Bloodwitch

by Susan Dennard

  And there, at the end of the boathouse, was a ship. Small, flat-bottomed, clearly meant for transferring goods off larger vessels, it was the only option, so without discussion, everyone aimed for it. Caden and Zander maneuvered Vaness in, then Safi followed while Lev untied the boat.

  “Oars,” Zander said. “These aren’t going to get us far.”

  “Not with what’s out there.” Caden stared at the lake, face screwed with concentration. Whatever he saw, Safi couldn’t.

  “Guide me.” A ragged voice listed up from the Empress. Safi hadn’t realized she was awake again, and when she looked down, she only saw closed eyes and peaceful sleep.

  But then Vaness tried to rise—and Zander helped her into a weak, slumping seat that even the glamour could not hide. “Tell me where to go,” she repeated, “and I…” A shaking breath. “I will send the boat where you command.” As if to prove that she could, she knocked her wrist sideways and the boat slithered away from the dock.

  “You’re not well,” Safi protested, but at the same moment, Caden declared, “Forward.” Then his eyes met Safi’s, holding hers in that grim, unrelenting way he had. “It’s our only chance, Safi.”

  She knew he was right. Smoke now plumed from the storage area. Any moment, the flames would hit. The explosion would tear the flesh from their bones and boil it straight to the Void.

  So without another word of protest, Safi reached down, gripped Vaness’s other hand in hers, and said, “Forward.”

  FIFTY

  Aeduan went to the clearing with the tallest mountain pine. There his father waited, a group of women and men clustered to him, and twelve horses stamping and snuffing just beyond.

  Ragnor met Aeduan’s eyes amidst the throng. He nodded, and Aeduan thought he almost caught a smile on the edge of his tired lips. Approval, maybe. Or relief.

  Two years ago that would have given Aeduan pause. Even two weeks ago, it would have stopped him in his tracks and warmed the blood in his veins.

  Now, Aeduan felt no blood in his veins. Now, he smelled nothing of his father—no baby’s breath or bone-deep loss.

  All Aeduan felt was a faint constriction in his lungs. Regret, he supposed, that it had come to this. After all, his father was not a bad man; his father’s cause might even be just.

  But one need not be evil to become it.

  His stride did not slow as he passed his father. Already, his gaze skipped ahead to the twelve steeds intended for Ragnor’s small group. The black on the end—ears back, her hooves light upon the snow—she had energy to do what Aeduan needed done.

  “Aeduan?” his father called.

  Aeduan ignored him. He went to the mare, young and impatient. He had not taken the fur from the chest; his wounds still bled, and he did not want the added layers to confine him. He had taken his sword, and he now adjusted it to avoid hitting the mare as he mounted.

  “Aeduan?” his father repeated, distress in his tone now. Distress on his face when Aeduan finally looked at him.

  “I am sorry,” Aeduan said, and he meant it. Then he kicked the horse into a gallop. He and the mare shot off into the trees.

  Voices chased behind. Cries of warning, of surprise, of danger if Aeduan did not slow. But Aeduan did not slow, and in seconds, the people were gone.

  His father was gone. All he heard was the thunder of the mare’s hooves, the spray of snow and soil as she galloped faster, faster. This speed in terrain unknown—the horse might throw a shoe or twist a leg, but he could not slow. Lady Fate’s knife was coming.

  Around trees and ever farther down the hill, Aeduan and the mare moved. Past more soldiers, past snowdrifts and tents. All he smelled was the cold of the night and the sweet musk of a horse on the move. Until at last, they reached the end of the descent and the valley opened before them.

  The river, a frozen expanse of white, shone beneath a full moon. And far, far on the other end, Aeduan could just make out the monastery, a dark bird roosting upon the cliff.

  Below it, dead ahead, were figures. His father’s Icewitches, he presumed. He dug his heels into the mare’s ribs, leaned forward, and she pushed into a gait that practically sang. She ran with joy, with energy in her muscles and speed in her heart. No concept of what lay ahead, only the purity of this moment with a flat path and no obstacles before her.

  Something flickered at the top of his vision. A bat-shaped shadow crossing the moon, vast and quick. When Aeduan glanced up, though, he saw nothing.

