Bloodwitch

by Susan Dennard

  It did not touch his skin.

  “And I will expect repayment, so don’t die before I can claim it.” Without another word, Lizl left. She stalked into the woods, away from Aeduan, away from the monks she had killed and the innocents she had tried to save.

  Aeduan watched her go, waiting until she was out of sight before easing the Painstone around his neck. His hands shook. His lungs shook. Then the stone was on and the agony was tucked away, hidden beneath the lies of numbing magic.

  He stood, muscles free and strong once more, and he moved. North toward the highest peaks of the Sirmayans. North toward his father.

  Lady Fate’s knife had fallen, and it was time to see how sharp its edge might be.

  FORTY-TWO

  All Iseult wanted to do was wake up. All she wanted to do was stop these flames and the endless laughing. The Firewitch was there whenever Evrane put her to sleep—and Evrane put her to sleep whenever she woke up.

  Iseult would have just enough time to stumble to a washroom, the curtains and ram’s head and four-poster bed spinning with each step. Then she would relieve herself, drink some broth, and … Back to bed. Back to sleep. Back to the Firewitch’s flames.

  The silver king did not save her again.

  Iseult begged Evrane to let her stay awake, but the words always came out strange. Garbled and small, like she spoke the wrong language from somebody else’s mouth. And each time, Evrane would simply shake her head, confusion on her face and in her Threads.

  Sometimes Leopold was there too, the same frown gripping his sunshine face and sunshine Threads. How much time has passed? Iseult tried to ask. How long have I been here? What is outside this room? Is the battle between monks still going on? But like Evrane, all he could do was shake his head and tell her to get some rest.

  Finally—she had no concept of when, for the door never opened and the curtains never budged—Iseult opened her eyes. Evrane was not there, and no shadows trounced. No groggy magic held her under.

  So she breathed, deep and full. Then she tried swallowing, amazed when she not only succeeded without coughing, but she even felt her tongue scrape the roof of her mouth. Felt her throat moving and chapped lips pressing tight.

  She swiveled her head next, pleased when the room stayed mostly intact. Only slight blurring, slight dizziness. In fact, she could just make out Leopold standing at the curtains, peering outside. His Threads twined with golden worry and green contemplation. His left arm still hung in a sling.

  “What happened to Owl?” she rasped. Cartorran. The words had come out in Cartorran, thank the goddess.

  Leopold’s Threads skittered with sea blue surprise. He rounded toward her, eyebrows bouncing. Relief foaming overtop his other feelings. He strode toward her, a slight limp that Iseult hadn’t noticed before. Hadn’t been able to notice. “How do you feel, Iseult? Should I fetch Monk Evrane?”

  “No.” The word burst out, overloud and erratic. Iseult might trust the monk completely and might owe her several lives, too, but right now, she did not want sleep. She wanted answers. “Don’t summon her. I feel fine. Just tell me: where is Owl?”

  A swallow. A wincing spiral of grief. “I do not know,” Leopold admitted, reaching the bed. “Everything happened so quickly.”

  “Ah.” Iseult rubbed at her face—only to instantly stop when her fingers met bandages. Odd, since she felt no pain there.

  “Here.” Leopold poured her a glass of water from a pitcher on a table beside the bed. Though only one-handed, he remained as nimble as ever.

  But Iseult waved off the drink. She did not know how much time she had before Evrane would return and make her sleep again. “I thought I saw Blueberry. When the fire hit, I saw his Threads. Could he have rescued Owl?”

  “You would know better than I would, Iseult. I saw nothing beyond the flames. May I?” Leopold waved to the bed, and at Iseult’s nod, he helped her rise.

  This time, she welcomed the aid. No pain coiled through her, but her limbs felt made of marble. Too heavy to move on their own.

  “We need to search for her,” she said as Leopold’s good hand slid behind her.

  He huffed a laugh. Not a cruel sound, but a startled one that matched his Threads. “I will do that right after I finish lifting you … Wait, are you serious?” He reared back. “Iseult, there are monks trying to kill us over there”—he swung his head toward the door—“and a Raider King’s vast army over there.” He swung his head toward the window. “If the child lives—and I hope she does—there is nothing we can do to help her right now.”

