Bloodwitch

by Susan Dennard

  Habim froze. Safi froze. Even the Adder seemed stunned by this announcement. And although Safi could not use her magic on Caden, she had no doubt his words were true.

  Uncle Eron. Arrested for treason. Hang within the week.

  In that moment, three questions crashed in Safi’s mind: How had Eron been caught? How could she save him? And why in all the sodding hell-gates did she care so much? Her whole life she’d thought she hated him. Now she couldn’t even begin to conceive a world where her uncle had been taken away.

  If she had thought herself helpless before, it was nothing compared to the weight that bore down now. Uncle Eron was on the opposite side of the Witchlands, and she was no more use to him than these Hell-Bards chained against the wall.

  Her eyes found Habim’s, certain she would find the same horror she felt reflected back at her. But all she found was flint-eyed determination.

  Her stomach bottomed out. He already knew. Somehow, he already knew, yet he hadn’t bothered to inform Safi. Nothing, nothing—he had given her nothing, since his arrival.

  Before her ire could fully ignite, though, before screams could rip from her throat, Habim’s fingers tightened around her biceps. A firm, reassuring touch that brought her back to her childhood. To the countless times he had towed her from a card game or dice match or yet another screaming match with Uncle Eron.

  Uncle Eron, who had been arrested for treason.

  Uncle Eron, who would hang within the week.

  Habim led Safi to the cell’s exit, six paces away—giving them six paces during which he could whisper without the Adder to overhear.

  “Be ready,” he said. “At the party, we will make our move. Be ready.” Then he released her into the hall, to where her earlier assembly of Adders still stood.

  The cell door clanged shut behind her.

  THIRTY-THREE

  It amazed Iseult how much a landscape could change in a day.

  Last night, there had been rowan and fir trees, nettle and grass. By dawn, evergreens had replaced the hardwoods, and the tufted grass had given way to sedge. The paths grew narrower and narrower too, until eventually they had to leave the horses behind.

  “Go home,” Leopold told the gelding, after removing what few supplies they had from his saddle. To Iseult’s astonishment, Rolf actually seemed to understand. He turned away, and quickly vanished within the stunted pines, followed obediently by the stolen mare.

  “Isn’t your home far?” Iseult asked, eyeing Blueberry warily. He flew high above them, and though Owl had promised he would not eat the horses, Iseult wasn’t entirely convinced.

  “Quite far.” Leopold smiled, his Threads flickering with matching shades of mischief. “I told you, he’s a very well-trained horse.”

  Without their steeds, the group’s pace slowed. Owl could not walk quickly, and the terrain grew steeper by the hour. By midmorning, snow and ice clung to everything—to the miniature trees, to the granite rock, to old travelers’ huts long forgotten. The sun glared down, melting the frosted gravel to slick scree.

  Twice, Iseult fell. Twice Leopold fell. Owl, however, never fell. The little Earthwitch always knew where to place her feet. Or perhaps she simply commanded the stones to remain intact, and they dutifully obeyed.

  Eventually even the dwarf evergreens trickled away. They had trekked above the tree line, where only rock and snow held court. Iseult had never seen so much snow, and she decided she didn’t much like it.

  It was cold, it was wet, and there never seemed to be an end to it.

  She had also never been so high in her life. She hadn’t known—could never have guessed—how vast and gaping the sky would feel at this altitude. So huge, so blue, so empty. Especially when they reached the end of their path and nothing waited beyond save a sheer cliff and a very long drop to a river.

  With her back against the granite mountain, Iseult stared at the cliff ten paces away. In the last few moments, gusting winds had risen, rolling fog across the ledge like waves upon a seashore. Somehow, not seeing the precipice and thousand-foot drop only made the height seem that much more terrifying.

  Owl clung to Iseult’s side, little fingers fisted into Iseult’s cloak and terror spiraling through her Threads, and though Iseult knew she was the second choice—Blueberry coasted on airstreams too high to see—it left a strange feeling in her chest. A warmth that wasn’t quite pleasure, and certainly not love, but something.

  Something nice that made her nose wiggle. Something nice that made her think of Aeduan, because she was, it seemed, no better than Owl for the hoping.

