Or a sudden meeting? She supposed she would have an answer soon enough.
After years of dreaming of this place, Iseult det Midenzi had finally arrived at the Carawen Monastery. It looked exactly as it had in the illustrations, except so much more. No painting could ever capture all the angles and shades and movement of the place.
Her chest felt so full, she couldn’t inhale. The frost that had lived in her shoulders since last night thawed into something warm. Something that expanded in her stomach and pressed against her lungs …
Laughter, she realized, and if she wasn’t careful, she might actually start giggling. And clapping. And bouncing. And, Moon Mother preserve her, would that be so bad? She was not merely here as a supplicant hoping to train with monks, hoping to finally be the monk she’d always dreamed of. She was here as one half of the Cahr Awen.
Surely, even a Threadwitch could clap at that.
“See those little people, Owl? Those are the monks,” Iseult murmured. The girl’s Threads hovered with a pink. All her fear had whispered away, replaced by awe the instant the sky-ferry’s pulley had begun its haul. No doubt it helped that the girl was certain “Blueberry would catch her if she fell,” and no doubt that was true. For her, at least. Iseult and Prince Leopold, however, were on their own—and it was a long way down.
Despite this undeniable truth, even Iseult’s fear had settled the longer the wood croaked beneath them without incident, the longer the chain crunched them ever onward. And she had to admit, it helped that Leopold was so calm, so at ease. If the pressure popping in his ears bothered him, he gave no sign on his face. If the wind and the cold and the endless drop-off below unsettled him, none of that showed in his Threads.
What would Safi say if she saw me like this? Iseult thought, her fingers moving to her Threadstone. A prince beside her and a mountain bat soaring overhead while she ascended ever higher into the Sirmayans.
She had come a long way from that attic bedroom in Veñaza City.
What if, what if, what if. Iseult squeezed her Threadstone tighter. Soon, she would be with Safi again. Soon, the world would make sense again. It would be right side up as it should be.
Owl’s tiny voice split her thoughts. “Rook,” the child said, pointing above them, where sure enough, a bird circled on the currents.
At Leopold’s curious glance from the pulley, Iseult translated. He nodded, a flitter of surprise crossing his Threads even as he smiled lightly at the girl. “That is indeed a rook. They use them to carry messages outside the Monastery—and to spy on approaching visitors. I imagine we will be joined by monks the instant we land.”
When Iseult turned to tell Owl all of this, though, she found the girl eyeing Leopold.
“Where is your crown?” Owl asked.
A valid question for a child, so again Iseult translated.
And a startled laugh split his lips. The reaction, however, did not match his Threads. They were startled, yes, but also tin
ged with fear. “Tell her I lost it in my search to find you.”
Iseult dutifully explained, and Owl’s forehead pinched, her Threads sage green with consideration. Then at last she nodded: “I will make him another,” before turning once more to gaze upon the view.
Soon, the sky-ferry floated them past the final mountaintop, and the full Monastery was on display. Iseult could hardly breathe at the sight of it. Without thinking—having forgotten the height entirely—she scooted a bit closer to the railing. Owl inched forward with her.
“That tall spire there,” Iseult said, pointing to a black tower twice as high as everything else, “was built a thousand years ago. And there, do you see that lower wall circling the Monastery? It’s wide enough for twenty men to move side by side. On horseback. Oh, and look—that slope-roofed building over there. That’s the great hall, where they have glass stained in every color you can imagine.
“And, oh look!” Iseult’s voice came out breathy and thick with emotion—a shame to every Threadwitch in the Witchlands. “That island,” she said reverently, “is where the Origin Well stands.” She pointed to a wide silver streak bisecting the valley, and to a long, crescent-shaped island at its heart.
She knew from her book that the Well itself stood nestled at the southern edge, and that six downy birches stood sentry, their leaves green even in winter. The Well, meanwhile, stayed frozen year round. In the summer, when the Nomatsi caravans arrived on pilgrimage, it would take them a full day of cutting through the ice to retrieve the Well’s healing waters. It was only a few inches thick, but hard as granite.
