Bloodwitch

by Susan Dennard

  It was the cold that eventually woke Merik. Ice had spindled into his bones while he slept, and each breath felt thin and sharp. Shivering, he opened his eyes.

  “Hello, Threadbrother,” crooned a familiar voice. “Happy to see me?”

  Merik blinked—then blinked again, until Kullen came into sharp focus before him. He leaned against the wall, arms folded over his wide chest and a foot hooked behind his ankle. His right ear was mangled and half missing, black blood clotted at the edges. Merik felt no satisfaction at his handiwork.

  Frost laced the stones around Kullen, swelling and shrinking in time to his breath. Esme was nowhere to be seen. “You don’t look so good,” the Fury said.

  Merik didn’t feel so good, but he would not give Kullen the satisfaction of hearing that. He just dragged himself into a groggy sitting position and examined the mud coating his boots, the loose spot where his breeches had come untucked.

  The old Merik would have fixed that the instant he saw it. Wherever there were wrinkles, he liked to smooth them out. Now, Merik couldn’t be bothered. His best friend was so near in body, but in mind, he was a thousand thousand leagues away.

  For weeks, Merik had wondered if scar tissue would ever grow atop his heart. It was bad enough to lose his best friend to cleaving. Then, he’d had to learn his Threadbrother had also become a monster. The Fury.

  Now he knew this wound would stay open and raw forever. Merik missed Kullen. He missed his steadiness, constant as the tide to the sea. He missed Kullen’s awkward grin, and the dry, sarcastic jokes he always cracked. Above all, he missed knowing there was at least one person in the world who understood him, and one person he understood in return.

  But Merik did not understand the Fury. He did not know who that creature was, how he had claimed Kullen’s mind and body, or how a Threadbond had saved Merik’s life during the Jana’s explosion. Esme’s magic was beyond his ken; the Fury’s magic even more so.

  There was one thing Merik did know, though: if a Northman could return from cleaving, then so could he and Kullen. He had to cling to that hope. He had to believe it could be true.

  Kullen laughed, a harsh, crowing sound that chased away Merik’s thoughts. “I must admit, Merik, it amuses me to see you this way, after all those people you put in the irons. How many was it, do you think?” He started ticking off fingers, but quickly gave up and shrugged. “The list is too long to even remember. Discipline, you always called it, but tell me true: you enjoyed punishing the fools, didn’t you? You liked watching them writhe.”

  Merik’s teeth ground, but he held his tongue. Even as Kullen pushed off the wall and sauntered closer. Even as ice crackled his way and Kullen declared, “I certainly enjoy watching you writhe. Reduced to the same fate you once doled out. How does the old saying go? You know, the one your aunt always used to say.” He twirled a hand in the air. “Whatever you have done will come back to you tenfold, and it will haunt you until you make amends. Because the Fury never forgets, Merik.” Kullen sank to a squat, a single pace away. “I never forget.”

  Merik drew in a frozen breath, but still he did not lift his gaze to Kullen’s.

  “No words for your Threadbrother? Come now. I only want to help you, Merik. I only want to free you. Kings should not be in chains.”

  At those words, Merik finally looked up. “I am no king.”

  The air warmed; Kullen smiled. “You could be, though. You should be, in fact—and trust me when I say that I know these sorts of things.” Hands braced on his knees, he pushed back to his feet. “You know, all I have to do is say the word, and the Puppeteer will let you go. Just one little word.”

  “Then say it.”

  “You must first agree to join me.”

  “Fine.” Merik bounced a shoulder. His chains clinked. “I agree to join you. Now let me go.”

  A laugh split Kullen’s lips. The air abruptly turned to sweltering. “Very clever, but you must know I cannot trust you so easily.” He wagged a finger Merik’s way. “You have not been a loyal Threadbrother, and there is too much at stake to risk another betrayal.”

  “Then let me prove myself.” The words surprised Merik as much as they seemed to surprise Kullen. Merik didn’t know where they’d come from, but the quickly gathering heat in the room suggested that they had been the right ones.

  Kullen’s eyes thinned with thought. “And how would you do that, Merik? How can you possibly prove to me you are a loyal friend?”

