Bloodwitch (The Witchlands, #3)

She planted one foot in front of the next, following that string, until at last, she left the frozen, burning river behind. Until at last, her feet landed on solid, craggy earth.

Ahead of her, through the smoke, was a fir tree. Somehow, despite the chaos and the fire, it seemed to shine. Green and healthy and strong. A hand beckoning her onward, so onward she moved.

Iseult’s strength was flagging, though. Without the flames to fuel her here, she was just a girl. Just a girl with a man upon her back and tears—inexplicable, unwelcome tears—still sliding down her cheeks.

Threadwitches do not cry, she thought as she hauled Aeduan ever onward. Threadwitches do not cry.

The pines thickened around her, as did the sense of life that breathed here. Even in the dead of night, birds chirruped. Snowdrops bloomed.

Then the conifers cut away, and she reached the Origin Well of the Carawens.

Six downy birches shivered on the smoke-charged breeze, oblivi ous to the fire and explosions raging so near. The ice stretched between them, glimmering beneath the moon. Where the river had shone white, the Origin Well simply shone. As if it bore a light of its own. As if it sensed Iseult near and now it listened, it waited, it welcomed her approach.

The Aether Well, some called it. The spring to which Iseult had always believed her magic was bound. Now she knew better. Now she knew she was bound to the Void, and cleaving and Severed Threads were all her future had ever held.

But she was also the Cahr Awen. She believed that, even if the Abbot did not, and if anyone could save Aeduan, then it was she.

Iseult reached the edge of the Well, where a fringe of snow hugged the ice. Two steps out and her knees finally gave way. She collapsed, dropping Aeduan onto his back beside her.

The frozen Well did not shudder, it did not break. She knew, of course, that the surface was hard as stone. She knew it took the Nomatsi pilgrims an entire day to carve through. She didn’t have an entire day, though. Eventually, the battle would spread. Eventually, Aeduan would no longer be savable—if he was even savable now.

She had to believe that he was. That he always had been.

“Aeduan,” she panted, turning toward him. So many arrows, so many burns. And still no response.

No, no, no.

She freed his sword from its scabbard and staggered several paces away. She would have to carve open this ice. Somehow, she would have to reach the waters below before the battle reached them.

Surely if Iseult could walk through fire, then she could tear through ice.

She gripped the pommel with two hands and lifted both arms high. Then she slammed the blade into the ice. Crack.

Again. Crack, crack, crack. Over and over, she pushed all her strength into the sword, into the ice. And over and over, she failed. The Well would not break. The healing waters would not come to her.

While behind her, Aeduan’s body cooled, his soul drained. And behind them both, smoke clotted. Explosions boomed.

Iseult was out of time; she was out of patience. The tears still trailed down her cheeks. Where they came from, why they flowed, she did not know. Nineteen years of holding them in, she supposed, and they had finally flooded over.

And in that instant, it hit her: Threadwitches might not cry, but perhaps Weaverwitches do. She was going about this all wrong. This ice was frozen by the Well’s magic. It was bound to the Aether and unbreakable by mere sword and strength.

She flung her blade aside. It clattered to the ice. She wiped the tears from her eyes and dropped to her knees. When Esme had first shown Iseult how to cleave, the snapping of Threads had felt like a misstep on a frozen lake. Well, here was her lake. Here was power she wanted to command.

She punched the ice. Her knuckles shrieked. Her wrist screamed.

She punched again, again, ignoring the blood on her knuckles, the shockwaves in her wrist. She switched hands, switched arms. Again, again, again.

Black lines spiderwebbed out.

So Iseult punched faster, harder, and the lines cut wider, fatter. Sever, sever, twist and sever. She alternated hands. Threads that break, Threads that die.

The ice bowed beneath her. A fracture ripped out. It split the air. It split her heart.

The ice tore open.

Iseult and Aeduan fell.

The water shocked the breath from Iseult’s lungs, shocked the thoughts from her brain. For several eternal seconds, she sank. Lost in the warm, churning waters of the Origin Well. Then blood wisped across her vision, and she remembered where she was and why.

Aeduan.

Iseult turned, pulling herself through the waters, vibrant and alive. Aeduan, Aeduan. It was the blood that guided her. A trail that wound to him like a Heart-Thread.

He was sinking, eyes closed. Blood streaming upward, a hundred strands to unravel toward the surface.

Iseult reached him. She slid her arms around his waist. He burned. Hot as the fires she had carried him through, except these flames felt like they roared within.

Iseult swam, pulling Aeduan with her. When Evrane had healed Iseult in Nubrevna, she had sent Iseult to the heart of the Well—so to the heart Iseult now kicked her legs and swept her arms. Darkness ruled the deeper she moved. Darkness and pressure and the heat of Aeduan’s touch.

Iseult’s lungs shrieked. She wanted air. She wanted light. She wanted life. But here, in the shadows of the Well, she wanted Aeduan more.

Two more kicks, and her fingers sensed bubbling water. Then her fingers touched rock. The source of water, the source of magic.

Power washed over her. A light flared. Blinding in its brightness, and the waters surged against her. Deafening in their strength, they thrust Iseult back toward the night.

Yet in that moment, as Iseult held fast to Aeduan, as she squinted against the brightness and willed his eyes to open, she saw red. Scarlet and true and spooling around them.

Red that was not blood. Red Threads that led from her heart and ended inside of his.

Impossible, she thought.

Then Iseult’s air ended. The world went dark.





FIFTY-ONE


Never had Pin’s Keep been so quiet. Never had Vivia felt so many eyes upon her inside these stone walls. This was her haven. This was her den, and this moment was worse than the opening of the under-city. Now she had to lead. Now, pretty speeches wouldn’t be enough.

She stood at the front of the main space, atop a footstool so she could scan and assess. Count and quantify. Before her stood soldiers, sailors, guards, and anyone who was willing to defend Lovats and defy Serafin Nihar.