At least, through it all, Iseult could see where the mountain bat would dive next.
“Left!” Iseult bellowed, and as one, she and Aeduan lurched around a column of stone thin as a tree.
Silver Threads. Screams of the damned. The mountain bat crashed down.
The pillar crashed down too.
Aeduan was zooming into the lead. Yet this time, as his fingers dug tight into Iseult’s forearm, Iseult realized the mountain bat was hanging back. Rather than darting high for another hard dive, it was hovering above.
Owl. They must be near her.
“The river!” Iseult shouted, and instantly, Aeduan’s course changed. They dove out from behind the pillars, and the Amonra greeted them. Its white chop had turned red; corpses floated downstream.
Here, a battle waged. Arrows fell; fire-pots erupted; blades endlessly clanged. It was chaos, and neither side cared whom they killed. Violent, lusting Threads saturated Iseult’s vision. Blood saturated the soil.
Habim had told Iseult once, War is senseless. She’d always thought he’d meant it figuratively. Now she knew he’d meant it exactly as he’d said. War was senseless, overwhelming her sight, her touch, her hearing. Even her witchery. Every piece of Iseult was crushed. Crumbled. Shattered to shreds.
Ahead, at the base of the falls, Owl waited. Her panicked, jittering Threads shone through the fog off the river.
A snap! shook through the air. Instantly, the sky turned black as arrows pelted down, a great swarm from the cliff.
Aeduan cut right, yanking Iseult behind the stones. Just in time, for the arrows hit their marks. Soldiers and steeds, Red Sails and Baedyeds—all fell like wheat to the scythe.
No stopping, though. Only running onward through the weak rain. Men charged with blades, but swords were so easy for Iseult to evade with Aeduan at her side. Together, they arced, they lunged, they ducked, they rolled. A fluid combination of steps built on blood and Threads.
They were almost to the waterfall now. They were almost to Owl.
The mist cleared, whipped away on the mountain bat’s wings. It scooped in close, talons outstretched and mouth wide.
The fog swept back completely, and there was Owl. Ten men guarded her. The rest were carcasses smashed on the rocks or already lost downstream—for that was the mountain bat’s method. Even now, its claws were hooking over a thrashing Baedyed. Then, the bat launched into the air, snapping the man once to the side, before dropping him into the river.
Another screeching nosedive from the mountain bat sent the mist scattering, and in that brief flash of time, Iseult glimpsed all she needed: nine soldiers now—soon to be eight—blocked Owl, who cowered against the rocks, a bag over her head.
A Red Sail pounced from the right; Aeduan froze the man’s body with a chop of his wrist. But he didn’t kill the man, just left the soldier still as a statue and already behind.
Fog rolled over them. The mountain bat swooped low, and it was time to make a final move.
“Get Owl!” Iseult roared at Aeduan, and in that moment, she ripped her arm free from his grasp.
She turned to face the remaining soldiers. They had troubles enough with the mountain bat, so they hadn’t yet noticed her in their midst.
With a hard grunt, Iseult launched herself at the closest soldier, whose gaze was pinned on the sky. On the mountain bat careening closer.
She swirled behind, her left foot hooking back. Out went his knee; down he fell. The stones were so slick here, and the Amonra thundered close—a foe Iseult knew no one could face.
Which was why she kicked with all her power into the soldier’s neck.
He toppled into the river. Another victim of the Amonra. Seven more men remained, though, and now the earth was shaking.
No, not the earth—the stones. The river-smoothed gravel of the shore. It undulated and rippled, like waves upon a sea. All of it guided by almost invisible Threads of dark green.
Iseult’s eyes traced the Threads through the mist … to Owl. They were her Threads. This was her magic.
There was no time to consider what that meant—or to try to stop it. Another man had seen Iseult. His saber lashed out.
Iseult dropped low. The air whistled overhead. Too close—the blade had been too close, and the man was too close. Iseult needed space.
Or silver Threads would work too. Iseult fell to the gravel, and the mountain bat did her work for her, taking out three men at once.
Four men left.
At that moment, Aeduan yanked the sack off Owl’s head. And her Threads lanced out, explosive in a way Iseult had never seen before.
