Bloodwitch (The Witchlands, #3)

“Oh?” The woman clearly itched to ask why he needed this, but it was against the rules to inquire. Assignments were private; monks were discreet. “Well, Lady Fate favors you today, then. I just received…” Reach, grab, and drop. “These last week. Not new, but clean and well made.”

She was right. The wool tunic and breeches, a gray-brown shade like bark on a beech tree, looked a bit large, but better too large than too small. And the pine green cloak was just the right size.

Aeduan nodded. He would take them.

“Those will be another tier one,” the woman said. “Anything else?”

“More travel clothes.” He swallowed. Then swallowed again. “For a woman about your size.”

“Ah, for grown women, we have many options.” The monk opened her arms, gesturing to an entire column of shelves. “What quality do you need? What climate of travel? I have embroidered silk all the way from Dalmotti, if your woman is a wealthy one.”

“Not my woman.” His fingers flexed.

“Or I have more sturdy fare, cotton and wool. There are other options in between as well—and do you want a gown or breeches?” Without waiting for an answer, the monk began stacking items atop the counter. From silk to wool to velvet to homespun, all colors and fabrics were represented.

And Aeduan had no idea what to choose. Iseult had not actually specified that she wanted new clothes. In fact, the longer he stared at the growing piles, the more he wondered if she might be angry he would presume to know what she liked. Or would she be angry if he did not make a choice? Surely she would want new clothing to replace her current tatters, if for no other reason than new clothes would be warmer in the growing mountain cold. So perhaps that brown wool suit on the end would do …

Aeduan stared at it, his brain sluggish as spring thaw as he tried to catalog the advantages. Good for camouflage. Good against snow, and also movable in a fight.

And also, he had to admit, hideous.

Then, there was that midnight blue velvet beside it. A popular style in the mountains, a pretty color, and it looked movable as well. The fox fur on the collar was a nice touch. Or there was the gray suit beside it. Or the black one beyond that, or the teal-trimmed mustard beyond that.

It was not until he had moved through twelve different outfits that he realized the monk was grinning. An amused twitch of lips as if she knew something he didn’t.

Heat flared on Aeduan’s cheeks. His molars gritted in his ears. This decision was a trivial one; he was letting pain cloud his judgment. It did not matter what he got Iseult. He did not care if she liked it. She would take it, no matter what it was, and that would be that.

“Black,” he gruffed out, jerking a finger toward a suit he’d already passed.

“Are you sure?” The woman’s smile widened.

Aeduan glared. “Black,” he repeated, and outside, thunder boomed.

By the time the woman had stuffed his purchases in a homespun satchel and tallied up what he owed on the assignment ledger—two tier ones, a tier two, and a tier four—rain beat down outside.

He did not say good-bye when he left.



* * *



Aeduan changed into his new uniform in the outpost baths. Breeches, undershirt, brigandine, belt and baldric, and finally, the Painstone dangling from a leather thong. Not until he tucked it beneath his clothes and it touched his chest did he feel the effects of the magic.

Between one heartbeat and the next, rain and storm and shouts from the outpost battered against him. The world sharpened, a flood of color and light. And the pain—it fled back like rain sucked into sand. Aeduan could breathe. He could see, and it crashed into him so fast, he almost fell against the nearest wall.

By the Wells, he was reborn.

Hands braced on the bricks, Aeduan inhaled until his lungs pressed against his ribs. Only now could he truly comprehend how much pain there had been. How much his spine had furled since last night. How much he had stumbled and slurred and fought to stay conscious.

He exhaled, savoring how free the air felt, how easily his muscles now moved. Then he inhaled once more, and this time, he summoned his magic. It roared to life, no skips or skitters. Monk and acolyte blood-scents clamored against him, each as unique and distinctive as the bodies and minds they belonged to.

Back through the cloister, now empty, he trekked. Rain pelted the crops. Mist clogged the covered walkway, and by the time he entered the crowded common room, where available assignments were nailed to the wall, lightning splintered overhead.

In the back of his mind, it occurred to Aeduan that this was an unseasonable thunderstorm. Particularly since Tirla so rarely saw them.

Inside the common room, the plank walls were divided into ten sections. Directly to Aeduan’s left was tier one, and slips of paper covered every surface—not so different from the old way. Short-term contracts, he supposed, would also pay the least. Tier two and three were almost as heavily papered, yet rather than the typical cluster of monks poring over assignments at these lower levels, every monk in the room was glued to the right side.

Tier ten.

White cloaks, some dripping, some dry, blended together as each person leaned in close, craning to read an assignment staked to the wood. Whatever it was, it must be worth a lot of money. In the past, Aeduan would have marched straight for it, shoving aside the others and pleased when they glared and called him demon. Today, though, he simply aimed for the left.

Two tier ones, a tier two, and a tier four. As he scanned the scraps of paper, written in all hands and varied languages, he found his wrists had started rolling. Round and round and round again. Standing here, choosing from assignments—reading about overdue debts and missing livestock, about seafire requisitions or short-term guard postings near the border—was exactly why he had taken that position with Guildmaster Yotiluzzi two years ago. He had wanted the coin; he had wanted to leave.

You could leave now, his mind nudged. Take the items and never pay. After all, he had no loyalty to the Monastery. No plans to ever return. But … there were uses to the opal in his ear. To the cloak upon his back. There were uses to these outposts too, and if he did not pay his debts, those uses would be denied.

He plucked two tier ones off the wall. Both were near the city; both could be handled before tomorrow’s dawn even brightened the sky.

“You surprise me, Bloodwitch.”

Aeduan’s jaw ticced. He did not need to turn to know who now stood beside him. Speed and daisy chains, mother’s kisses and sharpened steel.

“Not going for the tier ten?”

Slowly, Aeduan turned to face Lizl. Her amber brown skin glistened with rainwater. Her white cloak dripped to the floor. She was tall, but he refused to lift his chin to meet her eyes. He simply rolled his gaze upward, expression flat, and said, “No.”

“Why not?” She offered a smug grin, arms folding casually. Her posture was misleading in its ease. She was the best mercenary monk out of the hundreds at the Monastery.