Bloodwitch

by Susan Dennard

  Twice, he managed to drag open his eyes. Twice, he saw a crisp, blue sky overhead and felt damp winds scrape against his face. Twice, he hovered into awareness firmly enough to sense that he was moving, being carried by someone with strong arms and a relentless grip.

  That was all Merik saw before the laughing shadows returned.

  When at last the shadows cleared entirely, the sky was no longer blue. Sunset was creeping in, a great slanting of the world against a sky painted pink. A chill air frosted Merik’s face, and as he shoved himself upright, he realized he was wet.

  He was shivering, too.

  A forest materialized around him, growing firmer with each breath as the final remnants of poison smudged away. Fog crept and curved around alders, their pale trunks speckled with black. Churned-up mud trailed out from the nearest trees, showing an oft-trod pathway across sodden grass.

  It led to a towering slab mere paces from where Merik lay. It was like the standing stone Merik had seen Kullen destroy, except this one was carved with elaborate whorls. In some places, the marks had smoothed away to nothing. In others, pale lichen crusted overtop.

  Whatever this stone was, it was ancient and it was revered. Trinkets and tributes covered the grass, some placed today and others left long ago to rot beneath the cold Arithuanian sun. Between a loaf of bread molded to black and a doll whose painted face had faded to nothing, three pears gleamed. Perfectly ripe, their green curves flared to red like the sunset beginning to gather above.

  Merik’s mouth watered. It had been so long since he’d eaten, and the only water he’d had was the poisoned tincture Esme had given him.

  Esme. With her name came the memories of where he was and how he’d gotten there—hundreds of leagues away from the Sightwitch Sister Convent. Hundreds of leagues away from Cam or Ryber or anyone he knew, and now someone had dumped him onto a shrine in the middle of a wet forest.

  Had that someone been friend or foe? As far as Merik could see, there was no one here now, and his winds told him nothing. The collar still hung at his neck, and no amount of breathing deeply offered any connection to his power.

  He was alone in a forest with no magic and no help.

  Which meant there was also no one to stop him. In a dizzying burst of speed, Merik pushed to his feet and bolted for the forest. His heart jumped to maximum speed in moments; his lungs felt instantly drained. Alders whipped past, ocher leaves bright amidst the fog. The ground sucked at his plodding footfalls. He thundered on anyway, and he did not slow. He was going to get away from here. He was going to find people to help him, and then he would somehow get back to the Convent, to Cam and Ryber.

  Merik had just reached firmer soil, where the forest shifted to beeches and firs, when pain lanced through him.

  It was as if he were trapped on his exploding ship all over again—fire, fire everywhere. In his veins, beneath his skin, scratching at the backs of his eyeballs. A strangled cry tore from his throat before his knees gave way. He collapsed to the cold earth.

  Black writhed under the skin on his hands.

  You are going the wrong way. Esme’s voice slithered up from his chest and into his skull, glass shards and nightmares. Surely you would not try to run away from me, Prince. Surely this was all a mistake, and now you will turn around and come back.

  “No,” Merik gritted out, fighting to crawl onward.

  Yes, and the pain ignited a thousand times hotter. It stole his sight, his hearing, and screams erupted through the trees. His own screams, a thousand miles away and agonizing.

  Turn around, Prince, or I will make this worse. And yes, I can make it worse.

  Merik did not know how it was possible, but he believed the woman called Esme—and he believed that any more pain would crack him in two.

  Stop. He did not know if he shrieked the word or simply thought it, but it took hold of every space inside him. Stop, stop, stop. He clawed himself around, still on all fours, and dragged himself back the way he’d come.

  It took four mind-scorching paces before the flames finally reared back. Cold nothing rushed in. Merik collapsed to the ground, shaking.

  Good, Esme trilled. Now walk back to the shrine, Prince, and we shall begin again.

  “Yes,” he forced out, though he could do nothing but stare up at the amber leaves of a beech and try to breathe. Pain still cinched in his chest, moving in time to his staggering heart. Screams still rang in his ears.