  It wasn’t until they were a hundred paces onto the frozen river that he realized they were no longer alone. It was the trebuchets that told him. The hiss and burn of fire propelled into the sky. It launched across the river from the Monastery, and when Aeduan turned his gaze to watch it land, he caught sight of the raiders.

  None of their blood-scents swept against him, no noises hit his ears over the mare’s four-beat, snow-churning gallop.

  This was his father’s distraction. Thousands of raiders flooding from the trees south of him.

  Not fast enough—Aeduan and the mare were not fast enough. He pushed her harder, and she obeyed. Sweat lathered on her, despite the cold. She was obedient, though, and she was ready.

  She galloped on.

  More fires erupted from the trebuchets. They crashed to the ground south of Aeduan, balls of orange light that drew his eyes, even as he tried to focus forward. There were figures ahead—two people who were not part of the Icewitches. They sped toward Aeduan on foot.

  Later, he would wonder how he knew it was her. Later, he would question if maybe his magic had been there all along and the silence of her blood had called to him. But in that moment, all he knew was that it was Iseult running toward him. It was Iseult fleeing the Icewitches.

  And he had to reach her first.

  Fire shot from the Monastery and roared toward Aeduan. He veered the mare left. Heat and black light screamed past.

  It hit the ice.

  This time, though, the dark flames caught and spread and ate. White, alchemical hearts beamed bright. Wider and wider it grew in a way that only seafire could.

  The mare panicked.

  Two more trebuchets launched, both aimed at Aeduan. As if the Monastery had decided that he, the lone rider, was the greatest threat in the valley. Furious flames that wind could not snuff, and that water only coaxed higher. Aeduan smelled raiders roasting alive behind him. He felt the heat on the ice expanding.

  A wall of fire to hold him in, and no salamander cloak to protect him.

  Aeduan yanked the mare left, then right before two volcanic booms! shuddered through the ice. The seafire crashed down. Heat stormed against him—and now the mare truly panicked. She reared. No more joy, no more energy. Only terror as the black flames crushed in. And Aeduan saw no choice but to punch his heels into her ribs and drive her even faster.

  He could see Iseult now. A Carawen cloak flapped around her, and the man beside her wore beige. But Aeduan had no attention to spare for that person. All he saw was the Threadwitch, a beacon of white amidst the eternal flames.

  He should never have abandoned her.

  He should never have let her go.

  Another trebuchet fired. Aeduan estimated its trajectory. He swerved the mare with time to spare.

  But arrows loosed a half second behind the seafire. A hundred longbows aimed by a hundred monks. They did not see one of their own riding toward them; they saw a raider and they aimed to kill.

  Aeduan could evade the seafire, but he could not evade those arrows. They rained down, blacking out the moon.

  Then they hit their mark. Aeduan. The mare.

  Countless wounds to rip them wide. To stop them where they ran.

  The mare screamed, a sound that broke Aeduan’s heart even as the arrows shredded that organ in two. Then the pain he knew so well filled him. The pain he had felt a thousand times over the course of his life, but that tonight, he could no longer heal from.

  The mare went down.

  Aeduan went down with her
.

  He tried to pull free. He dragged and heaved and clawed at the ice winged in flame, but the mare pinned him down. She screamed, a shrill sound that no animal should make. That Aeduan wished he could end, wished he had never caused in the first place. She tried to rise, but arrows covered every inch of her. Her belly, her back, her eyes.

  And there were almost as many in Aeduan. He could not see, he could not breathe. He was trapped beneath the mare while smoke choked into his throat and his life bled out upon the ice.

  It wasn’t enough, he thought before he died. Being a man wasn’t enough.

  * * *

  Iseult saw him die.

  She watched the arrows hit him and the flames consume. She watched his black horse fall, and she watched him fall with it.

  And she knew in that moment that logic didn’t matter. Nor escaping the raiders, nor even preserving her own life. What mattered was the Bloodwitch named Aeduan.

  This would not be his end. Not for the man with no Threads, the man who had held her gaze without fear, who had saved her life from Cleaved and raiders, from rivers and soldiers.

