She nodded in her friend’s direction, wishing them a silent good-bye. Praying they were all right … and knowing they’d come for her.
Then the hollow thwack of more feet cut through Safi’s thoughts and brought on excruciating pain.
“We will fly now,” Vaness said, beckoning to the shortest sailor in the crowd. He bore the tattoo of a Windwitch. “Our fleet is not far. Can you do that, Truthwitch?”
“Yes,” Safi breathed, swaying into one of the men holding her up. She flashed a grin at him and said, “I’m Safiya fon Hasstrel, and I can do anything.”
As those words fell from her tongue, her magic perked up … and then purred like a lion in a sunbeam.
True, it said. Always and forever true.
FORTY
When Aeduan had seen the Cleaved attack his mentor, he had acted without thought—diving in to retrieve her bloodied form. Hacking, slashing, disemboweling anyone in his way.
Once he was to her—once he had her limp form in his arms—Aeduan had latched on to Evrane’s blood to keep the hole in her neck from bleeding out.
Then Aeduan had sprinted from Lejna as fast as he could, his witchery fueling him on. He would take Evrane to the Origin Well, for that was the only place he could think of. If its waters were indeed flowing once more, then it might just save Evrane from the hole in her neck.
When he couldn’t sprint anymore, Aeduan jogged.
When he couldn’t jog anymore, he walked, his magic never releasing Evrane’s blood. Distantly, he knew he had lost his chance to claim the Truthwitch, but he didn’t care. Not right now.
Aeduan carried Evrane league after league, cliff after cliff, step after staggering step and, for the first time in years, he was afraid.
It took him half the day to recognize what he felt. The emptiness in his chest, the endless loop of his thoughts—Don’t die. Don’t die.
He knew this went beyond life-debts. Against everything Aeduan wanted to be—against everything he believed himself to be—he was afraid.
Before he saw the river, he heard its rumble over the buzz of afternoon insects and screeching birds. He felt the mist off its rapids, mingling with the day’s humidity. He also smelled the eight soldiers waiting by the Origin Well’s stairs. Someone must have found Prince Leopold and thought Aeduan might return.
So Aeduan used what little power he had left to choke off the soldiers’ breaths. It took forever. Aeduan was weakened; the eight men were not. Aeduan swayed in the wind, listing as wildly as the trees. He would drop Evrane if he had to stand much longer.
The soldiers finally thumped to the earth, and Aeduan stumbled by. Then he climbed, slowly but purposefully, up the worn steps to the Origin Well. Over the flagstones to the ramp. Into the water to float Evrane on her back.
She began to heal.
Aeduan sensed it more than he saw it. Whatever power was at work here moved so gradually that it would take days for her body to fully repair. Yet Aeduan felt her blood start to flow on its own. He felt the new flesh grow where her throat was cut.
Still, he kept a firm hold on her blood until enough of her throat had mended for her to breathe. For her heart to pump unhindered.
Then Aeduan carefully floated Evrane to the Well’s ramp and eased her onto the stones. He kept part of her legs submerged—so the healing would continue—before he clambered out of the Well, spraying water on the flagstones. Despite the extra weight of saturated clothes, he was surprised to find his spine erect. His witchery fully restored …
And his mind unable to ignore what was clearly before him: the Origin Well was alive again. Even if he hadn’t seen the magic at work, when he’d stood in that water, he had felt sentience.
Oneness.
Completion.
This Well was opening a single, sleepy eye, and it wouldn’t be long before it awoke entirely.
Which meant—as impossible as it was for Aeduan to accept—the Truthwitch was half of the Cahr Awen and Iseult …
That Nomatsi Threadwitch with no blood-scent—and another Aetherwitch too …
She was the other half. They were the pair that Aeduan had pledged his life to protect. The vow he’d sworn when he was thirteen—before his father had reentered his life—was now being called upon, yet Aeduan couldn’t decide if he should answer.
He’d never thought this day would actually come—a day when all his training and his future would be given up to the mythical, ancient Cahr Awen.
It was easy for Evrane. She’d spent her entire life a believer. It completed her to have the Cahr Awen return.
But for Aeduan it was a hindrance. He’d been forced into the Monastery by circumstance, and he had stayed there because he’d had nowhere better to go—nowhere else that wouldn’t kill a Bloodwitch on sight. Now, though, he had plans. Plans for himself. Plans for his father.
Aeduan didn’t know to whom he owed his loyalty—his vows or his family—yet he was at least certain of one thing: he was grateful the Well had saved Monk Evrane.