“What are you telling her?” Leopold queried, moving to join them. The breeze pulled at his curls. The sun turned his eyes a sharp, clover green.
“I’m showing her the Origin Well,” Iseult explained, eyes narrowing at the sight of his Threads. The serenity on his face no longer matched his feelings. His earlier calm was gone, replaced by a rich, yellow worry.
“What’s wrong?” she asked quietly, tone intentionally light for Owl’s sake.
Leopold blinked. Then grimaced. “I can hide nothing from you, can I?”
“We had an agreement.”
“That disproportionately favors you.”
“If you would simply show me your true feelings, then it would not be a problem.”
“But Iseult,” he countered, spreading his hands, “true feelings are dangerous. Did you not know?”
“So is trying to run from them.”
“Ah.” Again, he blinked, Threads doused beneath a rich, almost icy blue. As if her words had surprised him like cold water dashed against the face.
And when he looked at her again, there was something akin to respect in his expression.
“To answer your question,” he drawled, cocking his head casually toward a craggy slope coming into view. It stood opposite the Monastery, and above the river snaking between. “That army of raiders has me … on edge.”
Iseult followed his gaze, about to ask, What raiders? But then she saw, and her breath hitched. Clustered amidst the forest were hundreds of tents with a hundred more smoke spirals whipping away on the breeze—and that was only the start. Countless more spirals lifted up from the snow-covered trees, suggesting countless more tents waiting unseen.
“Why are they here?” Her voice came out shrill with surprise, prompting Owl to glance up—and prompting worry to sparkle in her Threads. Iseult forced a tight smile.
“You pose an excellent question,” Leopold murmured. “For which there is no excellent answer. As far as anyone can guess, the Raider King is waiting for the river to freeze. Then he will march his forces south. And we will be very glad we are inside the Monastery and not down there beside them.” He flashed a warm grin for Owl, much smoother than Iseult’s had been.
“Can they see us?” Iseult asked.
A curt head shake. “The sky-ferry is glamoured. The monks, however, can most certainly see us, and…” He trailed off. Then as one, his body and Threads stiffened. “Move.” He flung his arms around Iseult, yanked her from the rail, and thrust her toward the pulley.
She fell to her knees beside the gears. Owl screamed. Iseult turned …
And she saw what Leopold had seen: a trebuchet winding back, a great ball of flame clutched in its sling. It was aimed for the sky-ferry.
Leopold pushed Owl toward Iseult, and Iseult pulled the girl close.
Crack! The massive arm snapped. Fire launched their way.
“Hold on!” Leopold bellowed. He dove for the pulley, swooped his arm around Iseult—who swooped an arm around Owl—and then all three held tight.
The fire roared past them. Large as the ferry, hot as the sun. Sparks sprayed onto the wood. Wind scalded against them.
The ferry whooshed sideways, pushed by displaced air. Gravity clawed at Iseult. At Leopold and Owl, but their grips held true. Mountains, canyon, snow, death.
The ferry swung back the other way.
And more fire ignited on the trebuchet. The ferry was closer to the Monastery now; an easier target getting easier by the second.
“Why are they attacking us?” Iseult had to shout over Owl’s howls and the ferry’s shrieking wood.
“No idea!” Leopold shouted back. His Threads were as pale with fear as Owl’s, but green determination latticed around the edges. He had not given up yet. “Surely there is some way to turn this thing around!”
While the ferry rocked to a gentler sway, he searched the pulley mechanism, and Iseult followed his lead. Neither loosened their grip on Owl. They simply scoured and examined—and Iseult also prayed. Please, Moon Mother. Help us survive this, please.
“What would a switch look like?” Iseult asked.
“I don’t know!”
“I thought you had been here more times than you can count!”
“But only four times on the ferry—” He broke off as the next trebuchet launched.