  He lifted his trembling hands up. Even backlit by sunset, he could see lines pumping beneath the skin. Esme had cleaved him—or started to—and she had spoken of other Cleaved back in the tower. She had called them her own, as if she had done this to them. As if she had done it to Merik.

  Puppeteer.

  There’d been rumors of a woman with the Raider King who could control the Cleaved. There had been tales that she created them, but Merik had dismissed them as lies—as impossibilities meant to frighten the empires and Nubrevna too. He had blamed the other leaders at the Truce Summit for ignoring a threat in Arithuania, yet it would seem he had done no better.

  It was one more thing he had refused to see in all his holy conceit, and now everything he had done would haunt him until he made amends.

  Though right now, all that mattered was obeying Esme. It shamed him that he could be so weak, but there was the truth: he would do anything she told him if it would keep the fire away.

  Merik set off, his gait stumbling and uneven through the forest. His attention remained planted on the ground before him, his mind focused on simply staying upright. No space for thought, no space for fear, no space to notice the cold fog seeping around him.

  He reached the shrine right as the sun was dipping beyond the horizon. This time, when he saw the pears, he ate them without hesitation. Juice slid down his face and over his fingers, and nothing—nothing—had ever tasted so sweet.

  It wasn’t until the third fruit that Esme’s voice returned. Do you know what this place is? The words jolted Merik from his pleasure. Reality thudded into him, hard enough that he choked. Pear chunks splattered on a silver-plated bowl nearby.

  “No,” he croaked eventually, wiping fruit off his sticky mouth.

  This is a shrine that was built thousands of years ago, before the time of witches.

  Merik hadn’t known there was a time before witches.

  No one remembers the past, unless it is written down. And the ones who did write it down have all been forgotten. The past is so easily erased, Prince, and only the Sleeper knows what god or force of nature this shrine was originally built to honor.

  There was a strange ache to those words, as if Esme longed for the past to return. As if she mourned the loss of history and knowledge.

  Now the silly Nomatsi tribes use it to revere a god who never lived, the Moon Mother’s middle sister, whom they believe takes the form of a barn swallow. Superstitious fools. Venom thickened Esme’s words. There is no Swallow, and there never was. Although, she added, almost as a smirking afterthought, they do leave nice gifts for her, and it is these gifts I want you to take. Do you see any gemstones? Most will be rough and uncut.

  Merik nodded. There were many scattered around. Then he realized she might not sense his movement, so he added a gruff, “Onga.” Arithuanian for yes. He felt stronger now, thanks to the fruit. More awake, more alert.

  Ah! A squealing sensation filled his mind, almost like wasps buzzing, and he sensed his response had made her very happy. You are perfection, Prince! None of my other Cleaved have their minds left, you see? I can move them as I wish, and I can make them do simple tasks, like attack or defend or carry a helpless prince into the woods. But it requires all my focus. I must hold their leashes and direct them precisely where I want them to go. Even then, I cannot easily see through their eyes, so when I’ve needed to collect things, I have had to do it myself.

  Until right now, that is. If you can see the gemstones, Prince, then you can pick them up for me. And, oh, I have so many more gems—and other item
s too—that I need collected. You could not have been more perfect if I had designed you myself.

  The buzzing returned. Merik thought she must be laughing.

  Now take the gems, Prince, and return to me.

  “How will I know where to go?”

  Oh, that is easy. Simply follow the pain. With that declaration, agony ruptured through him.

  He screamed.

  Grab the gemstones to make it stop!

  He grabbed them—and other items too. Anything that looked like a rock, anything small or round or within grabbing distance, he stuffed into his pockets. He could scarcely see. He certainly couldn’t think, and every nerve inside him was aflame.

  Good boy, she crooned once his pockets were full. Now walk.

  Merik walked.

  SIXTEEN

  The walk through Tirla was a tedious hike. Though Iseult’s salves and tinctures had eased some of Aeduan’s pain, they were slow to act—and most would need several days of application to have any effect. At least, that was what Aeduan assumed according to how normal people healed.

