Windwitch (The Witchlands 2)

But Caden was already gone, already ducking low and wrenching Vaness down the narrowest of the five streets. “Meet you around!” he shouted, leaving Safi with no choice but to ratchet her legs faster after Lev and Zander.

Except that they were gone too, lost in the crowds, and now a second Baedyed was barreling right for her.

“Muck-eating bastards!” Safi screeched, running for the only route left to her: straight ahead. As her heels pounded hard on the packed earth, her temper flared straight up from her toes. The shit noggins had left her! And meet you around where, precisely?

Safi hooked left, into a clump of men bowed low beneath creaking laundry baskets. As they angled onto another road, Safi angled too. She shoved at the nearest man. He tripped, his basket fell, laundry bursting forth to trip the men behind him. Traffic halted, but Safi was already through.

At the next intersection, Safi ran smack-dab into Caden and Vaness. Oh, and there was Zander and Lev too, hurtling ahead and clearing a way through traffic.

She amended her estimation of muck-eating bastards. Though only slightly.

The road ran downhill now, offering a view of the open market, with its seascape of tents rippling on the breeze. Alarm bells rang—when had that begun?—and it meant either more Baedyeds waited ahead or the fire at the inn had spread.

Probably both. Yet no one slowed. Not even Vaness, whom Caden practically carried now. Down they sped, Hell-Bard and heretic and empress alike. Intersections and people streamed past.

Until sure enough, precisely as Safi had feared, they all sprinted into the market and were swarmed by flashes of green and gold. It swam in from all angles. Baedyeds. Angry Baedyeds.

They skirted behind a series of tents, Zander in the lead, Safi at the rear. For the moment, no one followed. This little alley—if it could even be called that—was empty.

What would Iseult do? What would Iseult do?

Then Safi saw, and Safi knew. She couldn’t help it—a smile tore over her face. “Ahead!” she bellowed. “That carriage at the end of the tents!”

Zander needed no more guidance. A carriage was stuck in the crowds, its shadow sweeping into the alley.

And its door quite unlocked, as Safi saw when Zander yanked it wide. The woman inside opened her mouth to scream, but Lev had a knife against her throat before the slightest peep could squeak out.

Then Caden, Vaness, and Safi were crawling inside behind the other two Hell-Bards. They toppled onto the benches, as Safi slammed the door shut.

One ragged breath passed. Two. Three. But if the carriage driver noticed new arrivals in all the chaos outside, he gave no indication.

What followed, Safi would remember for the rest of her life as one of the most peculiar half hours she ever spent. The elegant silence within the rocking carriage clashed with the traffic and alarms outside, while the tasteful blue-felted walls and crimson-curtained windows felt completely incongruous against the five unwelcome visitors, all panting and reeking of smoke.

Not to mention their unwilling hostess, a grandma with eyes of Fareastern descent, who seemed thoroughly unperturbed by the blade Lev held to her neck.

The only thing missing from this absurd tableau, Safi thought, is a waltz humming in the background. Then it could have been a scene right out of the stage comedies Mathew loved most.

“I’m … sorry,” Caden offered to the woman eventually, still trying to catch his breath. “We need … a place to hide.”

“We also need help for Vaness.” Safi twisted to the empress beside her, who seemed barely able to cling to consciousness.

The Fareaster noticed the same, and without moving her arms, she pointed a single finger to a trunk beneath Safi’s bench.

“A healer kit,” Zander said, and the giant—already stooped to fit inside—stooped even more to tug it out from between Safi’s legs.

“Careful,” Caden warned, though his attention was on the empress. On keeping the cloth pressed to her gushing nose. “This woman is a slaver. She can’t be trusted.”

“A slaver?” Safi scoffed. “I don’t think so. Look at her.”

The woman’s eyes shot side to side. Confused by the Cartorran language, perhaps, but not afraid.

“I am looking,” Caden shot back. “At that healer kit. It’s what slavers bring to the arena, since so many of their contestants come out of the fights half dead.”

“He’s … right,” Vaness croaked—and Safi’s magic hummed, True. Yet even as she held the old woman’s dark gaze, she didn’t see how it was possible. This slight grandma looked so kind and compassionate.

There are degrees of everything, Caden had said the day before, which doesn’t fit well into your true-or-false view of the world.

Carefully, and with his enormous muscles bracing for a trap, Zander opened the trunk. No fires erupted; no poisons sprayed. Instead, they found exactly what was promised: a healer kit.

“May I?” Zander asked the woman with painstaking politeness—one more absurdity to add to the scene. But the woman was already twirling her hands toward Vaness as if to say, Hurry, hurry!

Zander hurried, rummaging through to find a blood-thickening tonic. Safi hurried, grabbing the bottle from the giant. Then Caden hurried too, ditching the soaked cotton and tilting up Vaness’s chin. A thick, syrupy tincture the color of old blood slid into her mouth.

Then everyone in the listing carriage stared—hard and relentless—at the Empress of Marstok.

She sucked in a breath, coughed once, and lowered her head. No blood poured from her nose. Her eyes, though red-rimmed, were open and alert.