Bloodwitch (The Witchlands, #3)

After years of dreaming of this place, Iseult det Midenzi had finally arrived at the Carawen Monastery. It looked exactly as it had in the illustrations, except so much more. No painting could ever capture all the angles and shades and movement of the place.

Her chest felt so full, she couldn’t inhale. The frost that had lived in her shoulders since last night thawed into something warm. Something that expanded in her stomach and pressed against her lungs …

Laughter, she realized, and if she wasn’t careful, she might actually start giggling. And clapping. And bouncing. And, Moon Mother preserve her, would that be so bad? She was not merely here as a supplicant hoping to train with monks, hoping to finally be the monk she’d always dreamed of. She was here as one half of the Cahr Awen.

Surely, even a Threadwitch could clap at that.

“See those little people, Owl? Those are the monks,” Iseult murmured. The girl’s Threads hovered with a pink. All her fear had whispered away, replaced by awe the instant the sky-ferry’s pulley had begun its haul. No doubt it helped that the girl was certain “Blueberry would catch her if she fell,” and no doubt that was true. For her, at least. Iseult and Prince Leopold, however, were on their own—and it was a long way down.

Despite this undeniable truth, even Iseult’s fear had settled the longer the wood croaked beneath them without incident, the longer the chain crunched them ever onward. And she had to admit, it helped that Leopold was so calm, so at ease. If the pressure popping in his ears bothered him, he gave no sign on his face. If the wind and the cold and the endless drop-off below unsettled him, none of that showed in his Threads.

What would Safi say if she saw me like this? Iseult thought, her fingers moving to her Threadstone. A prince beside her and a mountain bat soaring overhead while she ascended ever higher into the Sirmayans.

She had come a long way from that attic bedroom in Ve?aza City.

What if, what if, what if. Iseult squeezed her Threadstone tighter. Soon, she would be with Safi again. Soon, the world would make sense again. It would be right side up as it should be.

Owl’s tiny voice split her thoughts. “Rook,” the child said, pointing above them, where sure enough, a bird circled on the currents.

At Leopold’s curious glance from the pulley, Iseult translated. He nodded, a flitter of surprise crossing his Threads even as he smiled lightly at the girl. “That is indeed a rook. They use them to carry messages outside the Monastery—and to spy on approaching visitors. I imagine we will be joined by monks the instant we land.”

When Iseult turned to tell Owl all of this, though, she found the girl eyeing Leopold.

“Where is your crown?” Owl asked.

A valid question for a child, so again Iseult translated.

And a startled laugh split his lips. The reaction, however, did not match his Threads. They were startled, yes, but also tinged with fear. “Tell her I lost it in my search to find you.”

Iseult dutifully explained, and Owl’s forehead pinched, her Threads sage green with consideration. Then at last she nodded: “I will make him another,” before turning once more to gaze upon the view.

Soon, the sky-ferry floated them past the final mountaintop, and the full Monastery was on display. Iseult could hardly breathe at the sight of it. Without thinking—having forgotten the height entirely—she scooted a bit closer to the railing. Owl inched forward with her.

“That tall spire there,” Iseult said, pointing to a black tower twice as high as everything else, “was built a thousand years ago. And there, do you see that lower wall circling the Monastery? It’s wide enough for twenty men to move side by side. On horseback. Oh, and look—that slope-roofed building over there. That’s the great hall, where they have glass stained in every color you can imagine.

“And, oh look!” Iseult’s voice came out breathy and thick with emotion—a shame to every Threadwitch in the Witchlands. “That island,” she said reverently, “is where the Origin Well stands.” She pointed to a wide silver streak bisecting the valley, and to a long, crescent-shaped island at its heart.

She knew from her book that the Well itself stood nestled at the southern edge, and that six downy birches stood sentry, their leaves green even in winter. The Well, meanwhile, stayed frozen year round. In the summer, when the Nomatsi caravans arrived on pilgrimage, it would take them a full day of cutting through the ice to retrieve the Well’s healing waters. It was only a few inches thick, but hard as granite.

“What are you telling her?” Leopold queried, moving to join them. The breeze pulled at his curls. The sun turned his eyes a sharp, clover green.

“I’m showing her the Origin Well,” Iseult explained, eyes narrowing at the sight of his Threads. The serenity on his face no longer matched his feelings. His earlier calm was gone, replaced by a rich, yellow worry.

“What’s wrong?” she asked quietly, tone intentionally light for Owl’s sake.

Leopold blinked. Then grimaced. “I can hide nothing from you, can I?”

“We had an agreement.”

“That disproportionately favors you.”

“If you would simply show me your true feelings, then it would not be a problem.”

“But Iseult,” he countered, spreading his hands, “true feelings are dangerous. Did you not know?”

“So is trying to run from them.”

“Ah.” Again, he blinked, Threads doused beneath a rich, almost icy blue. As if her words had surprised him like cold water dashed against the face.

And when he looked at her again, there was something akin to respect in his expression.

“To answer your question,” he drawled, cocking his head casually toward a craggy slope coming into view. It stood opposite the Mon astery, and above the river snaking between. “That army of raiders has me … on edge.”

Iseult followed his gaze, about to ask, What raiders? But then she saw, and her breath hitched. Clustered amidst the forest were hundreds of tents with a hundred more smoke spirals whipping away on the breeze—and that was only the start. Countless more spirals lifted up from the snow-covered trees, suggesting countless more tents waiting unseen.

“Why are they here?” Her voice came out shrill with surprise, prompting Owl to glance up—and prompting worry to sparkle in her Threads. Iseult forced a tight smile.

“You pose an excellent question,” Leopold murmured. “For which there is no excellent answer. As far as anyone can guess, the Raider King is waiting for the river to freeze. Then he will march his forces south. And we will be very glad we are inside the Monastery and not down there beside them.” He flashed a warm grin for Owl, much smoother than Iseult’s had been.

“Can they see us?” Iseult asked.

A curt head shake. “The sky-ferry is glamoured. The monks, however, can most certainly see us, and…” He trailed off. Then as one, his body and Threads stiffened. “Move.” He flung his arms around Iseult, yanked her from the rail, and thrust her toward the pulley.

She fell to her knees beside the gears. Owl screamed. Iseult turned …