  How strange. He never thought he would be lumped with normal people. When he was young, it had been all he’d wanted. Now, he hated it.

  Winds hastened around him, driving him faster. Clouds scudded in. A storm would break before he could complete this errand if he didn’t hurry.

  When at last the lake’s front came into view, waves choppy, Aeduan steeled his spine. Inhaled, exhaled. Not my mind, not my body. Then he rounded onto the main quay, crowded even at sunset, and approached the outpost with as sure-footed a stride as he could manage.

  The tall building wedged between a public stable and a mapmaker’s shop had changed little in the last two years. It bore the same weather-stained limestone front, the same rook-and-tree sigil over the entrance, smoothed away to a featureless oval form, and the same heavy oaken door with no latch on the outside.

  He knocked once. An eye-level slat hissed wide. Dark eyes peered through, flicking first to Aeduan’s face, then to the opal in Aeduan’s left ear.

  “Good enough,” came a muffled voice from the other side, and in a squeal of hinges—also unchanged—the door swung open to reveal the monk on the other side. Unfamiliar but typically wizened. Outpost guard assignments were comfortable, well paid, and perfect for mercenary monks well past their prime.

  “You look like shit,” the man said.

  “I feel like shit,” Aeduan replied, earning a bark of laughter as he limped into the cloister beyond. Acolytes, their white cowls turned to gray beneath the gathering storm, tended neat rows of cabbage, beets, and carrots. Lucky bastards. Aeduan had applied six times for a remote training position. Anything to get away from the Monastery.

  He had never been approved, and in hindsight, he supposed it was to be expected. No one trusted a Bloodwitch. No one trusted a demon.

  Aiming right, he circled the garden until he reached the requisitions shop. The beet and carrot leaves thrashed on the wind. Thunder hummed in the distance.

  “You,” came a surprised voice as Aeduan stepped inside the store—also unchanged, with its low counter at the back and a wall filled with cubbyholes. The Marstoki woman on the other side who ran this outpost, however, had changed: a few more gray hairs around the crown, a few more wrinkles around the eyes.

  “It has been a while, Monk,” she said. “And you looked much better back then.”

  “Two years.” Aeduan approached the counter. Pain dogged each step, but he could not show it. This woman might have been one of the only monks to ever tolerate him, yet he had no illusions she liked him. He had brought in a great deal of coin for her outpost; monsters were useful like that.

  “I was in Dalmotti,” he explained. “On a tier seven. Only just returned.”

  “A tier seven. That would explain all the blood, then.” At Aeduan’s confused expression, her thick eyebrows notched up. “Or do you mean it was an old tier seven?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  Incredulity sent her brows even higher. “Have you not heard of the new Abbot’s changes? Assignments are rated by coin now, not length of contract.”

  New Abbot. This was the first Aeduan had heard of that.

  A startled laugh split the woman’s lips. Aeduan must be doing a poor job of controlling his expressions.

  “When was the last time you visited an outpost, Monk?” She leaned onto the counter. “The Elders chose Natan fon Leid as the old man’s replacement over a month ago.”

  Aeduan’s head tipped sideways as he chewed on these words. He had not visited an outpost in over two months. The monks in Veñaza City had not been as welcoming as this woman here.

  Logical, then, that he had heard nothing of a new Abbot or rating system—and part of him wished he had not learned it now. Natan fon Leid had always been egocentric, even for a Cartorran, and his lust for power had been insatiable growing up. Qualities perfectly suited to the role of Carawen Abbot, but not qualities Aeduan particularly appreciated.

  Another laugh from the woman, and she straightened. “Not an admirer, I see?”

  “Hmm,” he offered in reply, annoyed his face seemed beyond control. It was taking all his effort to simply remain standing. Managing expressions too … He had no idea how the Threadwitch did it.

  “Do you have Painstones?” he asked.