  Leopold, meanwhile, searched the cliff for a “sky-ferry” he’d insisted would be waiting for them. Every few moments, he leaned dangerously over the edge, which made Iseult feel like vomiting and made Owl wince and whimper.

  After six such instances, Leopold’s Threads finally flushed with triumph and he threw a perfect grin Iseult’s way. “I found it. I told you I would!”

  True to his word, the prince had worn only honest emotions since last night. And despite what he’d claimed, it had not disarmed him at all. If anything, he was more charming when his face and feelings were in tune.

  The “it” that Leopold had found turned out to be a round, flat stone that had been covered by a hundred pebbles, and after kicking the pebbles into the mist-filled canyon—which also made Iseult feel ill—Leopold began tapping a complicated rhythm with his toe. A lock-spell, she thought at first, until halfway through, the ferry began to appear. Inch by inch, tap by tap, it coalesced amidst the haze.

  A glamour-spell. Awe washed over Iseult. Shaped like a wide river barge, the ferry was affixed to a long, rusted chain that ran diagonally up and vanished into the clouds. At the center of the ferry’s deck was a steel-toothed pulley over which the chain ran.

  Leopold opened his arms wide. “Did I not promise an easy route? This does all the climbing for us.”

  Owl was the first to speak. She tapped at Iseult’s leg. “Dead,” she whispered, pointing at the ferry. Tan confusion clustered in her Threads.

  At Leopold’s own confused Threads, Iseult translated: “She says it’s dead.”

  “Yes, well.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Wood is dead. But that does not make it unsafe. See?” To prove his point, he tossed the first of their supply sacks on board. It thumped down beside the pulley, and the wood creaked like a ship at sea.

  The ferry itself, though, scarcely budged.

  Still, Iseult and Owl did not join the prince. Iseult had no interest in peeling her back off the mountainside, and Owl had no interest in peeling herself off Iseult.

  “Have you used this before?” Iseult asked.

  “Many times.”

  “How many?”

  Leopold heaved the second supply sack onto the ferry to a second fanfare of groaning wood. “I have ridden this four times? Perhaps five? Admittedly, I don’t use it every time I visit.”

  As far as Iseult was concerned, “five times” did not equate to “many.”

  “And how many times have you actually visited?” she asked, even as she knew she was stalling for time.

  Leopold indulged her, his grin wide. The cold air suited him. His cheeks glowed pink. “I have been here more times than I can count, Iseult. Ever since I was a boy. The new Abbot is the sixth son of a Cartorran nobleman, and the Abbot before him was the eighth son. Men like that, you see, are useful to princes.”

  Iseult did not in fact see, but she supposed she would learn soon enough what Leopold meant. No more standing here clutching Owl. No more waiting for courage to find her. After three stabilizing breaths, Iseult knelt beside the girl.

  “We have to get on,” she said in her gentlest tones. “I know it’s scary, but we can’t stay here any longer.”

  “Why?” Owl’s Threads hummed with red resistance.

  “Because it’s the only way to reach the Monastery. And this”—Iseult motioned to the fog and narrow path—“isn’t a good campsite for us.”

  “Why
?”

  “Why … what?” Iseult’s nose twitched. She did not want to argue. Everything had been going so well with Owl since last night. Please, Moon Mother, don’t let it stop now. “Why can’t we camp here? Or why are we going to the Monastery?”

  Owl nodded, and Iseult had to assume she was nodding at the second question. “Because we’ll be safe with the monks.”

  “I don’t want to.” Then, before Iseult could stop her, hundreds of tiny pebbles scuttled across Owl’s body, and within half a breath, she was hidden away.

  This time, Iseult’s nose really wrinkled. Stasis, she reminded herself, even as fire sparked in her fingertips.

  “I like it here,” Owl added, a tiny mouth appearing in the stones. “So I will stay.”

  Ah, Iseult thought, and just like that, her frustration bled away. She had heard these words before. She had said those words before—ten years ago. I like it here. So I will stay. Her mother had tried to pull her from a tree in the Midenzi settlement. It was the tree Iseult had always sought refuge in when the other children had turned on her.