The earth rumbled. The mountain bat screamed, Threads of Earthwitch power laced over everything.
Iseult’s legs buckled beneath her. She fell to the slick rocks, blade lost and hands grabbing. The Amonra rushed in close. Iseult tumbled for it. Then the water’s bite crashed over her, stealing all air from her lungs, all thought from her mind.
For three long, echoing heartbeats, the frosty, bloodstained waters churned around her. She was trapped in place. Towed underwater.
Then the earth boomed beneath her. It crunched and rocked, lifting her like a mother carries a child. All the way out of the water. All the way back to shore. Then the stones dropped Iseult into Aeduan’s arms.
He eased her to her feet, shouting something. Run, Iseult guessed. Hurry, she assumed, but she wasn’t actually listening. Her attention was trapped by the shriveling-in Threads of an Earthwitch who had done all she needed to do.
Iseult strained to see Owl, clambering roughly up the cliffside—all while the mountain bat hovered and flapped. It was a guardian that let no soldiers approach. That beat down arrows the instant they were near.
It made no sense. A child who could move the earth. A child who could control a mountain bat. Yet there was no denying what Iseult saw.
They caught up to Owl in moments, and without a word, Aeduan hefted her onto his back. She hugged his neck tight, her Threads burning bright with that same warm sunset.
Then together, the three of them continued up the rainy cliffside while a creature of legend, a creature of battlefields, cleared the path ahead.
* * *
Merik and Vivia stood on the water-bridge. Merik on one side and Vivia on the other.
Whitecapped water hurtled toward them. Tall as the dam. Tall as the city. The flood would hit them in seconds. Winds, warm and weak but wholly his own, gathered to Merik. Vivia too, summoned her tides.
They looked at each other. Two Nihars. Two magics. A brother and a sister who’d never known each other, never even tried.
The flood arrived.
Out flung their arms. Wind, tides, power. A wall of magic to meet white foam. Merik slid back, his planted feet dragging across the slick stones even as his winds roared ahead. He screamed, a sound that tore from his throat. Sent his jaw slinging low, and more winds, more power coursed out of him.
More, more. An untouched well, deep inside him. Bound not to Kullen but to his own Nihar blood. To his sister battling the flood beside him.
No rage, no hate, no love, no past. Just now. Just this water, slowing, sweeping, splashing.
Stopping.
Merik lifted one leg. He stepped forward, pushing himself, pushing the wind, pushing the flood.
A second step became a third. One foot after the other, over a green valley and under a sky now flickering with blue.
Across the bridge, Vivia walked as well. Their steps matched. One. Two. Fight. Push. Three. Four. Keep moving.
And inch by furious inch, the flood withdrew. Fight. Push. Keep moving.
Then ice thundered across the water-bridge, crunching over the river. Up the flood—and briefly distracting Merik. Briefly letting the flood stutter forward and gain a few inches.
Stix, Merik realized. She raced toward them, running atop the ice she’d made. Then she fell into step beside Vivia, mimicking the Nihar pose and joining the fight.
The flood stumbled back.
Fight. Push. Keep moving.
More people arrived, more witches. Wind and Tide. Stone and Plant. Civilian and soldier, everyone pulsing forward on that same Nihar beat.
Back, back, they gained ground, they gained speed, and soon everyone was walking upright. Then jogging.
Then stopping entirely, for they were back at the broken dam. The water was slippering inside its old home, while ice and roots and stone slowly ascended. One level after another, a wall made by hundreds of witches. Hundreds of Nubrevnans.
Until there was nothing left for Merik to do. He turned, and again he met Vivia’s eyes. She nodded once, and something almost like a smile settled on her lips.
Merik nodded back, already easing up his ripped, sodden hood. Already swiveling away to return to Lovats. His sister had control of this battle, of these witches, of this new dam growing before their very eyes.
She didn’t need any clumsy attempts to help. Especially not from a dead man.
So it was that Merik stepped off the water-bridge and flew for Pin’s Keep.