  Merik’s pulse quickened. His impulsive words had earned him a chance—a good one that he couldn’t squander. Move with the wind, Master Huntsman Yoris had taught him—and taught Kullen too. Move with the stream. Too fast, Prince, and your prey will sense you long before you reach ’em.

  And as Aunt Evrane had also trained him, Information is better earned through conversation.

  “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “if you tell me what it is you aim to do, then I can tell you how I aim to help.”

  Kullen said nothing, and as the seconds flicked past, the room seemed to shrink, as if every drop of air was being reeled into Kullen’s lungs. And as each second ticked past with no response, Merik’s lungs cinched tighter and tighter.

  Until at last the Fury flipped up his hands. “Why not?” he mused aloud, and Merik’s breath finally released.

  “It is quite straightforward.” The Fury slouched once more against the wall. “I want to enter into the mountain, but my Heart-Thread shuts me out. The entrance is magicked, and … Let us just say that brute force is not working fast enough. We were able to enter the Crypts, but I fear that will not get us into the Sleeper’s heart.”

  Into the Crypts. That was where Merik had left Ryber and Cam. They must have moved on, though. Deeper inside this mountain that Merik still did not understand.

  “You have seen no sign of Ryber?” he asked, careful to keep his tone casual.

  “No. She and that boy Leeri went deeper into the mountain, and now they need never return. The Crypts are not the only doorway in or out.”

  There it was again. A reference to doorways. First Ryber, then Esme, now Kullen. “What are these doors?”

  “Power,” Kullen replied simply, as if this explained everything. “Whoever controls the doors controls the Witchlands. They lead all across the continent, Merik. Enter the mountain here”—he stretched his right arm long—“and come out of the mountain here.” He stretched his left arm.

  “Then why can’t you use those other doors?”

  “Unfortunately,” Kullen’s nose wrinkled, arms dropping, “I cannot remember where they are. I used to know, and I know that I found one in the south—Ryber told me I did, but the blighted Sightwitches stole my memory. Although…” He flung Merik a terrible, wide-eyed grin. Then he knocked at his skull. “They could not take all the memories. Only one. Only your Threadbrother’s. The rest of us are still in here. The Fury is still in here, and he was present on the day of reckoning.”

  Merik had no idea what that meant. He had no idea what most of it meant, but as long as he could keep Kullen talking, he could keep formulating a plan. “So then,” he tried, “you do know where the entrances are?”

  Instantly, the Fury’s smile fell. A wind swooped around him, vicious and cold. He began to pace.

  “I know of only one.” Step, step, step, twist. “But that wretched Eridysi made it so the door to my people only traveled one way. I cannot use it to get in. As for the other doors, I was never allowed to use them before betrayal ruined us all. And the other survivors like me…” He scowled, ice lancing over the stones. “They remember even less than I do. Useless, the entire lot of them. So as you can see, that leaves only the Crypts for access. Since that is the way I remember, then that is the way we use.”

  Step, step, step, twist. Step, step, step, pause. Kullen angled toward Merik. “Now tell me: what do you propose, Threadbrother? How will you help me gain what I need?”

  Merik wet his lips, so dry. His throat was dry too. Distant, cursory annoyances,
though. Right now, all that mattered was moving with the wind, with the stream. Prove himself; lose the collar. Think, think, think.

  He got no chance to think, though. Not before the Fury offered a proposal of his own. “Lure them out and kill them.” He spoke this almost to himself, words so faint, Merik scarcely heard them over the still whispering wind.

  Then Kullen was striding toward him, and as he sank into a squat, he repeated: “Lure them out and kill them, Merik. Then I will trust you again as my Threadbrother.”

  “Them?” Merik asked, even as he knew what the answer had to be. Even as he knew he could not say no to this request—not without losing his only gift from Noden since coming here.

  “Ryber and Leeri.” Kullen grinned. Death gleamed in his eyes.

  “But she is your Heart-Thread.”

  “Was my Heart-Thread,” he corrected. “Like you, though, she has not been very loyal.”

