And more than a few witches in their midst; Aeduan smelled storms and stones, fires and floods.
Aeduan sniffed harder at the air, just in case. But no, the clear waters and frozen winters were lost again. He should have known by now that hunting that ghost would never lead him true. A futile errand, every time. A distraction.
While Aeduan toyed with the idea of divesting one of these beautiful steeds from his Baedyed rider, he caught sight of twenty men on horseback clomping into the line. No order to their steps, no organization to their cluster. They had whips, and their horses bore open sores on flank and limb.
Red Sails.
Instantly, Aeduan’s hackles rose. Though no man wanted his village or tribe hit by pirates, at least the Baedyeds followed a moral code. The Red Sails, Aeduan knew firsthand, did not.
What left Aeduan frowning—what sent him straining forward to gain a better view—was why these two factions were traveling together. They were enemies, constantly at war for more territory, more slaves, more coins. Yet here was an entire contingent of them marching as one.
An answer came moments later, for right as the Red Sails ambled below Aeduan’s spying branch, a Baedyed trotted back to meet them.
“Where are the rest of your men?” The Baedyed spoke to the foulest Red Sail of them all.
Of all the wickedness below, this man delighted the most in the horror. It was there, in the furrows of his blood-scent. Broken knuckles and torn-off fingernails.
This man’s blood marked him as a monster; his red saddle marked him as the leader.
“We caught wind of our bounty,” the man said with complete disdain and disinterest.
Whatever alliance was happening here, it was not a strong one.
“Hell-fires scorch you,” the Baedyed spat. His mare stamped anxiously. “We must reach the Purist compound by tomorrow. Do you expect us to wait?”
“If they do not rejoin us soon, then yes.”
The Baedyed swore again, this time in a language Aeduan didn’t recognize. But as he reined his horse back around, he spat, “The king will hear of this. I promise.”
“And I promise he will not care.”
Right after the Baedyed had cantered back toward the front of the marching line, another Red Sail appeared on horseback. Burned hair and smoking flesh. Autumn pyres and mercy screams.
A Firewitch. Aeduan’s skin prickled. Fire … unsettled him.
The leader spotted the Firewitch too. “You are late,” he called. “Go help the others. They are almost to the Falls, I want this Threadwitch caught today.”
Threadwitch. Falls. The words solidified in Aeduan’s mind, and a heartbeat later, he was moving. Scrabbling silently back across his branch.
Until something spooked within the leaves—a dark bird with enormous wings. The rook took flight, squawking into the sky.
The Firewitch looked up. His eyes met Aeduan’s through a gap in the leaves. He smiled. He clapped. The goshorn oak caught fire.
From one moment to the next, the tree ignited, and within seconds, every inch of it crackled and popped and blazed. If Aeduan hadn’t worn his salamander cloak, he’d have erupted too.
He did have his cloak, though, and he managed to leap to the ground. There, he fastened his fire-flap across his mouth, fingers shaking.
Run, my child, run.
He glanced back. A mistake, for the Firewitch approached, hands rising—and the flames building in response. All around Aeduan they licked and spat. A conflagration to bring him down.
Aeduan couldn’t fight this. He could barely think, barely see, much less try to kill the Firewitch before the flames won. Already his legs trembled. Already it was too much like that morning all those years ago.
Without another thought or another glance at the Firewitch, Aeduan reeled about and ran.
NINETEEN
At the sound of the tenth chimes, Merik awoke to Cam tromping about the tenement in her new boots. Merik had placed them by the bed for her before crawling onto the other side and collapsing into a deep sleep of his own.
The girl moved like a newborn colt, stiff and jerky with her stride strangely long as she counted each step.
“Have you never worn shoes before?” Merik asked, his voice grating like a blade on the whetstone. “Or are those too small?”
“Forty-eight, forty-nine.” Cam gave a floppy shrug. “Right size, I think. And I’ve worn shoes before, sir. When I was younger. Just never had much of a reason to keep ’em.”
“So what’s the reason today?”
“Are you fishing for a thank-you?” Cam made a face, her nose wrinkling up—and Merik found himself chuckling.
Which made his throat hurt. And his chest. And his face. But at least his laugh earned one of Cam’s wildfire smiles.
“Thank you for the boots, sir.” She swept a bow. “I am now ready for Shite Street.”