Bloodwitch (The Witchlands, #3)

All Iseult wanted to do was wake up. All she wanted to do was stop these flames and the endless laughing. The Firewitch was there whenever Evrane put her to sleep—and Evrane put her to sleep whenever she woke up.

Iseult would have just enough time to stumble to a washroom, the curtains and ram’s head and four-poster bed spinning with each step. Then she would relieve herself, drink some broth, and … Back to bed. Back to sleep. Back to the Firewitch’s flames.

The silver king did not save her again.

Iseult begged Evrane to let her stay awake, but the words always came out strange. Garbled and small, like she spoke the wrong language from somebody else’s mouth. And each time, Evrane would simply shake her head, confusion on her face and in her Threads.

Sometimes Leopold was there too, the same frown gripping his sunshine face and sunshine Threads. How much time has passed? Iseult tried to ask. How long have I been here? What is outside this room? Is the battle between monks still going on? But like Evrane, all he could do was shake his head and tell her to get some rest.

Finally—she had no concept of when, for the door never opened and the curtains never budged—Iseult opened her eyes. Evrane was not there, and no shadows trounced. No groggy magic held her under.

So she breathed, deep and full. Then she tried swallowing, amazed when she not only succeeded without coughing, but she even felt her tongue scrape the roof of her mouth. Felt her throat moving and chapped lips pressing tight.

She swiveled her head next, pleased when the room stayed mostly intact. Only slight blurring, slight dizziness. In fact, she could just make out Leopold standing at the curtains, peering outside. His Threads twined with golden worry and green contemplation. His left arm still hung in a sling.

“What happened to Owl?” she rasped. Cartorran. The words had come out in Cartorran, thank the goddess.

Leopold’s Threads skittered with sea blue surprise. He rounded toward her, eyebrows bouncing. Relief foaming overtop his other feelings. He strode toward her, a slight limp that Iseult hadn’t noticed before. Hadn’t been able to notice. “How do you feel, Iseult? Should I fetch Monk Evrane?”

“No.” The word burst out, overloud and erratic. Iseult might trust the monk completely and might owe her several lives, too, but right now, she did not want sleep. She wanted answers. “Don’t summon her. I feel fine. Just tell me: where is Owl?”

A swallow. A wincing spiral of grief. “I do not know,” Leopold admitted, reaching the bed. “Everything happened so quickly.”

“Ah.” Iseult rubbed at her face—only to instantly stop when her fingers met bandages. Odd, since she felt no pain there.

“Here.” Leopold poured her a glass of water from a pitcher on a table beside the bed. Though only one-handed, he remained as nimble as ever.

But Iseult waved off the drink. She did not know how much time she had before Evrane would return and make her sleep again. “I thought I saw Blueberry. When the fire hit, I saw his Threads. Could he have rescued Owl?”

“You would know better than I would, Iseult. I saw nothing beyond the flames. May I?” Leopold waved to the bed, and at Iseult’s nod, he helped her rise.

This time, she welcomed the aid. No pain coiled through her, but her limbs felt made of marble. Too heavy to move on their own.

“We need to search for her,” she said as Leopold’s good hand slid behind her.

He huffed a laugh. Not a cruel sound, but a startled one that matched his Threads. “I will do that right after I finish lifting you … Wait, are you serious?” He reared back. “Iseult, there are monks trying to kill us over there”—he swung his head toward the door—“and a Raider King’s vast army over there.” He swung his head toward the window. “If the child lives—and I hope she does—there is nothing we can do to help her right now.”

“There is always something we can do. Always.”

At her words, slivers of rich burgundy hit Leopold’s Threads. Shades of peach too. On anyone else, she would have interpreted it as tenderness, perhaps even desire. But on him … On him, she couldn’t understand it at all.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I said nothing.”

“No, but you felt something. Tell me what.”

Now wheat-colored embarrassment channeled across his Threads. Then he smiled, a rueful smile that was so perfectly in sync with his feelings, Iseult found herself blinking. There was even a faint blush to warm his cheeks. “I truly can hide nothing from you, can I?”

“That does not answer the question.”

“No.” He ran a thumb over his lower lip, before he finally murmured, “Please, Iseult. Let a man have his secrets.” Then he crooked down to grab something behind the table. “Here, I have something for you.”

A clever deflection, but Iseult would allow it. There was still so much she needed to know, yet her eyes were burning more and more by the second.

“I know this is not your book precisely, but it is the same text. Actually, this is the original. I took it from the Monastery Archives.” He slid a black leather tome onto the bed. “I thought it might prove I was telling the truth. About Eron fon Hasstrel, I mean.”

Iseult glanced down at the book … And ice thumped into her stomach. She swallowed, feeling her face settle into a puzzled frown—and also feeling too stunned to prevent it.

An Illustrated Guide to the Carawen Monastery.

This was the same book on Carawen monks she had left behind in Ve?aza City. The only way Leopold could know that would be if he was truly working with Safi’s uncle.

“Likely you do not wish to read it, but I thought—”

“Thank you,” she interrupted. And she meant it. Everything had been so unstable since Aeduan had left, since the crash and the dreams and the darkness. This book felt like an anchor. And knowing Leopold had gotten it for her … That she could in fact trust him …

Iseult’s breath slid out. The room was melting together; her chest felt a jumble of feelings—hot and cold alike in a hundred ways she didn’t recognize.

She pulled the book closer, ready to peel it open, when she noticed a stamp on the cover. A bird with three legs and a crown atop its head.

“What is this?” Her fast-tiring gaze lifted to Leopold’s. “My version did not have it.”

“That is the sigil of the Rook King. You can find it all over the Monastery.” He tapped it with his uninjured hand. “This whole place used to be his fortress a thousand years ago. Have you never wondered why the Carawen sigil is a bird?”

She had, but nowhere in her book—in this book—had there been an answer.

The Rook King, she thought. The man from her dream. It had to be, even if she couldn’t explain how.

Again, she rubbed at her bandages. This time, though, she let her fingers scrape the cloth. No pain, but Leopold still grimaced and whispered, “Leave them.”