  Never, in a thousand lifetimes, could Merik kill Ryber or Cam. He would kill himself before he would ever do that. But right now, it was the only thing he could say to prove himself. He would not startle this prey. He would move exactly as the wind and stream demanded.

  “All right,” he said, chin rising. “As you command, Kullen. I will lure them out, and I will kill them.”

  FORTY-ONE

  Something changed between Aeduan and Lizl. When the fight ended, Lizl did not draw her sword on Aeduan, and Aeduan did not attempt to flee. They simply stood there, steam coiling off the corpses and blood soaking the soil between them.

  The night was suddenly too quiet.

  “You did not use your magic,” Lizl said eventually, small gasps to punctuate her words. Her face was marked with blood and dirt. “In the fight, you could have held them in place, but you didn’t.”

  “I … only use it if I must.” Aeduan gulped in air, so thick with the scent of death. “It is not honorable. Not against our own.”

  “What do you care about honor?” There was no venom in her voice. Only exhaustion and genuine confusion.

  Aeduan offered no reply, and she did not seem to expect one. The moments slid past, both breathing. Both processing what had happened. They had fought their own people, they had killed their own people, and it had been the right thing to do.

  “Are there any survivors?” Lizl asked at last, and Aeduan nodded, a ragged thing. His magic might be weak, even with the Painstone, but he could still sense four people alive within the encampment.

  “We can do nothing for them,” he said roughly. “They will not see us as allies.” He gestured to their cloaks. “They will try to flee or try to kill us.”

  “Ah,” she agreed, rubbing at her eyes. It only smeared more blood across her face.

  “This is not the first massacre I’ve seen.” Aeduan described the dead tribes he had found, and the dead monk who had blamed the Purists. For the first time since the fight had ended, anger flashed across Lizl’s face.

  No more numb shock, no more panting recovery. Her lips snarled. “Why would Natan order this?” She turned slowly, head shaking as she took in the full battle. “They said it was to stop the Raider King, but … but that sounds like shit to me.”

  It sounded like shit to Aeduan too. The Monastery had never interfered in war before. “I thought it was the tier ten that had drawn the monk to the Nomatsis. But now…”

  “Now, that doesn’t make sense.” Lizl bent to the headless monk, and on a patch of clean cloak, she swiped her sword. Roughly. Almost violent in her movements. “It’s true that all Natan cares about is coin, but how much coin can justify this? What coin can pay for the lives of children? I will kill him.” She glanced up, pupils shrunk to pinpricks. “I will kill him.”

  Abruptly, she straightened, barking a bitter laugh. “I guess Monk Evrane was right all along. She told me that men like Natan should never lead. That he would mark the end of everything we stood for. She wanted me to put in a bid for the position.” Lizl hammered her chest. “Fool that I was, I didn’t want to be trapped at the Monastery when there was so much world to see. So much … so much glory to be had.”

  “This is not your fault.”

  “No. It isn’t. It’s Natan’s, and he will face our justice.” With a clank of steel, she sheathed her sword and turned away. “We will go to the Monastery and tell the others what he has done.”

  “Others already know,” Aeduan said. “And others clearly approve.”

  “Not everyone. He said there were insurgents. They must be fighting this.”

  “Then why have we not heard of it?”

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Maybe it only just began. Does it matter? This must end. We swore a vow to protect.”

  “To protect the Cahr Awen, yes.”

  “Is that how you justify this?” Lizl reared back. “You’re not hurting the Cahr Awen, so it’s acceptable?”

  “I am not hurting anyone.”

  “You’ve spent your whole life hurting others! How many people have you killed or maimed, Bloodwitch? How many people have you taken from simply because an assignment told you to?” Lizl’s voice hit louder with each word. “You said you have honor, but I have seen you use your magic to kill. You said you have honor, yet you fight for the Raider King.”

  There it was again. That spark of rage to tense in Aeduan’s wrists and fists. Except now, he had a Painstone. Now, he had his magic.

  He could run. He need not even control Lizl’s blood to do it. He could fuel his muscles to a speed she couldn’t follow.

  But there would be no outrunning the Fury.