  “There is always something we can do. Always.”

  At her words, slivers of rich burgundy hit Leopold’s Threads. Shades of peach too. On anyone else, she would have interpreted it as tenderness, perhaps even desire. But on him … On him, she couldn’t understand it at all.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “I said nothing.”

  “No, but you felt something. Tell me what.”

  Now wheat-colored embarrassment channeled across his Threads. Then he smiled, a rueful smile that was so perfectly in sync with his feelings, Iseult found herself blinking. There was even a faint blush to warm his cheeks. “I truly can hide nothing from you, can I?”

  “That does not answer the question.”

  “No.” He ran a thumb over his lower lip, before he finally murmured, “Please, Iseult. Let a man have his secrets.” Then he crooked down to grab something behind the table. “Here, I have something for you.”

  A clever deflection, but Iseult would allow it. There was still so much she needed to know, yet her eyes were burning more and more by the second.

  “I know this is not your book precisely, but it is the same text. Actually, this is the original. I took it from the Monastery Archives.” He slid a black leather tome onto the bed. “I thought it might prove I was telling the truth. About Eron fon Hasstrel, I mean.”

  Iseult glanced down at the book … And ice thumped into her stomach. She swallowed, feeling her face settle into a puzzled frown—and also feeling too stunned to prevent it.

  An Illustrated Guide to the Carawen Monastery.

  This was the same book on Carawen monks she had left behind in Veñaza City. The only way Leopold could know that would be if he was truly working with Safi’s uncle.

  “Likely you do not wish to read it, but I thought—”

  “Thank you,” she interrupted. And she meant it. Everything had been so unstable since Aeduan had left, since the crash and the dreams and the darkness. This book felt like an anchor. And knowing Leopold had gotten it for her … That she could in fact trust him …

  Iseult’s breath slid out. The room was melting together; her chest felt a jumble of feelings—hot and cold alike in a hundred ways she didn’t recognize.

  She pulled the book closer, ready to peel it open, when she noticed a stamp on the cover. A bird with three legs and a crown atop its head.

  “What is this?” Her fast-tiring gaze lifted to Leopold’s. “My version did not have it.”

  “That is the sigil of the Rook King. You can find it all over the Monastery.” He tapped it with his uninjured hand. “This whole place used to be his fortress a thousand years ago. Have you never wondered why the Carawen sigil is a bird?”

  She had, but nowhere in her book—in this book—had there been an answer.

  The Rook King, she thought. The man from her dream. It had to be, even if she couldn’t explain how.

  Again, she rubbed at her bandages. This time, though, she let her fingers scrape the cloth. No pain, but Leopold still grimaced and whispered, “Leave them.”

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” she asked, ignoring him. “Nomatsis do not, but Safi always swore they were real.”

  “Oh?” He blinked, pallid confusion in his Threads. “Yes, well, she would believe in them. The Hasstrel castle is full of ghosts. But … why do you ask?”

  Iseult wet her lips. “So you do believe?”

  “Most Cartorrans do. W
e are not a worshipping people, but we take our ancestors very seriously.” He planted his good hand on the bed and leaned toward her, a frown knitting across his face. “Again, Iseult, why do you ask?”

  She scratched her nose. More gauze scraped. It was one thing to ask for his insight, and quite another to tell him she had ghosts haunting her dreams. “No reason,” she said at last.

  His expression and Threads wore open disbelief, but he did not press her further—for which Iseult was grateful. She grew more tired by the second. Heavier, too, like a cave had collapsed atop her.

  “Owl,” she said, but the name came out as a long, slurring moan.

  Shock brightened Leopold’s Threads. In an instant, he was on his feet. “You are ill again. I will get Monk Evrane.” He moved away, so fast. Too fast. Streaks trailed behind him. A hundred Leopolds, a hundred versions racing across time.

  “No,” Iseult called out, but like before, that was not what left her tongue.

