Bloodwitch (The Witchlands, #3)

But Iseult stopped, with her fingers only inches above the velvet cover. He was not strangling her, and there were two other monks in the room—heavily armed. This was not a fight she could win. If a man is better armed or better trained, Habim had taught her, then do as he orders. It is better to live and look for opportunity than to die outmatched.

The Abbot’s face loomed closer, closer. Near enough for Iseult to see the ingrown hairs above his lip. To spot individual bloodlines shooting across his eyes. And this near, his Threads bore down on her like a mudslide.

“Give me one good reason,” he snarled. Spittle hit her cheek. “Give me one good reason I should not give you to the insurgents.”

“Because,” she said smoothly, “I am the Cahr Awen. You just said it yourself—”

It was the wrong answer. He shoved her against the headboard, cracking her skull once more. Sparks flew across her vision.

Then he tightened his grip, cutting off her air. “All I see is ’Matsi filth. You are lucky you have a prince backing you, or I would have gutted you already and hung you from the ramparts for the insurgents to see.”

He released her. As abruptly as he’d grabbed her, he let her go and jerked upward.

Iseult’s hand flew to her neck. Now, she felt pain, in her throat and in her lungs. He had ripped her bandages. Burn him, burn him, burn him.

She could. She should. These monks could do nothing against flames that ate through nightmares.

“Know this, little Threadwitch,” the Abbot said. “If those rebels breach our walls, I will leave you to their blades while the rest of us escape to safety.”

“And if you do,” she responded coolly, “then I will tell them which way you went.”

He slapped her. Right across the cheek. And though she was ready for the attack this time, that didn’t stop the black from ripping across her vision or the pain from whipping through her jaw.

“You are not the Cahr Awen,” he hissed. “And you are not worth what the prince has promised me.”

With those words to echo in Iseult’s mind, he left. A sweep of white tinged with red, a blur of a hundred emotions charging and rippling and oozing free. The other monks followed, their own more muted Threads alight with crisp pleasure.

She waited until the door crashed shut behind them before she closed her eyes. Her head pounded. The skin on her neck ached where he had grabbed her. Despite that, she felt … fine. Strong even. Unsettled, yes, but also bursting with the need to move, like jostled sparkling wine about to burst from the bottle.

Stasis, she reminded herself. She needed to think through everything that had just happened. She needed to work through it all and formulate a plan. Pain could be dealt with later, and this wild energy could fuel her planning.

Clearly, the Abbot did not believe she or Safi were the Cahr Awen, and clearly Leopold was paying the Abbot to protect them. Presumably he had also paid for the Abbot to retrieve Safi in Marstok. But there would be no finding Safi now, no reunion as long as the insurgency continued its onslaught.

Cautiously, Iseult swung her legs from the bed. She wore black cotton pants and a loose, matching shirt. No dirt or grime. Evrane must have bathed and dressed her. Perhaps Iseult had been awake during that process, perhaps not. For all she knew, it had only been a day since she’d arrived. Or maybe it had been weeks.

Her bare feet touched wool. Sheepskins layered over rush mats. She hadn’t noticed before.

Goddess, she must have been truly ill. Evrane was right: she was lucky she had not died.

With a hand braced on the table beside the bed, she stood. The jars within Evrane’s healer kit shook as she rose. In moments, her legs had remembered what standing was. Her spine too, and she straightened.

The room stayed blessedly still throughout. Even when she took three steps away from the bed. Even when she picked up speed and crossed to the window. Cold shivered off the glass, bubbles and bends warping the view of the valley far below.

There were no clouds to hide the moon. It shone, the purest of lights illuminating the valley. A Threadwitching night, Gretchya would have called it. When the Moon Mother’s glow washes away all color, leaving only Threads. Leaving only our work. Back then, that work had been binding Threads to stones—or for Iseult, attempting to bind and failing.

Now, her work was observation. Learn your opponents. Learn your terrain.

The wide river that twined through the valley was surrounded by marsh in some spots and sharper shores in others. Islands streaked the deep, black waters, and bridges crossed, zigging and zagging toward the Origin Well on its own island, dark with evergreens. The waters north of it looked frozen.

Somewhere out there was Owl. Somewhere out there was Safi. Iseult had to find them. Both of them. If Iseult could get to the bridges, she could reach the Well, and from there, she could reach the northern shore by way of ice. Then it would be easy enough to follow the river east without drawing attention from either side. Yes, the raiders would be near, but dense forest stood in their way.

The only real problem she faced was how to actually reach the bridges. Monks, insurgents, fortress walls, and a sheer cliff blocked her. But the Abbot had referred to an escape, and clearly the monks had been able to leave the Monastery to retrieve Iseult and Leopold from their wreckage. That meant there was a way out of here. Iseult just had to find it.

She scratched absently at her nose. No bandages blocked her this time. Evrane’s magic must be working. Although the Abbot just ruined some of that, she thought, pulling away from the window and patting at the bandages on her neck.

He had practically shredded them. Fortunately, it did not hurt to smooth them back in place. They were not the only bandages torn, though. The ones on her arms had also peeled apart. She angled her biceps into the moon’s light, ready to fix those too, when she caught sight of the flesh underneath.

Smooth. Unmarred.

That … made no sense. She tore off more gauze, this time on her forearm. But there was nothing there either. This was not new skin, pink and raw from healing. Nor was it old skin, scarred and puckered. This was her skin, exactly as it had always been.

No bruises, no welts, no scabs.

Iseult ripped the bandages off her other arm. Once more, the same pale, unblemished flesh met her eyes. Impossible, impossible.

She darted for the mirror beside the wardrobe, and in seconds, she had torn off every strip of gauze that she could reach. Her neck, her face, her stomach, her thighs. A white pile gathered at her feet. But each newly exposed patch of skin revealed the same thing: she had no injuries.

None. Nowhere. And Iseult knew what magically healed skin looked like—Evrane had healed her before. This was not it.

But there was no reason for Evrane to lie to her. No purpose in tending wounds that were not real or locking Iseult in a healing sleep. Surely, Iseult was wrong. Surely, she was missing something. A key piece of information that would align all the thoughts now banging around inside her mind.

The healer kit.