Bloodwitch (The Witchlands, #3)

Iseult dove forward, shoving past Leopold. She smacked her hands on stone. Cold, rough, real. But also frizzing with magic. This wall was a lie. This wall was not real. It was bewitched, like the sky-ferry, and all it needed was the right combination of taps.

Or three flicks of a feathery wrist.

Iseult knocked three frantic times, and in a whoosh of charged air, the entire corner disappeared. Before her yawned the arched doorway.

This time, Leopold was the one to grab Iseult by the cloak. Awe, relief, and explosive surprise shaking across his Threads. The verdant focus was back too. He bolted into the darkness, and Iseult flew just behind. Once on the other side, though, she paused long enough to angle back.

Three flicks of her wrist, and the wall reassembled. Then she and Leopold ran.

Thank the Moon Mother he still held the candle, for otherwise, they would have scrambled in total darkness, missing where to duck and twist and crawl around stalagmites. The insurgent attacks thundered through the rock, but Iseult heard no pursuit and felt no Threads chasing from behind.

Eventually, they reached an opening in the tunnel, where a small cavern spanned upward and the path split in two. One route angled sharply up. The other angled sharply down.

Leopold slowed to a stop, panting. The flame’s light sputtered, casting shadows on the dark walls.

Shadows that looked like wings. Shadows that sent chills trilling down Iseult’s spine. Where had the Rook King led them? She forced herself to look only at the prince, though. At his Threads, burning and vibrant and true.

“How,” he said between harsh gasps, “did you know about this?”

“You would not believe me if I told you.” She fought for rough breaths of her own. Too much time in bed without a proper meal had stolen her energy. “We need to keep going.”

He straightened, eyes thinning and Threads tanning with suspicion. “Why? Why did we need to leave, Iseult?”

Iseult didn’t answer. There was nothing she could say that he would believe. Evrane is possessed by darkness and imprisoning me in sleep. Oh, and the ghost of the Rook King showed me how to break free. Iseult hardly believed it herself.

“It wasn’t safe there,” she answered. “And since Safi cannot come, there is no reason to stay. You have to trust me.”

He chewed his lip, expression and Threads wary—though now sage consideration spooled around the tan. Then all at once, a sharp column of fern funneled through. He had come to a decision.

“I trust you,” he murmured. “But which way do we go?” Swinging the candle away from her, he peered first at the ascending path, then the other.

“Down,” Iseult said, and she plucked the candle from his grasp and took the lead. She had no idea if down was actually the right way to go, but it seemed the logical choice. The valley was below them, so surely aiming that way would eventually take them where she wanted to go.

Or maybe it would lead them straight into hell-fire. Iseult really had no idea. The Rook King had only shown her the way out of the Monastery, not the mountain.

The sounds of the insurgent battle faded the deeper they went, and Iseult took this as a good sign. The rock formations smoothed out too, and the air turned colder. A sharp bite that she hoped meant winds ahead.

Then she felt actual wind against her face, crisp and frozen, and gradually, light began to suffuse the stone. Iseult’s gait quickened. Even drained as she was, she had done it. She had gotten away. Whatever Evrane had become, whatever the Abbot had wanted, and whatever the Rook King truly was—none of that mattered.

She had escaped, and now she and Leopold would find Owl. Then they would find Safi.

The tunnel’s end gaped before them, gray and frozen. A Threadwitching night, the light bright enough to send spots skating across Iseult’s vision as she approached.

She was running now, Leopold’s footsteps pumping behind her. Marshy shoreline waited just ahead. So close.

They reached the exit. They hurried through.

And that was when Iseult sensed the Threads. That was when she saw the people fifty paces away. Twenty figures in heavy furs crouching amidst the frozen reeds, all bound by faint blue Threads. People with the same magic, working together. They gaped at Iseult and Leopold, their Threads shifting to a uniform glaring surprise.

Except for one man. The only man standing separate from the group, he had not noticed Iseult or Leopold skittering to a halt upon the shore. He held a large curved horn to his lips, and a fraction of a heartbeat later, the horn sounded. A clear, startling call. Three short blasts.

At the fourth long drawl, the twenty others shot to their feet, axes and blades thrust high. Then they roared, Threads blaring to violent steel, and charged right for Leopold and Iseult.





FORTY-EIGHT


The Northman’s blade punched through Esme’s chest. Blood sprayed. He yanked back. She fell, gasping. Shocked. Silent.

Merik lunged forward, unsure why he felt the need to catch the Puppeteer before she hit the ground. His body acted without thought. He pulled her into his arms; her blood gushed across him.

“The Loom,” she choked out. “Bring me closer to the Loom.”

Merik did not bring her closer to the Loom. “You must stay still,” he said, but she fought him then, clawing and coughing: Loom, Loom, Loom.

The Northman lunged, his arm reared back to stab her again.

“No!” Merik dropped Esme roughly to the ground. He snapped tall and raised his hands. “No hurt!”

The Northman frowned. Blood dripped from his knife, brighter than the tassels. “Help,” he said, clearly confused. “Help. Go.” He waved to the trees. “Help.”

On the grass, Esme began to weep. Blood—there was so much blood. “Loom,” she whispered again, clutching at Merik’s leg. “Bring me to my Loom.”

Still, Merik did not bring her to the Loom. He knew, viscerally and logically, that this was his chance to flee. That this was a gift from Noden not to be tossed away. Yet for some reason, his feet felt rooted to the spot. His eyes rooted on a dying girl beside him.

Blood, blood. There was so much blood, and Merik felt no triumph at the sight of it. No relief at Esme’s face, taut with pain, or at her chest shaking while she tried to breathe.

He felt only pity. There might still be a person inside all that hate. After all, she did not bleed so differently than he did.

Nubrevna. His homeland flickered through the back of his mind, and with it came the memory of crowded streets and soaring bridges where ships sailed home. It was the one place he had always believed in, the one thing that had always made sense.

Letting the Puppeteer destroy it, letting the Raider King or the Fury destroy it—that did not make sense.

Esme might bleed as he did, but so did everyone else around them. All these Cleaved, all these people who had once had lives and families and loved ones of their own. She had destroyed them, just as she would destroy Nubrevna too.