Bloodwitch (The Witchlands, #3)

The raiders came faster too. They had reached the square. They had seen her, and even as connected as she was to the waters and to the Well, there was no missing the roars that bellowed nearby.

Come, she thought again, but this time she did not address the water. This time, she lifted her chin and opened her eyes—and this time, she addressed the men charging toward her. Baedyed and Red Sail. Furs and beards and black silk and tattoos. A mass of violent hunger.

Come.

For half an eternal second, she almost imagined she saw what they saw: a woman waiting for her death. Submissive and weak and bowing to the force of masculine rage. But men had ruled the Witchlands long enough with only bloodshed and chaos to show for it. It was past time Noden and the Hagfishes bent to a woman’s rule.

Vivia erupted to her feet, and the water erupted with her. Two geysers that punched through stone right as the first raiders entered the square.

The water destroyed them.

It tore them from their feet with the force of a tidal wave, and as Vivia’s arms flung high, the water flung high too. It carried bodies, it carried weapons. Then it tossed them wide in a cascade of snapping spines and shattering skulls.

More raiders hurtled in behind the first wave. They tried to circle around the geysers, around the bodies crashing down.

Vivia twirled, and the water twirled with her. It whipped outward, splitting into a hundred limbs that moved as she commanded. That lashed and struck and yanked men low. The water was an extension of her body, of her mind. It wanted what she wanted—it wanted its home empty and safe.

Vivia lost all concept of time. She lost count of how many people she felled. The water measured time by drought and flood, it measured life by wave and erosion. It had no interest in humanity, no concern if blood stained its soul.

The water gathered and built and rose, and the higher it climbed, the stronger Vivia felt. Still the raiders charged; still she slashed and slew. Free, alive, unstoppable. No fetters to hold her down, no masks to hold her back.

Until her water suddenly hit resistance. Until it suddenly reached a body that would not yield, that would not bend.

Vivia startled back into her mind. Her water whips stilled. She gasped, stunned by the water’s icy claws—by how high it had flooded around her. All the way to her mid-thighs and still rising. Bodies floated by, some twitching, some choking, but most unmoving and dead.

More raiders still came too. Vivia heard them splashing and shouting.

It was the person standing before her, though, that seized Vivia’s attention. A figure in a sodden gown swayed in the water, and on either side of her were two iron shields that had stopped Vivia’s attacks.

The Empress of Marstok’s chest quivered in time to desperate breaths. Black coated half her face. She stared at Vivia and Vivia stared at her.

Then as one, they started running. Toward each other. A slogging, slow stride through water and corpses.

They reached each other, and the Empress of Marstok collapsed into Vivia. Her skin was frozen to the touch and it shone a sickly green beneath the foxfire. The black on her face was, Vivia realized, crusted blood.

No time to ask how Vaness had gotten here. No time to prop her up and keep fighting the raiders. Now the men were pouring into the square faster than Vivia’s waters could attack—faster than she could keep track of.

The water, though, did not need her anymore. It had answered Vivia’s call, and now it reigned supreme. A frothy, rising mass that would soon be too high for the raiders to defeat.

So, without another thought, Vivia let her water whips fall. Then she gripped the Empress of Marstok tightly to her—she was so small, so broken—and together, they drove through corpses and water.

Together, they left the underground. Together, they ran for the night.





SIXTY-ONE


Storm and stone, lightning and earthquakes. Iseult’s body was a conduit for noise and electricity. Wind seared against her, rain flayed her skin. She held Leopold, and he held Owl. Their Threads shone, two beacons to guide Iseult home.

She knew that having a child lead her through the end of the world was as impossible as walking through blue light and ending up inside a nightmare. But there was also no other alternative. To release Leopold was to lose her way, and to release Owl was to lose the only anchor they had inside this chaos.

There was no sight in this tumult, no sense of up or down. At any moment, Iseult expected the ice-slick stone beneath her feet to crumble away.

But the ground would never betray an Earthwitch, and Owl led them true.

Once, Iseult thought she heard voices. She thought she saw Threads cresting through the fray, an army of people far, far below. It could have been a mirage, though. Shadows shaped like humans dancing in a storm.

Boulders crashed around them. Never did they hit Iseult or Leopold, though, nor their strange, icy bridge. Always, Owl flicked them away as easily as a girl tosses toys—and for a dragging moment be tween steps, Iseult wondered if Owl had ever had toys. She did not seem like a child now.

Moon Mother’s little sister.

“This way,” Owl called, more a trembling in the stone than actual words, and Iseult realized they had reached a doorway where weak light shimmered through the chaos. It was small, though, and shrinking inward by the second.

Just as she had done above the Monastery, Owl scrabbled through without waiting for Iseult or Leopold.

They followed—of course they followed. Anything to escape this maelstrom. Iseult crawled through first, using Leopold’s grip to drop to her knees and squeeze through. She was battered, she was beat, she was pulled and compressed and broken in two.

Then she keeled out the other side, where cold air and blessed silence dashed against her. Owl squatted just ahead, her Threads a swirling array of pleasure and Earthwitch power. Still on all fours, Iseult dragged herself toward the child … then collapsed atop silty, damp earth. Two heartbeats later, and Leopold landed beside her.

Iseult and the prince sucked in gasps. His Threads radiated with the same wonderment and horror that Iseult felt. Her muscles twitched as if lightning still clashed. Her ears echoed and droned.

“What was that?” he rasped, pushing himself upright with his good arm. “By the Twelve, Iseult, what was that? And what is she?” He edged a wary stare toward Owl, his Threads briefly glimmering with distaste. Or maybe it was disgust. Or just continued horror.

Iseult was too sapped to interpret anything anymore. “I think that the more important question is, where are we now?” They had definitely left the Monastery. It was cold here, but not frozen—and water rushed nearby.

Threads hummed nearby too.

“People,” Iseult said at the same time Owl chirped, “Finished, finished, finished.” Now Iseult was the one to eye her warily. Owl had changed since leaving the mountain. It was as if, after leading them through a world caving in, she had abruptly reverted back to her childish self.