Bloodwitch (The Witchlands, #3)

The bird perched on the telescope’s edge. Its wings stretched wide, feathers glimmering in the sunlight. It wasn’t the crow she stared at, though—it was what the crow had trapped in its beak: a chunk of rose quartz. At first Safi thought it was a Painstone, except it wasn’t glowing. Besides, why would a crow have one?

But then the bird dropped the stone, gave another urgent squawk, and flapped away—although not before leaving a glorious splatter of shit on the brass telescope’s casing.

“Thanks,” Safi muttered, although she was grateful he hadn’t shit on her head instead.

Curiosity propelled her into the hot garden, the nearest insects quieted. Her stained slippers crunched on yellow gravel.

It was a Painstone. She couldn’t believe it. The magic was clearly drained, but the shape and size were right. And when she crouched to pick it up, she spotted a hole at the top where string was meant to go through.

For several breaths, Safi remained kneeling, staring at the stone while the knot in her mind unwound. Cautiously, she tugged at the idea-chain. Gently, she traced it around, around, around, all while a small smile towed at the edge of her lips.

Then there it was: a plan that might save her. Simple, clear, and one that Iseult would like too. It would require tools and books. And tomorrow, when the grouchy Earthwitch healer came to check on her foot and nose—neither injury had healed quite right—she would pester the woman with questions. Because if other witches could apply their magic to stones and salves and locks and drums, why couldn’t Safi?

If she could make a Truthstone then Vaness wouldn’t need her here at all. It wouldn’t be Safi’s words consigning traitors to death anymore, and best of all, she could go after Iseult without delay.

Lungs suddenly brimming, Safi snatched up the dead Painstone and stood. She had a task, she had a plan, and it felt good. Enough standing still inside a palace. Enough waiting for the corruption to come to her. Enough being someone else’s tool.

Safi got to work.



* * *



Vivia stood barefoot at the edge of the underground lake. Shadows played across the rippling surface, cast by the lantern she had left on the shore. She’d left her boots there too, as she always did when she came here.

This was the heart of Lovats, fed by miles of underground rivers and aquifers long forgotten. It was Vivia’s heart too, and the only place she could go when the panic became too much. Here she could breathe. Here she could be Vivia. Just Vivia.

This is the source of our power, Little Fox, Jana had told her. The reason our family rules Nubrevna and others do not. This water knows us. This water chose us.

“Extinguish,” Vivia whispered to her lantern, and darkness draped the cavern. After three rib-bowing breaths, her eyes adjusted to reveal sprinkles and sprays of luminescent foxfire. Six spokes that crawled across the cavern’s ceiling.

Two weeks ago, there had only been three spokes, because two weeks ago, the city had almost fallen. But Vivia and Merik had fended off the raiders and the monster called the Fury. They had repaired the dam, and shortly thereafter, the foxfire had returned.

Two weeks ago, Serrit Linday had also called this place an Origin Well.

Ever since that seed had been planted in Vivia’s head, she’d been unable to stop its roots from spreading. There was one elemental Well unaccounted for in the Witchlands, and though Vivia’s magic wasn’t bound to the Void, there was no denying that this lake was more than just a pool where water collected.

Of course, if she really did have the Void Well hiding beneath her city, then what did that even mean? It was one more problem, one more question to add to her ever-growing list.

Before her lungs could cinch with panic at that thought, Vivia darted into the waves. The lake embraced her, warm and welcome. Shivering and alive. Grounding in a way that true ground never was.

This water didn’t care about fathers or mothers or distant best friends. This water didn’t care about messages from empresses or speeches stolen away. The water cared only for this moment and this place. It flowed where the land allowed it. It changed as the seasons demanded. And it never fretted if it couldn’t be what others wanted.

Vivia’s eyes fell shut. Her magic skipped outward, greeting the fish and the salamanders, skating past boulders and roots, through fissures and over grooves. Her senses moved upstream, they moved down, and she felt and reached for anything that might be out of place, for anything that wasn’t right inside the plateau.

Yet all was well, just as it had been since she and Merik had saved the city two weeks ago, and second by slippery second, Vivia returned to her body. Gone was her panic, replaced by the power of tides and the strength of storms.

She was Vivia Nihar, Queen-in-Waiting of Nubrevna—chosen and bound to these eternal waters. She could face down entire navies, she could ride a waterfall from mountain peak to valley’s end. She could battle almost any man or woman and be named victor.

And Stix was right: it was time that Noden and the Hagfishes bent to a woman’s rule.

So Vivia made her decision. She would travel to Azmir. Today, just as Stix had suggested, and she would negotiate trade with the Empress of Marstok.

And Vivia would do it for herself, she would do it for Nubrevna.





NINE


The fifteenth chimes were singing by the time Iseult, Aeduan, and Owl reached Tirla. City of a Thousand Names, they called it, for every few decades, a new nation or empire laid claim to its sharp roofs and crooked streets. Since Marstok had conquered it, they had named it Tirla, after the long lake beside which it rested.

A setting sun canted down, turning whitewashed buildings to gold. Iseult would have found it beautiful were she not drowning beneath the children’s shouts, the merchants’ calls, the donkey brays and endless hammer of hooves—not to mention the soldiers’ barks or the blacksmiths’ bellows or the creak-creak-creak of wagon wheels. The din buffeted her from every direction.

For every noise, there were just as many people. Bodies, bodies, bodies everywhere she turned, and each moving beneath their own distinct Threads, their own erratic, emotional lives. Iseult’s relief at the presence of humanity had quickly been overwhelmed, and now she wished she could just stop. Close her eyes for a single moment and enjoy at least one less sensory onslaught.

But that was not an option. Not yet.

For the final mile into the city, she had walked with her arm underneath Aeduan. Owl hadn’t liked that. Aeduan had liked it even less, and Iseult had liked it least of all. It took so much of her focus to keep him upright and to keep Owl from wandering off—not to mention ensuring she and Owl were properly hidden beneath hoods and scarves. She knew the laws in Marstok were more forgiving than others when it came to Nomatsis, but that did not mean she wanted to test them.

Legal protection could not eliminate centuries of hate.