  “You,” Aeduan said, his own voice carefully controlled, “do not know me at all.” Then he groped for the Painstone and eased it from his neck. Instantly, his body gave way. Fire filled his chest, his belly, his brain. He doubled over, eyes screwing shut. The stone dropped to the bloodied earth.

  He hit the ground mere moments later, landing on all fours, chest heaving. The headless monk was near enough for him to smell without magic.

  “What are you doing?” Lizl moved closer.

  “I … want you to trust me,” he ground out. “I did not kill these people. My father did not kill these people. Natan and the monks did that. They are your enemy, not me.”

  Lizl said nothing, so Aeduan continued: “I found the Cahr Awen. They … healed the Well in Nubrevna. Did Monk Evrane tell you?”

  “I heard, but I did not believe.” A hard exhale. Then came a swish of fabric, a clink of metal, and Lizl dropped to a crouch beside Aeduan.

  And it occurred to him that he could not smell her blood. So close, but the daisy chains and mother’s kisses were gone.

  “It’s true.” Blood dribbled from his mouth. “And … I found half of the Cahr Awen a second time. The shadow-ender. I failed to protect her, though. I sent her to the Monastery. I sent her to the Abbot.”

  Lizl inhaled sharply.

  “I told her the monks would help her. I told her she would be safe there.” Aeduan tried to shake his head; he failed, and suddenly he was coughing.

  Blood splattered Lizl’s cloak, fresh and hot. Rather than recoil, she simply sat there, waiting. And waiting some more, even as Aeduan’s cough sprayed wider.

  “You,” he forced out at last, “have to get her away from … him.”

  “I,” she said flatly. “Meaning alone.”

  Molars clenching, Aeduan dragged his face up and forced his eyes to hold hers. Pain, pain, pain. “I cannot go with you.”

  She scoffed. “Of course you can’t. You always run away, Bloodwitch. You have since we were young.”

  Aeduan’s eyes dropped back to the ground. The Painstone gleamed inches away. He could take it again. He could end these screams in his muscles and feel his magic thrum once more.

  He did not take it.

  “The … longer you are with me,” he said, “the greater danger, Monk Lizl. The Fury … The man who came for me in Tirla … He will come again, and he will kill you.”

  “Oh?” She gri
pped Aeduan’s chin, jerked his face toward hers. “And what does this ‘Fury’ want with you?”

  “He works for my father. And my father wants me at his side.”

  “Is that where you want to go?”

  “No,” he said, and it was true. Even knowing that his father had not killed these people, even knowing that a man like Corlant had defended the Purists and Nomatsis—he still did not want to return.

  Lady Fate’s knife had fallen, though, and for him, there could only be one path.

  “I wish I could believe you,” Lizl said. “But I can’t.” Even as she spoke these words, her face softened. The line between her brows smoothed away. “Your skin is fire,” she murmured, “and you bleed and bleed and bleed. You are dying, Monk Aeduan, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  She released his chin. Aeduan’s head dropped. His arms shook dangerously beneath him. If he did not move, he would fall on his face, and if he fell, he did not think he would get up again.

  Lizl sensed this too, for suddenly she was there, grabbing his shoulders and hauling him upright. It took all his remaining strength not to topple backward. And it took all the focus he had just to keep breathing.

  “You know,” Lizl said, “I thought that seeing you like this would make me happy. I used to imagine it even, when we were younger. I imagined surpassing you on the training block, or earning more assignments, or just getting more praise from Monk Evrane.

  “But I don’t feel happy right now. I feel disgusted. All these years, I thought you were special. I thought you were stronger—better even, because your magic made you unstoppable. It turns out, though, that you die like every other man. And you are a coward like them too.

  “So go. Leave me and rejoin your father as you so desperately wish to do. I do not want your weakness at my side.”

  In a graceful sweep, she retrieved the Painstone from the bloodied soil. Then she stalked up to Aeduan and stared down. “Just remember, you owe me three life-debts, Bloodwitch. One for the Painstone. One for the Cahr Awen. And one for not killing you right now.” She dropped the stone onto his lap.