  “A few.” The woman craned toward a cubby on her left. “The Marstoks are diverting all supply to the border skirmishes, though, so I’ve had to raise the price on them … Wait.” She froze mid-reach, gaze leaping back to Aeduan. “Why do you need a Painstone?”

  “It is not for me,” he lied.

  She did not look as if she believed him, but she also did not press further. Several breaths later, a small satchel dropped onto the counter. “That’s a tier four by the new rules. Expensive,” she clarified. “Are you sure you want it?”

  All supplies in the Monastery had to be paid for through service, but Aeduan did not care if the cost of this stone was a tier four or a tier ten. He needed something to keep him strong until he could meet with a healer witch, and he would take whatever he could get.

  “Yes,” he was all he said in reply, snatching it off the counter and depositing it in a pocket. Now he just had to finish this errand. Then he could slip off somewhere and don it. “I also need a new uniform for myself. Black.”

  Black, he had decided, would cover these recurring bloodstains.

  “Do you want a new cloak too?” She eyed the shredded, filthy fabric. “I have plenty. The cost is only a tier one.”

  Aeduan shook his head. His cloak possessed modifications he could not purchase here: salamander fibers against flame, a fire flap against smoke. Even pocked with holes and streaked with blood as it was, he would rather wear this old cloak than any piece of cloth that might be new.

  After confirming his size had not changed—and agreeing that a tier one assignment seemed fair payment, even if Aeduan was not sure what that meant anymore—he moved to the next item on the list.

  “I need travel clothes for a girl. About six or seven years old. Small for her age.”

  “Oh?” The woman clearly itched to ask why he needed this, but it was against the rules to inquire. Assignments were private; monks were discreet. “Well, Lady Fate favors you today, then. I just received…” Reach, grab, and drop. “These last week. Not new, but clean and well made.”

  She was right. The wool tunic and breeches, a gray-brown shade like bark on a beech tree, looked a bit large, but better too large than too small. And the pine green cloak was just the right size.

  Aeduan nodded. He would take them.

  “Those will be another tier one,” the woman said. “Anything else?”

  “More travel clothes.” He swallowed. Then swallowed again. “For a woman about your size.”

  “Ah, for grown women, we have many options.” The monk opened her arms, gesturing to an entire column of shelves. “What quality do you need? What clim
ate of travel? I have embroidered silk all the way from Dalmotti, if your woman is a wealthy one.”

  “Not my woman.” His fingers flexed.

  “Or I have more sturdy fare, cotton and wool. There are other options in between as well—and do you want a gown or breeches?” Without waiting for an answer, the monk began stacking items atop the counter. From silk to wool to velvet to homespun, all colors and fabrics were represented.

  And Aeduan had no idea what to choose. Iseult had not actually specified that she wanted new clothes. In fact, the longer he stared at the growing piles, the more he wondered if she might be angry he would presume to know what she liked. Or would she be angry if he did not make a choice? Surely she would want new clothing to replace her current tatters, if for no other reason than new clothes would be warmer in the growing mountain cold. So perhaps that brown wool suit on the end would do …

  Aeduan stared at it, his brain sluggish as spring thaw as he tried to catalog the advantages. Good for camouflage. Good against snow, and also movable in a fight.

  And also, he had to admit, hideous.

  Then, there was that midnight blue velvet beside it. A popular style in the mountains, a pretty color, and it looked movable as well. The fox fur on the collar was a nice touch. Or there was the gray suit beside it. Or the black one beyond that, or the teal-trimmed mustard beyond that.

  It was not until he had moved through twelve different outfits that he realized the monk was grinning. An amused twitch of lips as if she knew something he didn’t.

  Heat flared on Aeduan’s cheeks. His molars gritted in his ears. This decision was a trivial one; he was letting pain cloud his judgment. It did not matter what he got Iseult. He did not care if she liked it. She would take it, no matter what it was, and that would be that.

  “Black,” he gruffed out, jerking a finger toward a suit he’d already passed.

  “Are you sure?” The woman’s smile widened.

  Aeduan glared. “Black,” he repeated, and outside, thunder boomed.