Bloodwitch (The Witchlands, #3)

“YES!” Vaness screamed. Then Lev released her, and the Empress toppled limp against Zander’s shoulder.

Hollering for the Hell-Bards to follow, Safi shot out of the stairs and into the hall. Caden stayed close at her side, while Zander followed with the Empress, and finally Lev took up the rear. They crossed the hall and no one stopped them. No soldiers or fire appeared.

They crossed the storage room, and still no one interfered. They crept past crates of spark-candles—except they weren’t spark-candles at all. Which meant as soon as the fire chasing behind them reached this room …

“Faster!” she urged, and the Hell-Bards obeyed.

They reached the doorway at the end. As she’d seen earlier, it led to a cavernous boathouse that opened onto the lake. Naval vessels appeared to float harmlessly, but Safi knew, even if her magic did not, that it was all a lie. The battle echoes spoke otherwise.

And there, at the end of the boathouse, was a ship. Small, flat-bottomed, clearly meant for transferring goods off larger vessels, it was the only option, so without discussion, everyone aimed for it. Caden and Zander maneuvered Vaness in, then Safi followed while Lev untied the boat.

“Oars,” Zander said. “These aren’t going to get us far.”

“Not with what’s out there.” Caden stared at the lake, face screwed with concentration. Whatever he saw, Safi couldn’t.

“Guide me.” A ragged voice listed up from the Empress. Safi hadn’t realized she was awake again, and when she looked down, she only saw closed eyes and peaceful sleep.

But then Vaness tried to rise—and Zander helped her into a weak, slumping seat that even the glamour could not hide. “Tell me where to go,” she repeated, “and I…” A shaking breath. “I will send the boat where you command.” As if to prove that she could, she knocked her wrist sideways and the boat slithered away from the dock.

“You’re not well,” Safi protested, but at the same moment, Caden declared, “Forward.” Then his eyes met Safi’s, holding hers in that grim, unrelenting way he had. “It’s our only chance, Safi.”

She knew he was right. Smoke now plumed from the storage area. Any moment, the flames would hit. The explosion would tear the flesh from their bones and boil it straight to the Void.

So without another word of protest, Safi reached down, gripped Vaness’s other hand in hers, and said, “Forward.”





FIFTY


Aeduan went to the clearing with the tallest mountain pine. There his father waited, a group of women and men clustered to him, and twelve horses stamping and snuffing just beyond.

Ragnor met Aeduan’s eyes amidst the throng. He nodded, and Aeduan thought he almost caught a smile on the edge of his tired lips. Approval, maybe. Or relief.

Two years ago that would have given Aeduan pause. Even two weeks ago, it would have stopped him in his tracks and warmed the blood in his veins.

Now, Aeduan felt no blood in his veins. Now, he smelled nothing of his father—no baby’s breath or bone-deep loss.

All Aeduan felt was a faint constriction in his lungs. Regret, he supposed, that it had come to this. After all, his father was not a bad man; his father’s cause might even be just.

But one need not be evil to become it.

His stride did not slow as he passed his father. Already, his gaze skipped ahead to the twelve steeds intended for Ragnor’s small group. The black on the end—ears back, her hooves light upon the snow—she had energy to do what Aeduan needed done.

“Aeduan?” his father called.

Aeduan ignored him. He went to the mare, young and impatient. He had not taken the fur from the chest; his wounds still bled, and he did not want the added layers to confine him. He had taken his sword, and he now adjusted it to avoid hitting the mare as he mounted.

“Aeduan?” his father repeated, distress in his tone now. Distress on his face when Aeduan finally looked at him.

“I am sorry,” Aeduan said, and he meant it. Then he kicked the horse into a gallop. He and the mare shot off into the trees.

Voices chased behind. Cries of warning, of surprise, of danger if Aeduan did not slow. But Aeduan did not slow, and in seconds, the people were gone.

His father was gone. All he heard was the thunder of the mare’s hooves, the spray of snow and soil as she galloped faster, faster. This speed in terrain unknown—the horse might throw a shoe or twist a leg, but he could not slow. Lady Fate’s knife was coming.

Around trees and ever farther down the hill, Aeduan and the mare moved. Past more soldiers, past snowdrifts and tents. All he smelled was the cold of the night and the sweet musk of a horse on the move. Until at last, they reached the end of the descent and the valley opened before them.

The river, a frozen expanse of white, shone beneath a full moon. And far, far on the other end, Aeduan could just make out the monastery, a dark bird roosting upon the cliff.

Below it, dead ahead, were figures. His father’s Icewitches, he presumed. He dug his heels into the mare’s ribs, leaned forward, and she pushed into a gait that practically sang. She ran with joy, with energy in her muscles and speed in her heart. No concept of what lay ahead, only the purity of this moment with a flat path and no obstacles before her.

Something flickered at the top of his vision. A bat-shaped shadow crossing the moon, vast and quick. When Aeduan glanced up, though, he saw nothing.

It wasn’t until they were a hundred paces onto the frozen river that he realized they were no longer alone. It was the trebuchets that told him. The hiss and burn of fire propelled into the sky. It launched across the river from the Monastery, and when Aeduan turned his gaze to watch it land, he caught sight of the raiders.

None of their blood-scents swept against him, no noises hit his ears over the mare’s four-beat, snow-churning gallop.

This was his father’s distraction. Thousands of raiders flooding from the trees south of him.

Not fast enough—Aeduan and the mare were not fast enough. He pushed her harder, and she obeyed. Sweat lathered on her, despite the cold. She was obedient, though, and she was ready.

She galloped on.

More fires erupted from the trebuchets. They crashed to the ground south of Aeduan, balls of orange light that drew his eyes, even as he tried to focus forward. There were figures ahead—two people who were not part of the Icewitches. They sped toward Aeduan on foot.

Later, he would wonder how he knew it was her. Later, he would question if maybe his magic had been there all along and the silence of her blood had called to him. But in that moment, all he knew was that it was Iseult running toward him. It was Iseult fleeing the Icewitches.

And he had to reach her first.

Fire shot from the Monastery and roared toward Aeduan. He veered the mare left. Heat and black light screamed past.

It hit the ice.

This time, though, the dark flames caught and spread and ate. White, alchemical hearts beamed bright. Wider and wider it grew in a way that only seafire could.