Bloodwitch (The Witchlands, #3)

“Out of the city and away from the soldiers—unless you have a better plan?”

Iseult did not have a better plan. In fact, she had no plan at all. She always relied on Safi in these situations. While Safi could think with the soles of her feet and sense with the palms of her hands, Iseult only ever managed to shut down. No stasis, no use to anyone. There was too much happening around her right now, too little time to breathe. She had not even processed that Aeduan was gone. That he had abandoned them.

She felt trapped. Caught on some path she had never intended to take and now unable to change course. If Leopold could guide her off this trail, then she would take it. He had helped her escape the inn; she had to hope he would help her again.

Especially since alarms were sounding from nearby rooftops.

“Right!” Leopold barked next, his Threads blazing with a green so dark it was almost black. No fear or panic in him, only intense energy focused on escape.

He was as well trained and unflinching as his horse.

They sped onto a wider artery, a view of the lake opening before them. Wharves were half submerged, ships and docks smashed askew. The storm, Iseult guessed, though how it had done so much damage here while scarcely touching the inn, she had no idea.

She hugged Owl more tightly to her. They rode on.

Sometimes the lake would appear, its waters a mess of wood and debris. Other times, they would race down streets that their horses could barely fit into. Always, always the alarms blared. Even after they had left the city behind and small farms and thatch huts took hold. Even when the terrain steepened and a forest crowded in. Still, they could hear the horns crowing after them.

Iseult sensed Threads too. Occasionally, she saw the weary faces attached, brought to their doors by curiosity. Or more often by fear.

When at last no Threads grazed her awareness and they had seen no signs of habitation for several miles, she towed the gelding to a halt. A rickety bridge spanned a stream frothy with rainwater. Mist clouded the mossy clearing around it.

Far, far behind, the alarm still echoed, a faint call on the horizon.

Before Leopold could tow his roan to a stop, Iseult had her right leg over the saddle. She pulled Owl to the ground. The girl had stopped crying, but what replaced it was so much worse. Dead eyes and faint, shrinking Threads of numb white. She was in shock.

“Owl,” Iseult said. “Look at me. Can you look at me?”

Owl could not look at her.

“What is wrong with her?”

Iseult snapped around, flames awakening. In a whisper of steel, she drew her cutlass and fixed it on the prince. “Stay where you are.”

“Because I am clearly such a threat.” He glared, dirt thick on his brow, while several paces behind, his stolen mare waited. Sweat glittered, a thick lather across her body. Both horses needed watering and rubbing down. “I did just save your life,” he added. “Twice.”

Iseult didn’t care. Her fingertips throbbed with heat. Her mind throbbed with the voice. Burn. Him. Burn. Him. And beside her, Owl had not moved at all.

“Why were you there?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” Leopold frowned. “You knocked me out, so I had no choice—”

“In Tirla,” she ground out. Her mouth was too small. Her mind was too small. “Why were you in Tirla?”

“Again, what do you mean?” Confusion whorled across the prince’s Threads. “I already told you that I am working with Safiya’s uncle.”

“How do I know that’s true?”

“You … want proof?” He gaped at her.

Iseult, however, was entirely serious, and after three long seconds of only the horses’ snuffs to fill the air, the prince finally seemed to grasp this.

He barked a laugh, an amused sound even as rusty frustration spiraled up his Threads. “Everything I had is back in Tirla, Iseult det Midenzi. Unless you want to return there and face all those soldiers again, then I fear you will have to trust me at my word.”

She did not trust him at his word. She also did not know what to do. Everything had happened so fast. She needed to tend the horses. She needed to deal with Owl. She needed to interrogate this prince and figure out where she was going.

And above all, she needed to stop thinking about Aeduan. He was not coming back.

“I can see you do not believe me.” The prince sighed. His breath fogged. The night had grown cold.

“Perhaps if I explained everything from the start, then that would help. Shall we sit?” He shifted as if to crouch.

“If you move again, I will kill you.”

“Standing it is then.”

“Silence.” Iseult turned away, dropping to one knee before Owl. Leopold could wait; Owl could not. The girl had not moved, her Threads had not changed. Wherever she was, it was not here. But this night—it was not so different from a night six and a half years ago, and Owl was not so different from another girl on the run, all the ties that bound her shorn without warning.

Iseult plucked a stone from beside her knee, just as Monk Evrane had done on that night. Then she took Owl’s hand into her own and unfurled Owl’s fingers.

“Take this.” She placed the rock on Owl’s palm. “Look at it and tell me what you see.”

Owl did not look at it, she did not speak. Nor had Iseult all those years ago.

“There’s silt on it,” Iseult said. “Do you know what that means? It means it’s from the riverbank, but look—do you see how rough its edges are? It has never been a part of the river. And what about this.” Iseult tapped sparkling flecks on the rock’s surface. “Do you see the mica? It looks like starlight. You can even see the Sleeping Giant right here.”

Owl’s pupils shrank slightly. Her eyes rolled down to Iseult’s hand.

“And what color would you call this? Gray? Or is it black? I think it’s black in the sunlight, but the Moon Mother’s glow makes it—”

“Old.” Owl’s voice rustled out, soft as the song of her namesake.

“Very old,” Iseult agreed. “As old as the Witchlands.”

“Older.” Owl blinked, and with that movement, the first flakes of color pitched through her Threads. Cyan awareness, jerky at first, like a wave smacking against a ship. Then smoother, gentler, calm. They were not whole yet, but they would eventually build back to it.

“Gone,” Owl murmured. Still she gazed at the stone. “He is gone.”

Iseult did not need to ask who Owl meant, and unbidden, the muscles in her legs crumpled. She sank onto her heels. Tired, so tired.

In Tirla, back at the inn, she had not believed Aeduan when he’d said he would not be joining them. He will follow, she had thought while mounting the gelding. Then while riding into the yard, He will follow. Then again and again, her breath closing off with each beat of the gelding’s hooves. This is a joke, and he will follow. He will follow. He has to follow.

Please, please follow.