Again, a sharp exhale from the monk. A swaying backward as if felled by what she heard. “And did you learn my name? Did I tell it to you?”
“I don’t think so.” Iseult’s voice was weak and distant, but she couldn’t tell if it was because her ears or her throat had stopped working. The fire in her arm was kicking upward now, like a rising tide.
The monk drew back, quickly becoming the capable healer once more. She laid a warm hand on Iseult’s shoulder, just above the arrow wound. Iseult flinched, then relaxed as sleep tugged at her.
But Iseult didn’t want sleep. She couldn’t face the dreams again. Wasn’t it bad enough that she’d been beaten and mobbed in real life? To have to relive it in her sleep …
“Please,” she said thickly, reaching for the monk’s cloak once more—not caring about the dirt. “No more dreams.”
“There will be no dreams,” the woman murmured. “I promise, Iseult.”
“And … Safi?” The pull of slumber rippled down Iseult’s spine. “She’s here?”
“She is here,” the monk confirmed. “She should return at any moment. Now sleep, Iseult, and heal.”
So Iseult did as she was told—not that she could have resisted even if she’d wanted to—and sank beneath the tide of a healing sleep.
EIGHTEEN
Far north of the Jana and yet in the same waters, Aeduan the Bloodwitch awoke. He was roused by the annoying sensation of fingers poking his ribs.
As the clouds of unconsciousness receded, Aeduan’s senses expanded. Sunlight warmed his face and water caressed his arms. He smelled brine.
“Is he dead?” asked a high voice. A child.
“’Course he’s dead,” said a second child whom Aeduan suspected was the one fidgeting with his baldric. “He washed ashore last night and ain’t moved since. How much you think his knives’ll sell for?”
A snap sounded—as if Aeduan’s baldric had been unbuckled.
The final dregs of sleep fell away. His eyes popped wide, he grabbed the child’s wrist—and the scrawny boy picking his pockets yelped. A few paces away, a second boy gawped on. Then they both started shrieking—and Aeduan’s eardrums almost split.
He released the first boy, who scuttled away in a flurry of kicked-up sand. It sprayed Aeduan, and a groan rattled over his tongue. He punched his fists into the beach—they sank into the soupy, wet sand—and shoved himself upright.
The world shook and smeared: beige beach, blue sky, brown marshlands, running boys, and a scampering sandpiper several feet away. Aeduan gave up trying to sort out where he was—this landscape could have been anywhere around Ve?aza City. Instead, he turned his attention to his body.
Though it strained his muscles, he reached down to start with his toes. His boots were intact, though completely soaked—the leather would shrink as soon as they dried—but nothing in his feet was broken.
His legs were fully healed too, though his right pant leg had ripped all the way to the knee and there were long strands of marsh reed wrapped around his calf.
Next he inspected his thighs, his hips and waist, his ribs (still a bit tender), his arms … Ah, the scars on his chest were bleeding—which meant the ones on his back would be bleeding too. But those tiny slices were old wounds. Ancient, even. The cursed things opened and seeped whenever Aeduan was hurt to the brink of death.
At least nothing new bled, nothing was broken, and nothing was missing that he couldn’t replace. He still had his salamander cloak and his Carawen opal. As for what the Nomatsi girl had taken—his stiletto and his cleaving knife—he could easily get more.
Yet thinking of the Nomatsi girl with no blood-scent made Aeduan want to gut something. His hand moved to his baldric, and as the sandpiper pranced closer, his fingers twitched over a throwing knife.
But no. Scaring the bird would do nothing to sate his fury. Only finding the Threadwitch would.
Not that he knew what he would do to the Threadwitch once he found her. Killing her definitely wasn’t it—he owed her a life-debt now. She’d spared him (sort of) and he would have to repay that.
Yet if there was one thing Aeduan hated, it was saving lives he wasn’t supposed to care about. There was only one other person to whom he owed such a debt, and at least she fully deserved it.
Aeduan’s fingers fell from the knife. With a final snarl at the eastern sun, he hauled himself to his feet. His vision spun even more and his muscles tremored, telling him he needed water and food.
A distant clanging sounded. Nine chimes, which meant the day was still young.
Aeduan swung his head toward the sound. Far to the south, he could just discern a village. Probably where the boys lived. Probably not too far from Ve?aza City. So, rolling his wrists and flexing his fingers, Aeduan set off through the waves of an incoming tide.
*