  On that particular day, Iseult had refused to come down when Gretchya called, so her mother had snipped, “Fine,” before walking away. It had made Iseult’s heart drop to her toes. Made her whole body feel empty. She had wanted her mother to argue with her. She had wanted her mother to ask why she was even in the oak tree at all.

  But Gretchya hadn’t asked that day, nor did she ask on any other.

  Iseult wouldn’t make the same mistake.

  “Why don’t you want to go?” Iseult aimed a taut smile at the stones.

  “Dead,” Owl replied.

  “Yes, but lots of things are dead, Owl. The inn we stayed at was dead. The leather on the saddle you rode was dead. It doesn’t mean it isn’t safe.”

  More confusion in her Threads. Then a tiny frown.

  “It’s the only way we can reach the Monastery, Owl. We have to take the ferry.”

  “You could tell the rocks to bring you.” A tremor waved across the earth. It wobbled Iseult and knocked stones straight off the cliff.

  Leopold’s Threads flared with white alarm.

  Iseult, though, kept her face neutral and body calm. “I don’t have the magic you have, Owl. Remember? Neither does the prince. So we cannot ask the rocks to carry us. We have to take the sky-ferry instead. I bet Aeduan has ridden it, you know.”

  It was the right thing to say. Green curiosity wavered in Owl’s Threads. “Will he be there?”

  Iseult scratched her nose. She did not want to lie, but she also feared what might happen if she said no. “Maybe,” she offered casually, and she supposed it might even be true. He might be there. One day.

  The green sharpened, Owl’s interest growing keener. Any moment now, she would abandon her camouflage.

  So Iseult turned a cool eye toward the ferry, where the prince, to his credit, leaned against the railing and inspected his fingernails. A perfect display of fearlessness. See? he said with his body. This is easy. No need to be afraid.

  His Threads, however, matched Owl’s. Bright green interest, and a hint of beige anxiety.

  “Aeduan grew up at the Monastery,” Iseult went on. “Don’t you want to see what it looks like? I know I do.”

  And there it was: a rumbling crunch of rocks, and soon, Owl herself appeared. The girl still shook, though, and the gravel still danced. Subtle enough to be mistaken for wind, but if the pebbles bounced higher at the Monastery … If Owl decided to bounce boulders instead …

  “Owl,” Iseult said, pumping authority into her tone now, “you will have to stop using your magic once we reach the Monastery. Just like Aeduan told you before we entered Tirla, you will have to keep it hidden away from the monks.”

  For once, the girl did not ask Why? But the question was evident in her wide, frightened eyes.

  “Magic can always be taken away,” Iseult explained. “There are Cursewitches out there who can steal a person’s magic. Did you know that?”

  Owl’s head wagged ever so slightly. The fear pulsed brighter in her Threads—but Iseult was going somewhere with this. Following a trail Habim had once followed with her, long ago when she’d been a fresh arrival in a city fraught with things to hide from.

  “This is why,” Iseult explained, “it is always better to do things quietly. If you hide your powers, then people will underestimate you. And if they underestimate you…” She pointed at Owl’s chest. “Then you’re the one with all the power. And you are, aren’t you, Owl? You have Blueberry, and you have the stones. As long as you have that, and as long as no one knows you have them, then no one can ever, ever hurt you.”

  Owl blinked. Three contemplative shutterings before aquamarine understanding melted across her Threads. The gravel stilled around her feet.

  “No one,” she said softly, and Iseult couldn’t help it: her lips slipped into a smile.

  And her grin only widened when Owl abruptly said, “Go. Now.” Then, without waiting for Iseult, she hurried for the sky-ferry, impatience bright in her Threads.

  It took every ounce of Iseult’s Threadwitch training not to punch the air in triumph. She had coaxed Owl all on her own. No argument, no frustrated fire sparks.

  Take that, Aeduan.

  * * *

  Aeduan did not know how he held his seat atop the donkey. The world bled around him, consumed by the perpetual throb in his chest and belly. It devoured all thought, all desire, until there was nothing left but fiery talons that leached away shapes and colors. Until the whole world was gray. Gray trees, gray sky, and gray Lizl atop her gray mare.

