Bloodwitch (The Witchlands, #3)

Merik’s mouth watered. It had been so long since he’d eaten, and the only water he’d had was the poisoned tincture Esme had given him.

Esme. With her name came the memories of where he was and how he’d gotten there—hundreds of leagues away from the Sightwitch Sister Convent. Hundreds of leagues away from Cam or Ryber or anyone he knew, and now someone had dumped him onto a shrine in the middle of a wet forest.

Had that someone been friend or foe? As far as Merik could see, there was no one here now, and his winds told him nothing. The collar still hung at his neck, and no amount of breathing deeply offered any connection to his power.

He was alone in a forest with no magic and no help.

Which meant there was also no one to stop him. In a dizzying burst of speed, Merik pushed to his feet and bolted for the forest. His heart jumped to maximum speed in moments; his lungs felt instantly drained. Alders whipped past, ocher leaves bright amidst the fog. The ground sucked at his plodding footfalls. He thundered on anyway, and he did not slow. He was going to get away from here. He was going to find people to help him, and then he would somehow get back to the Convent, to Cam and Ryber.

Merik had just reached firmer soil, where the forest shifted to beeches and firs, when pain lanced through him.

It was as if he were trapped on his exploding ship all over again—fire, fire everywhere. In his veins, beneath his skin, scratching at the backs of his eyeballs. A strangled cry tore from his throat before his knees gave way. He collapsed to the cold earth.

Black writhed under the skin on his hands.

You are going the wrong way. Esme’s voice slithered up from his chest and into his skull, glass shards and nightmares. Surely you would not try to run away from me, Prince. Surely this was all a mistake, and now you will turn around and come back.

“No,” Merik gritted out, fighting to crawl onward.

Yes, and the pain ignited a thousand times hotter. It stole his sight, his hearing, and screams erupted through the trees. His own screams, a thousand miles away and agonizing.

Turn around, Prince, or I will make this worse. And yes, I can make it worse.

Merik did not know how it was possible, but he believed the woman called Esme—and he believed that any more pain would crack him in two.

Stop. He did not know if he shrieked the word or simply thought it, but it took hold of every space inside him. Stop, stop, stop. He clawed himself around, still on all fours, and dragged himself back the way he’d come.

It took four mind-scorching paces before the flames finally reared back. Cold nothing rushed in. Merik collapsed to the ground, shaking.

Good, Esme trilled. Now walk back to the shrine, Prince, and we shall begin again.

“Yes,” he forced out, though he could do nothing but stare up at the amber leaves of a beech and try to breathe. Pain still cinched in his chest, moving in time to his staggering heart. Screams still rang in his ears.

He lifted his trembling hands up. Even backlit by sunset, he could see lines pumping beneath the skin. Esme had cleaved him—or started to—and she had spoken of other Cleaved back in the tower. She had called them her own, as if she had done this to them. As if she had done it to Merik.

Puppeteer.

There’d been rumors of a woman with the Raider King who could control the Cleaved. There had been tales that she created them, but Merik had dismissed them as lies—as impossibilities meant to frighten the empires and Nubrevna too. He had blamed the other leaders at the Truce Summit for ignoring a threat in Arithuania, yet it would seem he had done no better.

It was one more thing he had refused to see in all his holy conceit, and now everything he had done would haunt him until he made amends.

Though right now, all that mattered was obeying Esme. It shamed him that he could be so weak, but there was the truth: he would do anything she told him if it would keep the fire away.

Merik set off, his gait stumbling and uneven through the forest. His attention remained planted on the ground before him, his mind focused on simply staying upright. No space for thought, no space for fear, no space to notice the cold fog seeping around him.

He reached the shrine right as the sun was dipping beyond the horizon. This time, when he saw the pears, he ate them without hesitation. Juice slid down his face and over his fingers, and nothing—nothing—had ever tasted so sweet.

It wasn’t until the third fruit that Esme’s voice returned. Do you know what this place is? The words jolted Merik from his pleasure. Reality thudded into him, hard enough that he choked. Pear chunks splattered on a silver-plated bowl nearby.

“No,” he croaked eventually, wiping fruit off his sticky mouth.

This is a shrine that was built thousands of years ago, before the time of witches.

Merik hadn’t known there was a time before witches.

No one remembers the past, unless it is written down. And the ones who did write it down have all been forgotten. The past is so easily erased, Prince, and only the Sleeper knows what god or force of nature this shrine was originally built to honor.

There was a strange ache to those words, as if Esme longed for the past to return. As if she mourned the loss of history and knowledge.

Now the silly Nomatsi tribes use it to revere a god who never lived, the Moon Mother’s middle sister, whom they believe takes the form of a barn swallow. Superstitious fools. Venom thickened Esme’s words. There is no Swallow, and there never was. Although, she added, almost as a smirking afterthought, they do leave nice gifts for her, and it is these gifts I want you to take. Do you see any gemstones? Most will be rough and uncut.

Merik nodded. There were many scattered around. Then he realized she might not sense his movement, so he added a gruff, “Onga.” Arithuanian for yes. He felt stronger now, thanks to the fruit. More awake, more alert.

Ah! A squealing sensation filled his mind, almost like wasps buzzing, and he sensed his response had made her very happy. You are perfection, Prince! None of my other Cleaved have their minds left, you see? I can move them as I wish, and I can make them do simple tasks, like attack or defend or carry a helpless prince into the woods. But it requires all my focus. I must hold their leashes and direct them precisely where I want them to go. Even then, I cannot easily see through their eyes, so when I’ve needed to collect things, I have had to do it myself.

Until right now, that is. If you can see the gemstones, Prince, then you can pick them up for me. And, oh, I have so many more gems—and other items too—that I need collected. You could not have been more perfect if I had designed you myself.

The buzzing returned. Merik thought she must be laughing.

Now take the gems, Prince, and return to me.

“How will I know where to go?”

Oh, that is easy. Simply follow the pain. With that declaration, agony ruptured through him.

He screamed.