Bloodwitch (The Witchlands, #3)

“How do you know this?” Aeduan asked. The curse was working quickly, constricting at his insides. Cording around his bones.

His father did not answer, and Aeduan had not expected him to. After all, this was not the first time Ragnor had said something that came from another age. Often, he referred to histories as if he had been there. Legends as if he had faced them.

Aeduan knew his father had been a soldier for some nobleman in these mountains. That he had met Aeduan’s mother, and they had joined a passing Nomatsi tribe. Yet soldiers did not speak of long-dead kings, and tribesmen did not know of castles built a thousand years ago.

“What I want to know,” Ragnor continued, “is what awaits at the end of this tunnel.” He traced a line up the cliff, under the Monastery. It forked halfway up, one line aiming to a spot beyond the Monastery, the other tracing toward a second circle in a long, rectangular room marked Chapel.

It was not a chapel now. “That is the main library,” Aeduan said. “There is no door in that corner there. Only wall.”

“I expected as much, which is why I have a Stonewitch to handle it. Is the space guarded?”

“No.”

“And the layout?”

Aeduan hesitated. The sweat on his forehead was now sliding down his jawline, and pain sent heat waves floating across his vision. “What,” he began after a long inhale, “do you plan to do inside?”

“Justice. The monks have slaughtered our people, and I will not leave that unanswered.”

“So you will slaughter them in return?”

“Do you care?”

Aeduan’s pulse echoed in his eardrums. He thought of Lizl. “Not all monks know of these attacks. They do not all deserve to die.”

“Perhaps not,” Ragnor admitted. “But if we try to separate the good from the bad—these so-called ‘insurgents’ from the others—then too many of our own people will die in the process. Remember: it is always easier to kill ants in the mound than spread out upon the field.”

He did not wait for Aeduan to respond to this before he pushed away from the table and returned to the first map. For the Raider King, once a decision had been made, the conversation was over. It was not cruelty that made him act so, but simple logic. The transaction was complete, what more was there to say?

In the past, Aeduan had liked it that way. Simple, clear. He was given orders. He followed them. Coin and the cause, coin and the cause.

Right now, though, as the tent began to dip and sway around him, he found his father’s expectations rankling. Scratching atop skin made of flames.

“There will be two main groups,” his father explained while Aeduan shuffled toward the first map. “Foot soldiers, cavalry, and archers will launch a frontal attack as soon as the Icewitches have finished their work. Then a small group—which you and I will join—will enter through the cave.” He dropped a wooden coin atop the Monastery. “Once we are in the library, then the foot soldiers from the frontal assault will follow.” He pushed the other coins toward the cliff where the cave awaited. “By dawn, the Monastery will be ours and the Cahr Awen will be eliminated.”

The Cahr Awen eliminated.

Cahr Awen.

Eliminated.

And just like that, Aeduan understood why his father truly wanted to enter into the Monastery: he wanted Iseult. He wanted her gone.

It made no sense, though. “Why?” The question croaked out, surprising Ragnor. Aeduan did not withdraw it, though. “Why do you want the Cahr Awen?”

His father considered him, frowning. Never had Aeduan pressed him for deeper explanations, never had he required more answers. But now, Aeduan did not merely want them. He needed them.

His father seemed to understand, for the lines of his face abruptly smoothed, and he held Aeduan’s gaze a beat longer than was comfortable.

“You … have her eyes.” He turned away, lips compressing. Lines returning. “Perhaps, though, it is time I explain what your mother wanted—”

A horn, deep and distant, bellowed out. Three short blasts, followed by a fourth long drawl.

Ragnor’s demeanor turned to stone once more. He was not a father, but a king. “Remove your cloak. A spare fur is in that trunk.” He jerked his head toward a shadowy corner. “Take it and your blade. Then meet me at the tallest mountain pine. We ride out when the second horn sounds.”

A flap of tent and a gust of wind marked the Raider King’s exit.

Aeduan was alone.

Alone, yet no longer unsure. He had been wrong back in Tirla. Lady Fate’s knife had not yet fallen. Now, it hovered above him. Now, the edges gleamed, ready to draw blood.

With pained care, he peeled off his old cloak. Blood-streaked and shredded, the white salamander fibers had carried him far. He had lived inside this cloth for three years, believing it would protect him. A wall against the flames.

But walls hadn’t saved his mother. They hadn’t saved the woman and babe dying on the forest floor. And this cloak had not saved him from a curse borne by Nomatsi arrows.

The cloak pooled around Aeduan’s feet, and it was done. He turned his attention to his chest, to where the Painstone made a small bump beneath his blood-crusted uniform. No matter how hard he strained, how deeply he inhaled, he could not feel his heart pumping just below it. He could not sense any of his organs or any of his blood.

He was alive, but he was empty. The curse’s work was complete.

There was nothing he could do about it either. He had known this moment would come, and caring now seemed impossible. If he had truly wanted to stop the curse, then he should have made different choices, should have followed different paths.

He was a Bloodwitch no longer. He was a monk no longer.

He was man, just a man.

It would have to be enough.



* * *



Iseult stood half crouched beside her bed, breath held as she stared at her Threadstone. It blinked, insistent and inescapable.

Safi was in trouble. And judging by the stone’s brightness, Safi was far away. Very.

Even if Iseult could escape this Monastery, she would be too late. Safi needed her now. Safi’s life was in danger now.

Her gaze flicked to Leopold sleeping in his armchair. Was he the enemy or her salvation? Could he help her reach Safi or would he slow her down? Lips parted and head tipped to one side, he looked young. Just a boy, innocent and dreaming. Even in the dim moonlight, he shone bright as sunshine, his Threads spun from gold. His promises spun from charm. Iseult so desperately wanted to believe he was on her side, but even she was not so fanciful a fool.

Not after what she had seen tonight.

Evrane, the Abbot, the Firewitch forever cleaving, the shadows that flew on black wings. No one could be trusted but Safi.

And Safi was leagues upon leagues away, her life hanging on a knife’s edge. Each second Iseult stood chained by indecision was a second lost forever. Another moment in which Evrane might return, or the Abbot. Another moment in which the insurgents might finally break the fortress walls, or the danger that threatened Safi might overwhelm her forever.