* * *
Aeduan had been walking for hours, with Owl on his back and the Threadwitch five paces behind—and with the mountain bat always crisscrossing the sky.
They were out of the Contested Lands, but only barely. And though Aeduan had veered north of where he and Iseult had originally traveled, he didn’t dare slow.
Nor did he dare put down Owl. His shoulders had long since moved past pain and into mind-numbing agony, but the girl slept peacefully. If she awoke, if he put her down … Too slow, she would be too slow.
Only once the sun began fading and the pines of western Nubrevna left long shadows to darken their path did Aeduan finally allow them to stop.
They’d come upon a pond, crisp and clear and jagged through the trees. A forgotten wall, half submerged, jutted out into the pond’s farthest edge.
“We’re alone,” the Threadwitch croaked, her voice ruined by smoke. “We should stop.”
It was the first thing anyone had said in hours, and for half a moment, her words were gibberish to Aeduan’s ears.
Then he realized she spoke in Dalmotti instead of Nomatsi. He assumed so Owl would not understand.
“I’ve sensed no one near since long before the sun began to set.” She pointed vaguely at the horizon. “And … I’m thirsty.” That was it. The end of her reasoning.
Aeduan’s lips parted to argue, but now Owl was shifting in his arms. She yawned.
So, muscles screaming, he eased her to the ground. Then she was on her feet, stretching as if she were nothing but a normal child waking from a normal nap.
Four whooshing riptides of air swept over the water, flapping at Aeduan’s coat as he peeled it off his sore shoulders. Then the mountain bat was there, settling atop the sunken wall, where its long tail could slither around the ruined corners. The tufted tip sank beneath the water.
Owl showed no interest in the enormous beast—who now cleaned itself like a cat, starting with its bloodied right ear. Instead, Owl was thoroughly absorbed in making her way over the boulders that lined the pond’s edge. When she reached the water, she tentatively mimicked Iseult, spooning out mouthfuls of water with her hands.
“Little Sister,” Iseult said while the girl drank. “What’s your true name?”
Owl ignored her, and Iseult flung a helpless glance at Aeduan.
He shrugged. After all, Owl wouldn’t be the first child to lose her words to war.
Still the Threadwitch pressed, and a strain pulled over the words. “Can you speak, Little Sister? C-can you tell us the name of your tribe? Anything?”
Owl merely continued lapping at the pond, acting as if Iseult wasn’t even there.
With a hard sigh, Iseult finally abandoned her attempts. She pushed upright and hopped over the stones. Even silhouetted against the dusk, there was no missing how filthy she was. The tips of her black hair were shriveled from flame.
This was not the Threadwitch who had cornered Aeduan beside a bear trap. Nor the Threadwitch who’d sparred with him that very morning. This was a woman changed.
Aeduan knew because he’d been there before himself. Soon she would learn—just as he had—that there was no outrunning the demons of one’s own creation.
Forever after today, she would flex and furl her fingers, precisely as she did right now. She would roll her wrists and crack her neck. She would stretch her jaw and wonder who might next die at her hands. Who might not get away.
And forever after tonight, she would be hungry to outrun the nightmares. She would race and she would fight and she would kill again, just to make sure the ghosts were real.
They were.
Aeduan wondered if perhaps he should feel remorse. After all, she had cleaved to save him. He felt no heat in his chest, though, no sickness in his belly. She would have found her true nature one way or another.
“Your friend is moving again,” he said as Iseult took up sentry beside him. Her hands dripped water to the stones. “My guess is by sea. You would not have reached her in time had you continued on.”
Iseult gave no reaction. But she did stare hard into Aeduan’s eyes, which he knew must be spinning with red. It took all his power—what little was left—to reach for the Truthwitch’s scent.
“Owl’s family is probably dead,” she said at last, gaze still pinned on Aeduan.
“Probably,” he agreed.
“Where will you take her, then? I doubt many families will welcome a mountain bat to their ranks.” She spoke with no inflection, as always, yet there was no missing the twinkle of humor beneath her words.
So Aeduan answered in kind. “Nor will they welcome a Bloodwitch.”
Her lips ticked up. Then instantly flattened. “Nor a Weaverwitch, I suppose.” The word fell like a hammer between them.