  By the time Evrane rushed in, shadows veiled Iseult’s vision. Evrane looked made of darkness, black waves coiling off her.

  Wings, Iseult thought before the healing magic dragged her under. It looks like she has wings.

  * * *

  When Iseult next awoke, it was to someone barking, “Get her up,” in Cartorran. A man’s voice attached to vague, hazy Threads.

  She stretched her eyelids high. The world wheeled into weak focus. Threads, Threads, Threads—the man who had spoken, as well as two more people now striding toward the bed. Monks she did not know.

  For a brief, disoriented moment, their white cloaks looked fused together, a single entity crossing the room with Threads of hostile gray and green focus. Then the white smear reached Iseult, split once more into two, and faces materialized above her.

  A woman, a man. The woman seized Iseult’s left arm, the man seized her right. Then, with grips that dug beneath her bandages and into her flesh, they wrenched Iseult into a sitting position and heaved her backward until her spine hit the headboard.

  The world reeled around Iseult. No pain, only vertigo and confusion. Sleep still clung to her. The Firewitch still laughed in her ears.

  Then the monks strode away, no longer melded into one, even as their Threads aligned in a single color: silvery revulsion. They were disgusted by Iseult’s weakness. Or perhaps disgusted by the touch of her. But Iseult was accustomed to disgust and hate, and if those feelings could kill, they would have slain her a long time ago.

  She drew in a long breath, relieved when she felt her lungs press against her ribs. When her vision grew clearer and clearer by the second. White moonlight slashed through open curtains. She neither saw nor sensed Evrane or Leopold nearby.

  She had little time to puzzle over their absence before the third monk—the man who’d first spoken—stalked into view.

  At first, as Iseult watched his Threads approach, she thought the colors blended because of her own exhaustion. Because of the shadowy sleep that refused to fully release its hold. Except everything else in the room had crystallized. She felt alert, awake. Even her muscles felt light enough to move of their own accord.

  Then she realized: He’s a Bleeder. Someone who bled from one emotion to the next, feeling each with frenetic intensity, yet never staying in one place for long. It gave their Threads a muddy weave. They are unstable, Gretchya had warned Iseult years ago. Each emotion is frayed and somehow simultaneous. There is no predicting what a Bleeder will do next.

  Instantly, Iseult’s body tensed. Cold shoveled through her—hard ice after so much sleep saturated by flame.

  “Do you know who I am?” the man asked. He was young. Perhaps only a few years older than she. With his sallow skin and fair hair, his features bled together like his Threads, and the illusion was only compounded by the softness of his jaw and figure.

  If Iseult didn’t know of the rigorous monastery training, she would have thought he’d never worked a day in his life.

  He also stank of incense.

  “You are the Abbot,” she said. The red trim on his cloak gave it away. Then she recalled something Evrane had said in passing and added, “Natan fon Leid.”

  Gray displeasure darted across his Threads, somehow moving in sync with rosy pleasure too. There was red irritation as well, along with sprays of lilac hunger and orange impatience. They flitted past, quick as flies and too many for Iseult to catch.

  “Your guardians”—he flung a hand toward the door—“will let no one enter. Not even me, in my own sodding Monastery. But I want to know who has brought us so low. I want to see the face of the woman destroying my home.”

  Iseult stiffened, thrown by his words. Thrown by his venom. “I don’t destroy your home,” she said.

  He only laughed. “This insurgency wants you, and they will do whatever it takes to get you.”

  “Why?”

  He did not answer. Instead, he leaned closer, his eyes scraping up and down the length of her. Violence frittering brighter with each heartbeat.

  “What is your name?”

  “Iseult det Midenzi.”

  “You are a ’Matsi.”

  An observation, she decided, not a question. So she stayed perfectly still. Never in her life had she felt it more important to keep her expression devoid of emotion. Her stasis unwavering and screwed tight. Natan fon Leid was the viper hiding on the forest floor; his danger lay in how plain and unassuming he appeared on the surface.

  Now she understood what Leopold had meant by Men like that are useful to princes. The sixth son of a nobleman, he had likely been overlooked his whole life. Now, as Abbot, he had something to prove.