  From the day she had stabbed Aeduan in the heart, that heart had become hers—and she would not let this be his end.

  Leopold shouted for Iseult to stop, but he could have been a million leagues away for all she heard. For all she cared. Instead, she pushed her limbs faster. They had cut away from the raiders, and though the raiders gave chase, the trebuchets distracted and blocked.

  Iseult’s lungs burned. Her legs tired beneath her, and smoke tidaled in. Such trivialities she could ignore, for who needed breath, when one had power? Who needed sight, when one had Threads? She turned her mind inward and whispered, Come. Now is your time.

  Instantly, the Firewitch awoke. Elated and alert, he slithered to the front of her mind—and then he laughed with glee at the battlefield spanning before him.

  Death and flames and smoke for the claiming.

  Yes, Iseult told him. You will take that fire and you will swallow it. It is yours. It is mine.

  She flung up her arms and screamed, “COME.” Then Iseult dropped from a sprint to jog. From a jog to a walk.

  She entered the fire.

  It pulled her in, a lover’s embrace while the Firewitch squealed and laughed. This was his home, and this was Iseult’s home now too.

  Heat seared against her. Smoke clawed down her throat. She welcomed it. She was one with the Firewitch, and he was one with the flame. Where she commanded, the flames moved, and with each long stride that she advanced, the flames skipped aside.

  They loved her, but they dared not touch her.

  Then at last, she saw Aeduan. The seafire licked across him; his black horse burned.

  “Stop,” she ordered the flames, and the flames obeyed.

  He was dying and bloodied. Broken and burned. She crouched beside him, cradling his head in one hand, resting fingers to his throat with the other.

  There was no pulse.

  No pulse, no life, no Bloodwitch named Aeduan.

  No.

  The word slipped from her throat. A raw, distant thing.

  No.

  He could not be dead. She would not let him be dead, and she would not let this be his end. Not after what had happened in Tirla. Not after everything that had passed between them.

  She dug her hands beneath his shoulders and with a strength she did not know she possessed, she pulled.

  Iseult pulled and pulled and pulled until eventually, his body tore free from beneath the mare. The flames caressed her. Hungry and wanting more than Iseult would give. Not now, she told them. Not now, not now. And they listened, a cocoon to hold her while she strained to lift Aeduan higher.

  She tried. Four times, she tried to get him onto her shoulders. He was not so heavy, not so large—but limp and unresponsive, he was dead weight she could not carry.

  On the fifth try, she found that she was crying. She did not know when the tears had begun, and now that they’d started, there was no stopping them.

  Do not cry, the flames whispered, and inside her, the Firewitch whispered too: Do not cry, Iseult, do not cry. The fire eats what it wants, so you must do the same.

  Oh, she thought. I see. And in that moment, it was true. Power was Threads, and Threads belonged to her. All she had to do was take them.

  So she did. She sucked in power from the heat, power from the black flames, and power from the man she had cleaved in the Contested Lands. She focused it into her muscles. Into her legs and arms and back …

  On the sixth try, Iseult hefted Aeduan up high enough for her to stand—and on that sixth try, she got him across her shoulders.

  Then she walked. One hobbling step turned into two, then three. She left the dead horse behind. She crossed the seafire.

  She did not know where she was going. She could not see beyond the shadowy fire and moonlight. Yet something stirred inside her. A string winding tighter and tighter—but only so long as she walked in this one, true direction.

  She planted one foot in front of the next, following that string, until at last, she left the frozen, burning river behind. Until at last, her feet landed on solid, craggy earth.

  Ahead of her, through the smoke, was a fir tree. Somehow, despite the chaos and the fire, it seemed to shine. Green and healthy and strong. A hand beckoning her onward, so onward she moved.

  Iseult’s strength was flagging, though. Without the flames to fuel her here, she was just a girl. Just a girl with a man upon her back and tears—inexplicable, unwelcome tears—still sliding down her cheeks.

  Threadwitches do not cry, she thought as she hauled Aeduan ever onward. Threadwitches do not cry.

  The pines thickened around her, as did the sense of life that breathed here. Even in the dead of night, birds chirruped. Snowdrops bloomed.

