“No time.”
Iseult flinched. She hadn’t heard the Bloodwitch approach—yet unlike what he did when caught unawares, Iseult went very still. The bruise at her throat, just above the collarbone, was all the warning she needed to never startle him again.
When Aeduan had said he would kill her in Lejna, she hadn’t believed him. When he’d said he would kill her last night, she had.
“It’s easier to skin the rabbit while it’s fresh—”
“It can wait a few hours.” His Dalmotti was hoarse with sleep.
“The meat will spoil.”
“Then you will catch another,” he countered. “We need to get as far as we can before the heat of the day grows too intense.”
“Why?” Iseult asked, but the Bloodwitch ignored her, and in less than a minute, he had cleared the campsite. Everything was gathered, folded, and tucked neatly into Iseult’s satchel. Then he swung it onto his back, ready to set out.
Iseult simply observed. He moved so fast. So efficiently, his witchery clearly propelling him to a speed and grace no man could match.
She itched to know how it worked. Itched to ask him how it felt when such power took hold—and if it was true that his magic was bound to the Void. Instead, though, she said nothing at all.
They hiked for hours, Aeduan always there, paces behind. He refused to walk in front, clearly expecting Iseult to stab him in the back. Or perhaps this was a test to see how much she trusted him.
Either way, Iseult went along with it. For now.
The Bloodwitch used single, hard words to guide her. One moment, they would be tromping through a mucky floodplain, and the next, he would order her to veer right and clamber back out.
“Due east,” he would abruptly say. Or, “More south.” Iseult never knew if the Bloodwitch changed his course because Safi had changed hers, or if Safi’s scent came … and went … and then disappeared again, leaving Aeduan to follow as best could. He certainly stopped every few minutes to close his eyes and sniff the air.
Then, when his eyelids would lift, his irises would burn crimson for a breath. Perhaps two.
After half a day of ruddy bark and dark needles brushing past, the pines grew smaller, giving way to hardwood saplings. Oaks took hold, silver trunked and surrounded by ferns and white asphodel. The Amonra River, wide and dark, churned nearby.
Iseult knew from the map tucked in her satchel, as well as from her lessons with Mathew and Habim, that soon, the forest would give way entirely. The land would drop into a misty gorge filled with thick underbrush and thicker chimney-stack stones. The river would drop too at the towering Amonra Falls.
Here, the Marstoks had faced off against the Nubrevnans twenty years before. Here, fire had chased families from their homes, and Nubrevna had ultimately lost. One more nation to add to the list.
Before Nubrevna, it had been Dalmotti. Before Dalmotti, it had been Marstok. For centuries, this peninsula had changed hands, and for centuries, no one had ever fully won—or ever fully lost.
Beside Iseult, the Bloodwitch inhaled audibly, his eyes swirling red. “We have two choices,” he said eventually, “either we descend beside the Amonra Falls, which is the safer route into the gorge. Or we travel northeast through the forests—and before you say ‘Falls,’ know that the path is slower.”
“How far is Safi?” Iseult asked, squinting in the direction of the gorge. Birds circled above.
“Far.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“No.”
Iseult’s nostrils flared. Stasis. “How do I know you are even taking me in the right direction, then?”
“How do I know that you possess the rest of my coins?”
He had a point—and they’d already established their inevitable betrayals. “How dangerous is ‘dangerous’?”
“Very.”
Iseult couldn’t help it now. She sighed.
No change in Aeduan’s expression, though he did say, “There is a settlement nearby. I can get you a horse. It will allow us to travel longer before you tire.”
“How near?” Iseult could get herself a horse.
“An hour north at my fastest pace. I would return by late afternoon.”
“And I … simply wait?” At Aeduan’s nod, it took Iseult two stabilizing breaths before she felt able to continue. “And the hours lost are worth getting a steed?”
“Your friend is that direction.” He pointed southeast into the Contested Lands. “She is many, many leagues away—and many, many days. A horse will help.”
His argument made sense, as loathe as Iseult was to admit it. Use every resource available. Still, the thought of waiting several hours …
The Bloodwitch took Iseult’s silence as an agreement. He extended his arm. “Return my cloak. Monks get better deals when bartering.”