  Iseult had no idea why Monk Evrane would support such a man. Unless, of course, the insurgent monks were even worse.

  “Five hundred years,” the Abbot muttered to himself, Threads jumping, bleeding, unreadable. “Five hundred years with no one, and now two Aetherwitches claim they are the Cahr Awen.”

  He lunged, too fast for Iseult to react. No warning inside his Threads, no warning in his body. One moment, he spoke. The next, he had his hands around her throat and was slamming her against the headboard.

  Her skull cracked. Instinct took over.

  Her fists shot up, ready to punch beneath his arms. Invert his elbows and snap his bones in two. Burn him, burn him.

  But Iseult stopped, with her fingers only inches above the velvet cover. He was not strangling her, and there were two other monks in the room—heavily armed. This was not a fight she could win. If a man is better armed or better trained, Habim had taught her, then do as he orders. It is better to live and look for opportunity than to die outmatched.

  The Abbot’s face loomed closer, closer. Near enough for Iseult to see the ingrown hairs above his lip. To spot individual bloodlines shooting across his eyes. And this near, his Threads bore down on her like a mudslide.

  “Give me one good reason,” he snarled. Spittle hit her cheek. “Give me one good reason I should not give you to the insurgents.”

  “Because,” she said smoothly, “I am the Cahr Awen. You just said it yourself—”

  It was the wrong answer. He shoved her against the headboard, cracking her skull once more. Sparks flew across her vision.

  Then he tightened his grip, cutting off her air. “All I see is ’Matsi filth. You are lucky you have a prince backing you, or I would have gutted you already and hung you from the ramparts for the insurgents to see.”

  He released her. As abruptly as he’d grabbed her, he let her go and jerked upward.

  Iseult’s hand flew to her neck. Now, she felt pain, in her throat and in her lungs. He had ripped her bandages. Burn him, burn him, burn him.

  She could. She should. These monks could do nothing against flames that ate through nightmares.

  “Know this, little Threadwitch,” the Abbot said. “If those rebels breach our walls, I will leave you to their blades while the rest of us escape to safety.”

  “And if you do,” she responded coolly, “then I will t
ell them which way you went.”

  He slapped her. Right across the cheek. And though she was ready for the attack this time, that didn’t stop the black from ripping across her vision or the pain from whipping through her jaw.

  “You are not the Cahr Awen,” he hissed. “And you are not worth what the prince has promised me.”

  With those words to echo in Iseult’s mind, he left. A sweep of white tinged with red, a blur of a hundred emotions charging and rippling and oozing free. The other monks followed, their own more muted Threads alight with crisp pleasure.

  She waited until the door crashed shut behind them before she closed her eyes. Her head pounded. The skin on her neck ached where he had grabbed her. Despite that, she felt … fine. Strong even. Unsettled, yes, but also bursting with the need to move, like jostled sparkling wine about to burst from the bottle.

  Stasis, she reminded herself. She needed to think through everything that had just happened. She needed to work through it all and formulate a plan. Pain could be dealt with later, and this wild energy could fuel her planning.

  Clearly, the Abbot did not believe she or Safi were the Cahr Awen, and clearly Leopold was paying the Abbot to protect them. Presumably he had also paid for the Abbot to retrieve Safi in Marstok. But there would be no finding Safi now, no reunion as long as the insurgency continued its onslaught.

  Cautiously, Iseult swung her legs from the bed. She wore black cotton pants and a loose, matching shirt. No dirt or grime. Evrane must have bathed and dressed her. Perhaps Iseult had been awake during that process, perhaps not. For all she knew, it had only been a day since she’d arrived. Or maybe it had been weeks.

  Her bare feet touched wool. Sheepskins layered over rush mats. She hadn’t noticed before.

  Goddess, she must have been truly ill. Evrane was right: she was lucky she had not died.

  With a hand braced on the table beside the bed, she stood. The jars within Evrane’s healer kit shook as she rose. In moments, her legs had remembered what standing was. Her spine too, and she straightened.