Of course it would. Vivia knew that death awaited her on the water-bridge. Those black, unnatural flames would hit her skin and burn, unsated, until they hit the bone.
But Vivia also knew that she could not leave thousands of people—her people—to die. If the dam broke, the seafire would only spread. First the city would burn. Then the city would drown.
Vivia dove headfirst into the wharf. Through smoke, through flame, until she was too far below for the seafire’s bite to reach her.
Then she swam as fast as her magic would carry her onto the northern water-bridge.
THIRTY-FIVE
Iseult’s heart had never pounded harder.
Surely the men around her could hear it. Surely they saw it fluttering through her body, one booming beat after the next.
Twelve men stood around her. Nine from the shore, three from the trees. One had his boot planted mere paces away, and a sound like steel on a whetstone shivered into Iseult’s ears. He was sharpening his knife.
She had splayed her hair and lifted her collar as best she could to cover her pale skin. It didn’t keep away the flies. They crawled on her ears and hands. Even down the back of her neck and into her cloak.
She didn’t move. She just breathed as shallowly as she could through parted lips.
The men were silent, waiting. Then the final man joined them. Even with her eyes closed, Iseult sensed his Threads of violent gray and of flaming red. Firewitch. He was the man in charge, for the instant he arrived, the others’ Threads turned mossy green with deference.
The Firewitch tromped through the slaughter. “They have the child.”
“The Baedyeds?” asked the man with his boot nearby. He leaned deeper into his stance; bones crunched.
“Who else is there?” Heat curled out as the Firewitch spoke, as if he sent fire coiling along each word. His Threads certainly flashed with the orange tendrils of fire magic at play.
“I thought,” spoke a third man, his accent thick, “that Ragnor had told only us about the child.”
“And Ragnor clearly lied.” The Firewitch was closer now. Iseult sensed his Threads, heard his breaths as he nosed around the corpses, like a dog on the hunt.
Her heart banged harder. She was definitely shaking. Please don’t come here. Please don’t come here.
“Maybe,” said the first speaker, “the Baedyeds don’t know what they’ve found. Maybe they took her by accident.”
“And killed seven of ours to get her?”
Owl, Iseult realized—and fast on its heels came another thought: Aeduan killed seven men.
The Firewitch snooped closer. He’d found something he liked. His Threads flared with interest and desire.
Then fire whooshed out. Heat seared against the side of Iseult’s face.
The man with the boot rocked back, hissing curses.
The Firewitch simply laughed, and a smell like burned hair slithered into Iseult’s nose. He was burning the corpses.
“Stop,” said the man with the boot, his Threads paling into beige revulsion. “The Baedyeds will see the smoke.”
“Does that matter?” the Firewitch snapped. Though he did clap his hands, and the fire did wink out. Only the smell and a hiss-pop! left behind. “We could win their ships. And their horses. All of Saldonica, even, if we attack now. All at once, while the Baedyeds are unprepared.”
At those words, every set of Threads in the area bruised into hungry shades of violet. They wanted what the Baedyeds had.
“But what of Ragnor?” asked a new voice. “What of the child?”
“We reclaim the child, and we sell her. If her magic is so valuable that Ragnor wants it, surely someone else will want it too.”
Another shiver of agreement ran through their Threads. Yet although the men spoke on, Iseult stopped hearing. She couldn’t listen, for the Firewitch was now stepping toward her.
The whole world shriveled down to his boots closing in on her left. One pace, two.
Then he was there. He stepped on her arm, and her mind erupted with white. Her lungs strained. She couldn’t inhale, couldn’t move, couldn’t think. The urge to open her eyes scored through her muscles.
The Firewitch knelt—more a sense than anything else, for Iseult couldn’t see him. Couldn’t watch as his knee dug into her elbow, shoving the joint in a way it was never meant to be shoved.
She heard each of his breaths. Harsh exhales that smelled like smoke and dead things. Closer. He was leaning in closer, his fingers grabbing onto her salamander cloak—
A horn ripped through the air. Deep, rumbling, and shimmering with blood lust.
As one, the Threads around Iseult flashed with turquoise surprise. Then came tan confusion. So quick, it was almost lost before crimson fury took hold.
Then a cannon sounded—once. Twice.
The Firewitch released Iseult’s cloak, pushing to his feet. Snarling and with flames licking out to gust over Iseult. Still she moved not a muscle.
Not until he’d stepped away, not until he’d joined with the others and they had roared their rage to the sky.