Bloodwitch (The Witchlands, #3)

It was sunset by the time Merik finally crested the hill, legs aching and spine stiff from too much walking. Running, too, when his body could handle it. There’d been no time to waste, so he had not waited to watch the Northman go. He’d simply pointed again, repeating the words Go north. People help you.

Then Merik had grabbed his wet shirt and run until his legs had given out. It had not taken long. Merik was a broken man. The Puppeteer had seen to that. Yet even if his muscles and bones might fail him, his mind was as sharp as it had ever been. Discovering the Northman had energized him. A storm of questions and implications, with one lightning bolt shining brighter than the rest.

If that man had returned from cleaving, if he had broken free of Esme’s control—even if he didn’t know how—maybe Merik could heal too. And if Merik could heal, then so could Kullen. So could all of these people.

That thought sustained Merik throughout the journey back to Poznin. He ran when he could, shambled when he could not, and he veered wide when he saw the gap in Cleaved that marked the deadly singing pool.

As Merik passed the final sentry in Esme’s new path up the hill, the forest suddenly opened wide. Ruby light streamed down upon a long, rounded pond, the waters still and dark. Six oaks with barren trunks and branches reached toward the sky, like corpses breaking from their graves. Though clearly long dead, they had somehow never blown over in a storm.

Not somehow, Merik realized, the longer he stared. There were no man-made structures here. No flagstones to line the edges, no monuments to worship the magic. There was only thick grass, thicker forest, and the creatures of the night whispering from the shadows.

With that thought, a memory surfaced—a skipping song Aunt Evrane had once taught him as a child.

Oak and grass to honor the winds,

Limestone and cypress for water,

Beech and granite, gifts from the earth,

Cedar and sandstone for fire.

Birch trees and snowfall, the birthplace of Aether,

In shadowy foxfire, Void waits,

While deep in the heart, where no sunlight reaches,

The Giant called Sleeper awakes.



Oak. Grass. This was the Origin Well of Arithuania. This was the Well bound to air magic—the Well that was the source of Merik’s own power.

And it was dead. Just like the Water Well he had grown up beside, this Well’s waters had stopped flowing; its six trees had dried to husks.

“There you are.” Esme’s voice wriggled out from the trees, and moments later, the woman herself appeared. A small path wound into the forest behind her. She wore a rich ermine cape, its hood trimmed with white velvet that glistened beneath the sun as she skipped his way.

Always skipping, Merik thought, muscles locking at her approach. Always delighted by her latest games. Sure enough, when she slowed to a stop ten paces away and drew back her hood, she was smiling widely.

“Welcome to my Loom.” She opened her arms. “This is how I control everything. Is it not beautiful?”

Merik hesitated, swallowing on a throat that had suddenly stopped working. He saw no loom. He saw nothing, save the Well, and though it was indeed beautiful, he feared admitting he saw only grass and water and moonlight.

But then she laughed. “Of course you cannot see it, Prince. Only a Threadwitch may. Or…” She cocked her head coyly to one side. “A Weaverwitch. Now, give me the gemstones.” She held out a pale hand.

Merik obeyed, fumbling the satchel from where he’d knotted it to his belt. The stones ground against one another. They had left a bruise against his hip from all the running.

“So many?” Esme said, eyes widening with hunger.

“Onga. There were many at the shrine.” He offered her the satchel, head bowed, and with a cry of delight, she loosened the drawstring.

Her cry quickly became a snarl. “You got the wrong ones.” Eyes blazing, she advanced on him. “I told you to get the stones with thread or yarn around them, Prince, but most of these do not have thread or yarn. You disobeyed me.”

“No,” Merik breathed, hands lifting. “No, please, it was an accident. I swear it.”

Esme did not care. Her free hand was already rising, already reaching toward the water. She plucked at the air like a harp.

Pain exploded inside Merik. First his skull, white and blinding. Then it lanced down his neck, into his chest, constricting his lungs and filling his organs with hot oil. He collapsed to the grass.

He screamed. He begged. He wept, but still the pain seared and slashed and boiled until all he could do was cling to consciousness.

When at last the attack reared back—a slow withdrawal that somehow hurt more than the full onslaught—Merik could do nothing but convulse against the earth. The pain was so much worse than he remembered. A day without it, and he had forgotten the full extent of what Esme could do.

Though only with her Loom, he thought vaguely, and in the back of his mind, he wondered if she had to physically be beside it to use it.

A thump sounded near Merik’s head, and, neck trembling—everything trembling—he squeezed open his eyes to see what lay beside him. It was the satchel of stones.

“Sort through them,” Esme ordered. She had not moved from her place beside the Well, and her arm was still extended, fingers ready to play again at an invisible Loom.

Which suggested she did indeed need to be near the Loom to use it. That was good to know, and likely explained why Merik had not heard from her most of the day: she had been elsewhere.

“This time, Prince,” she said, “do it properly. I only want stones wrapped in thread or yarn. Do you understand?”

He nodded jerkily. His throat didn’t work, and his muscles scarcely cooperated as he tried to push himself up and grab for the satchel. His fingers twitched. His eyes blinked and blinked. Once he had the stones, it took him several tries to remove his coat. His shirt sleeve was still damp, and the evening’s breeze was a welcome chill against the fire alight within his veins.

He spread the coat on the grass, and then dumped the stones atop it. And Esme’s hand finally lowered from the Well. From her Loom.

For a time, she watched Merik separate the stones into two piles. It was slow work; he could scarcely see, even with the sunset streaming down. Thick tangles of cloud passed every few minutes, stealing the light, and often the strips of thread or yarn were so thin, they were almost undetectable.

He hated having Esme watch. At any moment, he might put a stone in the wrong pile and then she would punish him. So, though it made his throat ache and lips tear, he forced himself to croak, “Why do you need these stones? We did not…” He wet his lips. “We did not finish our lesson.”

At the sight of her sudden grin, his spine melted with relief.