  At first, when they’d set off, aiming vaguely northwest and into the mountains, Aeduan tried to warn Lizl. He’d told her the Fury was coming for him, that the man was a killer, yet all she’d done was laugh. “I’m a killer too, and he doesn’t scare me.”

  It would seem she had seen the Fury in Tirla. She had taken shelter from the storm and overheard Aeduan talking to him. But not when the man’s winds had raged around him. Not when his cyclone had wrecked and ruined, nor when his cleaving magic had turned his veins to black.

  So she did not believe Aeduan when he warned her, and soon, the argument was too difficult to sustain. So Aeduan shut up and turned his attention to escape—for he could not stay with Lizl. If the Fury came, she would die.

  Aeduan had enough blood on his hands already.

  The Aeduan of two days ago would have simply taken control of her blood, trapping her in place long enough for him to flee. Of course, the Aeduan of a week ago would never have been caught in the first place.

  Now, he could scarcely smell her blood, much less touch it. And the more he drifted in this half-life, the more he feared it was not the fire in his veins that kept him from summoning his powers, nor the weakness as his body fought to heal.

  The curse was erasing him. Drip by drip, it was draining away his magic until soon there would be nothing left. His body, he thought, might still have a chance to heal and recover. His Bloodwitchery, he feared, never would.

  Eventually, even planning became too difficult to sustain. It took all Aeduan’s focus just to remain upright. The roads, if they could even be called that, were slender and uneven. Overgrown hunting paths and shepherds’ trails rife with branches to poke at Aeduan’s eyes and scratch apart his skin.

  The donkey trundled ever onward. The sun ascended ever higher.

  Once, Aeduan thought he heard a dog barking. Close, as if some farmer’s hut waited nearby. It was a nice sound. A welcome respite that chased away the shadows. He liked dogs. He had liked Boots too, until the day he’d killed him. Then he’d hated Boots for dying so easily.

  Now, Aeduan knew everything died easily.

  “You move too slowly.” Lizl’s voice knifed through the fading day. She had stopped her horse. The donkey had stopped too. Somehow Aeduan had not noticed, perhaps because the leash around his neck had grown no easier. “It will be midday soon, Bloodwitch, and we need to cover more ground
.”

  “Give me … that Painstone,” he rasped. “Then I’ll move faster.”

  She snorted, and in an easy swoop, dismounted. Three sluggish heartbeats later, she reached Aeduan’s side. “Down,” she ordered, yanking at the leash—and leaving Aeduan with no choice but to obey. He tumbled from the saddle.

  She sidestepped; he hit the cold earth. The impact shocked his bones, his lungs. He bit through his tongue and tasted blood. Always, always the blood. Then coughing laid claim, and shadows wavered at the edges of his vision, thicker and thicker by the moment.

  This curse would kill him—and he was glad for it. If he was dead, the pain would end. If he was dead, the Fury could not come for him, and he would not need to escape Lizl to protect her.

  When at last the hacking passed, a water bag landed on the dirt before Aeduan. He did not take it.

  “Where … are we?” Eyes stinging, he looked up at Lizl.

  “We’re near where I was born.” She unstrapped a pack from her saddle. “If you had played nice growing up, then you might recognize it.”

  Aeduan didn’t know how to answer that. He had always played nice. It was the monster inside that had not.

  He fumbled for the water bag and rocked back onto his haunches. Lizl had slackened the leash, and his gullet moved with blessed freedom as he drank his fill. A line of cool relief slid from throat to chest. Not enough to clear the pain, but something.

  He sucked in a tattered breath, stoppered the bag, and threw it back to Lizl. He missed. The bag hit the earth several paces short, earning a glare. “What’s wrong with you?” She scowled. “I’ve seen you take a sword through the gut and heal from it. This…” She motioned to him. “What happened?”

  Aeduan’s only reply was to draw in more air, his lungs rattling. There was nothing he could say that would help his cause. If he admitted he was cursed, it would only give her more power—assuming she even believed him at all. She did not believe in the Fury, so why would she believe in a Cursewitch?

  “Hurt,” he said eventually. “Arrows. Many of them.”