  Then the conifers cut away, and she reached the Origin Well of the Carawens.

  Six downy birches shivered on the smoke-charged breeze, oblivious to the fire and explosions raging so near. The ice stretched between them, glimmering beneath the moon. Where the river had shone white, the Origin Well simply shone. As if it bore a light of its own. As if it sensed Iseult near and now it listened, it waited, it welcomed her approach.

  The Aether Well, some called it. The spring to which Iseult had always believed her magic was bound. Now she knew better. Now she knew she was bound to the Void, and cleaving and Severed Threads were all her future had ever held.

  But she was also the Cahr Awen. She believed that, even if the Abbot did not, and if anyone could save Aeduan, then it was she.

  Iseult reached the edge of the Well, where a fringe of snow hugged the ice. Two steps out and her knees finally gave way. She collapsed, dropping Aeduan onto his back beside her.

  The frozen Well did not shudder, it did not break. She knew, of course, that the surface was hard as stone. She knew it took the Nomatsi pilgrims an entire day to carve through. She didn’t have an entire day, though. Eventually, the battle would spread. Eventually, Aeduan would no longer be savable—if he was even savable now.

  She had to believe that he was. That he always had been.

  “Aeduan,” she panted, turning toward him. So many arrows, so many burns. And still no response.

  No, no, no.

  She freed his sword from its scabbard and staggered several paces away. She would have to carve open this ice. Somehow, she would have to reach the waters below before the battle reached them.

  Surely if Iseult could walk through fire, then she could tear through ice.

  She gripped the pommel with two hands and lifted both arms high. Then she slammed the blade into the ice. Crack.

  Again. Crack, crack, crack. Over and over, she pushed all her strength into the sword, into the ice. And over and over, she failed. The Well would not break. The healing waters would not come to her.

  While behind her, Aeduan’s body cooled, his soul drained. And behind them both, smoke clotted. Explosions boomed.

  Iseu
lt was out of time; she was out of patience. The tears still trailed down her cheeks. Where they came from, why they flowed, she did not know. Nineteen years of holding them in, she supposed, and they had finally flooded over.

  And in that instant, it hit her: Threadwitches might not cry, but perhaps Weaverwitches do. She was going about this all wrong. This ice was frozen by the Well’s magic. It was bound to the Aether and unbreakable by mere sword and strength.

  She flung her blade aside. It clattered to the ice. She wiped the tears from her eyes and dropped to her knees. When Esme had first shown Iseult how to cleave, the snapping of Threads had felt like a misstep on a frozen lake. Well, here was her lake. Here was power she wanted to command.

  She punched the ice. Her knuckles shrieked. Her wrist screamed.

  She punched again, again, ignoring the blood on her knuckles, the shockwaves in her wrist. She switched hands, switched arms. Again, again, again.

  Black lines spiderwebbed out.

  So Iseult punched faster, harder, and the lines cut wider, fatter. Sever, sever, twist and sever. She alternated hands. Threads that break, Threads that die.

  The ice bowed beneath her. A fracture ripped out. It split the air. It split her heart.

  The ice tore open.

  Iseult and Aeduan fell.

  The water shocked the breath from Iseult’s lungs, shocked the thoughts from her brain. For several eternal seconds, she sank. Lost in the warm, churning waters of the Origin Well. Then blood wisped across her vision, and she remembered where she was and why.

  Aeduan.

  Iseult turned, pulling herself through the waters, vibrant and alive. Aeduan, Aeduan. It was the blood that guided her. A trail that wound to him like a Heart-Thread.

  He was sinking, eyes closed. Blood streaming upward, a hundred strands to unravel toward the surface.

  Iseult reached him. She slid her arms around his waist. He burned. Hot as the fires she had carried him through, except these flames felt like they roared within.

  Iseult swam, pulling Aeduan with her. When Evrane had healed Iseult in Nubrevna, she had sent Iseult to the heart of the Well—so to the heart Iseult now kicked her legs and swept her arms. Darkness ruled the deeper she moved. Darkness and pressure and the heat of Aeduan’s touch.