Fire rocketed toward them. Leopold stared. Iseult stared. Owl screamed, a sound to split mountains. A sound to summon stone.
Or a mountain bat. In a streak of fur and speed, Blueberry dropped from the sky. With his wings folded in, he dove faster than the flames.
He crashed into the fire. The ball flew off course. His flight turned to a spinning topple. No space between fire and beast. A blur of smoking flesh plummeted toward the earth.
Now Owl really screamed, but Iseult was ready this time. “He’s all right.” She grabbed Owl’s face. Forced the girl to look at her. Iseult knew from experience with sea foxes that creatures like Blueberry were almost impossible to kill.
“Owl!” she pleaded. “We need your magic! You have to control this metal. Make the pulley stop—can you do that?”
Owl did nothing of the sort. She was crying now, a weak whimper while her Threads shriveled inward like they had the night before.
“Feel my hand,” Iseult ordered, squeezing Owl’s fingers. “Do you feel that? Feel the skin, feel how hot it is and how strong the muscles underneath.”
Nothing. No response, no reaction, no awareness.
“And do you feel your own hand, Owl? Do you feel the way the skin and bone crush together the tighter I hold on?”
Still, Owl’s Threads shrank. Breaking, breaking, breaking.
It was then that another trebuchet snapped, close enough to hear the wood punching. Close enough to hear the fire’s thunderous ignition take flight.
Iseult dared not look. “The sky!” She had to howl now, to be heard over the winds and flames and wood. “Do you see how blue it is? Look up, Owl, look up!”
To her shock, Owl looked up. So Iseult looked up too.
And at that moment, Blueberry streaked across the blue. Smoke chased behind, his tail ablaze. But he lived. He lived.
Color plowed through Owl’s Threads. Brilliant as the mountain bat’s, but with a thousand shades twirling and chasing. Too fast to read—too fast to matter.
“The chain!” Iseult screamed, seizing the moment. “Owl, please—stop th
e chain!”
The chain stopped. The pulley froze. The ferry lurched, a snapping lunge that sent Leopold sprawling toward the rail.
“Reverse it!” Iseult screamed. “Reverse it, Owl! Reverse it, reverse it!”
The ferry reversed.
“Faster!” Leopold now shouted, crawling back to the pulley. “Faster, faster, faster—”
They were not fast enough. The flames shattered against the ferry, blinding and deafening. Heat to boil the flesh off bones. The last thing Iseult saw before her world blazed to ash was Blueberry’s fierce, silver Threads diving their way.
Then everything vanished beneath the pyre.
THIRTY-FOUR
There is an army headed your way.
I know.
What do you intend to do?
Stay alive. What else?
Then I should inform you that I have moved ten thousand soldiers to my borders, and I intend to move five thousand more, once they are mobilized. They will have a full Firewitched arsenal at their disposal, and we are building blockades at every road and bridge into Marstok.
Raiders will not enter my empire. However, the officers are under strict orders to allow refugees through.
Why are you telling me this?
Why are you helping my refugees?
Because if Nubrevna falls, then Marstok will be next.
* * *
The Battle Room shook with the voices of the High Council. Urgent, panicked, uncoordinated, and uncooperative. And also, all male. The women who had visited for Merik’s funeral had not remained in Lovats after—for until Vivia wore the crown, there was nothing to compel them to. Their fathers and brothers did not give up power so easily.
Which explained, of course, why Serafin Nihar was also not in the room.
Five of the twelve vizers wanted to face the Raider King and his armies head-on. Some variation of “We outnumber them!” hit Vivia’s ears every few seconds.
Three vizers wanted to fortify the northern estates and holdings—because, of course, said northern estates and holdings belonged to their families. And three vizers wanted to attempt treating with the Raider King directly. “Surely something can be negotiated,” several kept murmuring to themselves, as if by saying these words they would somehow become true.
Bloodwitch Page 24
