Bloodwitch (The Witchlands, #3)

The attack on the Well had kept no one away.

Vaness turned at the sound of Safi’s footsteps. She glowed at the center of her stage, her gown a fiery red crepe fit for the Empress of the Flame Children and Chosen Daughter of the Fire Well. Her hair, coiled atop her head like a torch, was woven through with matching ribbons, while her manacles had stretched into thin bands spiraling up her arms. Instead of iron at her waist, she now wore a belt of gold.

At the sight of Safi, her chest deflated ever so slightly. A subtle exhale of relief, and Safi couldn’t resist tossing her a grin. Vaness waited until Safi fell into place just behind her—and then for Rokesh to fall into a matching place on her other side—before she turned to face the crowds.

Before she turned to face the tens of thousands of Marstoks who loved her, yet didn’t know her at all.

Vaness lifted her arms. The people of Azmir roared. It was a sound to topple storm clouds and swallow thoughts. The noise bellowed against Safi, gyrated in her lungs, her legs, her skull. So many people, so near and so far, all screaming their approval—and all of them screaming true.

No sign of disapproval now. The Azmirians wanted to be dazzled, they wanted to be entertained. So Vaness gave them what they asked for. Her wrists flicked up, her fingers pointed to the sky with palms out …

Three bursts of light zoomed into the sky. Then they detonated, a thousand shooting stars streaming down. Explosive cracks! followed a heartbeat later—and somehow, the crowds roared all the more.

Safi wanted to roar right along with them. It was an endless thunderstorm of colored light that swelled and skated. Sometimes, mere bursts of brilliance to fill the sky. Other times, elaborate pictures of battles and cities and forests came to life in an explosive tableau. One after the other, a spectacle like nothing she had seen or heard before, and with Safi in the best possible seat to witness it—the Empress’s own patio.

She was also in the best spot to constantly assess the party below. She couldn’t help it; something felt off about the assembly. Something scrubbed against the back of her neck—something that wasn’t her magic. Yet no matter how hard she scrutinized, all that swept against her was truth; all that bubbled in her belly was honest conversation and delight.

It was as a row of firework soldiers marched across the black sky, their reflection moving serenely on the lake below, that it finally dawned on Safi: what she was witnessing was impossible. Everyone lied. There was no escaping that fact, yet Safi sensed no falsehoods from the people below.

The ceaseless tide of lies that crashed within truths was gone. Completely vanished.

Gods curse her, what had Safi done? Clearly, she had used up her magic on the Truth-lens. Only half, though—the half that recognized deceit. The half that she had chosen to imbue into the glass. She didn’t understand how this was possible. Her magic simply was. It existed inside of her, always present, always responding.

Until right now, when it didn’t anymore.

She fumbled for the Truth-lens. Though she had not wanted to show it publicly, not before giving it to Vaness, she had no choice now. She had to know if it worked—she had to know if she could get her magic back. But when she shoved her hand into her pocket, her fingers did not touch metal.

Her fingers touched paper. With a slackening jaw, she gaped down at a spark-candle upon her palm. Almost the same shape, almost the same weight. Someone had switched them out.

The question was who—and why and when? She spun away from the horizon, away from the fireworks. Someone would have needed to get very close to trade items without her sensing.

Her eyes landed on Rokesh, ten paces away. He gazed steadily back. He watched her, and she suddenly remembered how he’d placed his hand upon her elbow in the storage room. The lightest of touches, but enough distraction for him to have snagged her Truth-lens and replaced it with a spark-candle.

It made no sense, though. There was no reason for him to want it, no reason for him to take it. All he’d had to do was ask. After all, she had tested Rokesh. She knew him to be true. Unless he isn’t any longer.

Earlier, she had noticed his injury was gone. Then in the storage room, he had commanded her to say something—and she had. Without thought, she had obeyed.

And then there was the glamoured hole at the Well. Glamourwitches were not common, nor Dalmotti silk gowns with a pocket just the right size for a spark-candle.

Then there was the simple truth that Habim had always said since his arrival: “We have a plan.” Not I, but we.

With your right hand give a person what he expects. With the left hand, cut the purse.

Rokesh unsheathed his sword.

And Safi screamed, “Mathew, don’t!”





FORTY-FOUR


The Fury made short work of the chains that bound Merik to the tower. The collar, though—that required Esme’s magic to open. So Kullen hauled Merik outside, and they took flight.

It was glorious. Even if it wasn’t Merik’s magic to carry them, even if he had a collar around his neck and cleaving magic to pump in his veins. Flying, however brief, made him feel whole again.

Not even two full days had passed since the wind had lashed his face and blustered beneath his feet, yet it felt like it had been centuries. Below Merik, moonlight washed the lost city of Poznin in silver. From above, it looked different. Alive and dreamlike. Ancient things made new again, and even the endless Cleaved looked fresh, whole beneath that glow.

The journey ended all too soon, and the forest around the Well clustered thicker and thicker. Then the Well itself appeared, a tiny figure in ermine standing at its side. Her eyes were closed as the Fury landed, her arms extended while she worked at her Loom.

She did not react when Kullen and Merik arrived, nor when Merik’s knees buckled from impact and he hit the grass on all fours. And she did not react when the Fury barked, “Puppeteer.” Her fingers kept on strumming and twining at invisible Threads.

The Fury lost his patience in an instant. “Puppeteer!” he called louder, still to no avail. So he launched once more into a prowling pace. It flattened the grass in a crooked line, and with each step, he picked at the scabbing on his mutilated ear.

He also muttered to himself: “Thankless tasks, thankless tasks. I am no tool. I am the Fury. I was there on the day the Six turned, just as he was.” As Kullen walked, black lines slithered across his face. Shadowy snow fell.

He reached the end of his line and pivoted. Pick, pick, pick. “That will change with you at my side, Merik. Unlike you, the General is not a king, and once I find the blade and the glass, then I won’t need him. Or any of them.” Now his glare turned to the Puppeteer, and he stalked right up to her.