Bloodwitch (The Witchlands, #3)

He hit the first outskirts of the encampment as the moon began its descent. Snow fell, a fresh dusting atop the permafrost. The air nipped at Aeduan’s face and fingers. He had grown up in this cold, but years away had erased the memory of how it needled into one’s bones.

Thousands of Nomatsis, Purists—and anyone else on the run—were nestled into these snow-glossed spruce trees. A lesson in efficiency, with hundreds of makeshift homes hammered into whatever space the land allowed. Smoke trickled up in pale mists from the loose-woven Nomatsi tents, and in darker ribbons from the sharp-sloped tents that Sirmayan natives and Northerners favored. Frequent campfires, frequent families.

But no soldiers, no raiders. These were the people displaced by war, not the ones who fought in it. Occasional sentries armed with bows and spears were the closest Aeduan ever spotted to fighters of any kind. Yet he’d seen his father’s ranks before, tens of thousands of women and men who sought the end of imperial whips—and tens of thousands of raiders, too. The skirmishes Aeduan had encountered coming here only accounted for a fraction of those soldiers, which begged the question of where the rest of the forces had gone.

As Aeduan strode through a cluster of Nomatsi tents, two older women tending a central fire caught sight of him. Terror widened their eyes. They darted for children nearby, herding them frantically inside.

And Aeduan realized a step too late that he had forgotten to turn his Carawen cloak inside out. In his rush to get here, he had not considered how he might be received. After all, in the past no one had given him a second glance—and some had even recognized him as the Raider King’s son. Now, though, white cloaks were the harbingers of death.

But it was too late to turn the fabric inside out, and now a Nomatsi huntswoman charged his way, a square shield on her back and bow drawn.

Aeduan’s hands lifted. “I’m not here to hurt you—”

“On your knees!”

He lowered to his knees. The huntswoman reached him, and in quick, practiced movements, she slung a rope from her hip and bound him. Aeduan didn’t resist. He couldn’t, even if he wanted to. His magic was too frail—it took him three rib-stretching inhales to even sense a glimmer of this woman’s blood-scent, so there could be no controlling it to escape.

There would also be no healing from any wounds she might try to inflict. Not merely because his magic failed him, but because the Painstone was fading fast. A subtle burn throbbed louder by the second, as if fire ants crawled beneath his skin. As if they gnawed and stung and singed ever closer to the surface.

“King Ragnor,” he tried to say. “I am his son.”

The woman ignored him, and now other Nomatsis crowded in. There was hate and fear in their eyes. Well deserved, and he knew there would be no convincing them that he was not like other monks.

How could he have been so foolish? Exhaustion and pain had leached him of common sense.

A second huntswoman appeared, carrying a canvas sack. She moved for Aeduan, clearly about to yank it over his head, when a voice rang out. “Wait!”

It was a woman’s voice, thin and aged, but instantly, the Nomatsis nearby fell silent. Then the speaker herself hobbled into view, and Aeduan understood why. Beneath a heavy fur, she wore faded Threadwitch black—making her the leader of this tribe.

Frostbite scars marked the folds of her inscrutable face. She was old, she was tired, and she was used to having her own way. When she came to a stop before Aeduan, she stared down with the same unabashed emptiness Iseult always wore.

“You are a monk.” She spoke Marstoki, clearly assuming Aeduan would not understand her native tongue.

But he did, so he responded in Nomatsi, “I am. And I am also the Raider King’s son.”

No change in her expression. No reaction at all.

“Is it true?” She switched to Nomatsi. “Is Dirdra truly at the Monastery?”

Aeduan frowned. Then shook his head. “Dirdra?”

“A child from my tribe.” At Aeduan’s continued frown, she added, “She is an important child, stolen by raiders. And now we think to be stolen again by the monks.”

Owl. She had to mean Owl.

Aeduan drew in a long breath, grappling for whatever Bloodwitchery remained inside him. It made his lungs burn and his skin scream, but he held tight. And he grasped and he fumbled and he reached until …

Summer heather and impossible choices. This was the woman he had been following. The only survivor from Owl’s tribe. Finally, he had found her, safe beneath the banner of the Raider King.

Aeduan’s lips parted to tell her he had saved Owl before, and that if she was at the Monastery, he would save her again, but before the words could rise, a wind burst through the tents. Strong enough to knock over people, strong enough to sputter the massive fire.

Then small cries sounded, and the Nomatsis scrambled for safety. Not the huntswomen, though, and not the Threadwitch. When the Fury stalked into their encampment, they only straightened their spines and glared.

“What have we here?” the Fury asked, moving past the fire. Snow swarmed around his head, kicked up around his feet. “I hear a monk has arrived in the camp, and it turns out to be the General’s son. I must admit, Bloodwitch, I am half tempted to leave you here after all the effort I wasted trying to find you.” He came to a stop, hands gliding open. “But unfortunately, time is of the essence with the coming assault.”

“You cannot have him,” the Threadwitch said in broken Arithuanian. There was iron in her posture. Ice in her gaze. “I am not finished with him.”

“I’m afraid you very much are.” The Fury flicked his wrist.

And wind slammed against the Threadwitch. It knocked her to the earth, snapping bones, and before the huntswomen could draw their bows, the Fury had smashed them aside as well. Then he strode to Aeduan, gripped his shoulder, and hoisted him to his feet.

Aeduan tried to turn to the Threadwitch, tried to tell her, “I do not know where Dirdra is, but I will find her again.” Except wind roared in, thick with snow. It was too loud to shout over, too wild to see beyond.

Two heartbeats later, Aeduan and the Fury took flight.



* * *



Endless flames and inescapable laughter.

Over and over, Iseult died on this battlefield. Over and over, the blaze engulfed her and pounded her ordinary heart to dust. But even in death, there was no relief, for death only brought more hell-fire and cackling.

There was the Firewitch she had killed. There was the Firewitch she was going to kill. She was his, and he was hers until time ended and the Moon Mother released them all to eternity.

She tried to beg—always she tried to beg—yet all that ever came was a muffled, echoing roar. As if another woman screamed and that woman was buried deep beneath a mountain.

Over and over. No end, no beginning.

And no warning, just like before, when the new world seared into hers. Iseult wept at the first holes rending through the battlefield. Hot tears on a face that was charred to nothing.