Aeduan didn’t contradict her. She was what she was, and fighting one’s nature only brought pain. Sometimes death too.
Which was why he found himself saying, “No one is ever turned away from the Carawen Monastery.”
“Not even mountain bats?” Again came that flickering hint of a smile.
“Not so long as they serve the Cahr Awen.”
Iseult stiffened, and Aeduan wondered if he’d spoken too soon. It was hard enough staring into the Void, but what did one do if the Void looked back?
It was certainly looking back now. That sway to her stance. That fevered flick of her tongue along her lips. If she was indeed a Weaverwitch, then she was bound to the Void. And if she was indeed a Voidwitch, then she could be the Cahr Awen. She saw that now.
Aeduan saw that now too.
“The Carawen Monastery.” The words fell from her mouth like a prayer. Then she blinked and said, “I thought you were no longer a monk.”
“Which is why”—he stretched his shoulders—“I won’t stay. I’ll leave Owl, I’ll leave the bat, and I’ll leave you. Then I’ll go to Lejna for my coins.” And perhaps hunt for Prince Leopold too.
Iseult nodded, as if this plan suited her. For some reason, the movement bothered him. Her easy acceptance made his lungs stretch tight.
Whatever that feeling was, though, it passed in an instant, and now Owl was splashing deeper into the shadowy pond. The mountain bat, meanwhile, slapped its tail against the wall with what looked to be displeasure. Though it might have been amusement. Impossible to guess which.
Iseult marched away from Aeduan, calling for Owl to be careful.
Which left Aeduan, as always, on the edge of a scene, watching while the world unfolded without him beneath a darkening sky.
FORTY
I’ve been here before, Safi thought as she surveyed the lines of white trailing the Cartorran ship. The marshy shoreline of Saldonica had long since faded, and now a sunset smeared fire across the waves. Across the blurry, salt-sprayed view through the window.
She had been here before. On a ship bound for Azmir while someone tended her wounds.
Pain came in bright bursts, a shudd
ering onslaught each time Caden’s needle pierced the skin above Safi’s eyebrow. Were her chair not stiff backed and sturdily armed, she would have fallen off ages ago, for as gentle as Safi knew the Hell-Bard tried to be, it still hurt when he stitched the cut left by Kahina’s fist.
For an hour, Safi had been in the captain’s cabin. First, Lev had come to rebreak and then set her nose. Despite her best attempts not to, Safi had howled and more blood had gushed. Even after all the pain and resulting tears, Lev had still been forced to leave with an apologetic, “Not sure it’ll ever look the same again, Domna.”
Safi had simply shrugged. Without any bewitched healer supplies on board—Kahina had claimed them all—Safi knew she’d wear scars and a crooked nose for the rest of her life. It didn’t bother her much. Not when there was so much actually worth worrying over.
Like her Threadstone.
It had stopped blinking. Iseult was safe again, but for how long?
“I misjudged you,” Caden said, scattering Safi’s thoughts. They were his first words beyond, Tip up your head or Close the eye. “In Veñaza City, I thought you reckless. Naïve and selfish too.”
Safi couldn’t help it: she glared up at him. “Thanks?”
The needle pricked hotter. Caden stiffened atop his stool. Then sighed. “Stay still, Domna.”
With a sniff, Safi attempted to relax her face. He resumed: “Your bravery earlier, on the ship—fighting the Admiral. It was still reckless, but it was also clever. And not selfish at all. Plus, what you did back in Saldonica, at the inn … I misjudged you.”
“And I,” Safi muttered, careful to keep her face perfectly still, “do not accept this attempt at an apology.”
Caden grunted once, almost a laugh, before leaning in close to tie off the hemp embedded above Safi’s eye. Seconds slid past, pain thudded through her skull, and Safi had nothing to stare at but the gold chain dangling from Caden’s neck.
The Hell-Bard’s noose.
He sank back. “Good enough. Give me your right wrist.”
Safi complied, and he held it toward the window, toward the light streaming in across the sea. His fingers dug uncomfortably into bruises swelling on her forearm.
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