Windwitch (The Witchlands 2)

This, then, was the end of their travels together. Their strange partnership would end, presumably forever.

“I cannot leave the child,” Aeduan said, no inflection to his tone, no expression on his face. Yet somehow Iseult knew he spoke defensively.

“No,” she agreed.

“She will be a burden to us if we continue on.”

“Yes.”

“The Truthwitch is southeast.” He pointed toward the river. “Likely she is all the way at the end of the peninsula. Or perhaps even at sea beyond.”

Iseult nodded. There was no argument here—nothing she could say … would say to try to keep Aeduan traveling with her. This was a divergence of paths, and that was it.

“If you stick to the river, it will be the most direct route. Though you must hurry if you intend to beat the Red Sails. I will carry Owl…” Now he was saying something about food. Something about sharing rations, and who should keep the Carawen cloak.

Iseult was no longer listening.

She looked at the girl again. Owl. The Moon Mother’s littlest sister. More animal than human, she trailed silently wherever the Moon Mother went. In all the old tales, Owl’s bravery came out only at night, and by day, she hid in the forest’s darkest corners—just as this little creature did right now.

Why did he have to find her? Iseult wondered, heat splintering through her shoulder blades. For if Aeduan hadn’t found this child, then Iseult wouldn’t have to continue alone.

Safi was southeast; Safi was all that mattered. Safi was the rose in the sunshine, and Iseult was the shadow behind. Without her, Iseult was just a bumbling collection of thoughts that constantly led her astray.

Safi was the Cahr Awen. Iseult was merely the girl who wished she could be.

Iseult hated herself for that truth, but there it was. She wanted to go after Safi; she wanted Aeduan to lead the way; she wished this child would simply disappear.

Monster, she told herself. You’re a monster.

It was at that moment that Iseult realized Aeduan had ceased speaking. He stared at her; she stared back. One breath. Two. On and on, while a breeze rustled through the hedge and insects buzzed.

Iseult knew what she had to do. She knew what Safi would do in this position. What Habim or Mathew or her mother or anyone with a backbone would do. So why was she finding it so hard to summon any words?

Iseult swallowed. Aeduan turned to go. There was nothing left to say, really, and in seconds, he had pulled Owl to her feet. “Would you rather walk, Little Owl, or be carried?”

The girl gave no spoken answer, yet Aeduan nodded as if he were the one who could see green determination flickering in Owl’s Threads. A sign she wanted to walk on her own two feet.

Iseult turned then and dug herself back out of the elderberry tangles. Something wrestled in her chest. Something she didn’t recognize, at once fiery and frozen. If Safi were here, she would know what she felt.

Which was why Iseult had to keep going.

A patter behind her. Owl stepped free from the leaves. Then came Aeduan. Iseult looked at neither of them, her thoughts on the south. On the best route past the Red Sails.

A moment later, Aeduan silently—so silently—appeared directly beside Iseult. In his outstretched hand was the arrowhead.

When Iseult made no move to pluck it up, he gently grabbed her wrist and twisted upward. Then he dropped the iron into her waiting palm. It was warm against her skin, as were his fingers—fingers he now unfurled.

No words left his lips, and no words left Iseult’s. She simply examined, almost numbly, the iron needle head as it glittered in the speckled sun.

Aeduan was back to Owl’s side before Iseult could angle toward him, and they were already stepping out of sight, a sliver of movement amid the whispering green, before Iseult finally found her voice.

“Aeduan.” She’d never said his name aloud. She was surprised by how easily it rolled off the tongue.

He looked back, his expression inscrutable as always. But laced with … with something. Hope, she found herself thinking, though she knew it was fanciful.

Aeduan was not the sort of man to ever hope.

“The talers,” she went on, “are in Lejna. There’s a coffee shop on the hill, and I discovered a lockbox full of coins in the cellar. I don’t know how they got there. I simply found them, and I took them.”

Aeduan’s chest fell with a sigh. He wanted to ask more—Iseult could see it in the way his lips tightened. Readying for words.

But then he changed his mind and turned away.

So Iseult matched his movement, pivoting toward the river and setting off.

She did not look back.

* * *

Merik dropped to his knees beside Cam, all thoughts of Vivia or Garren or any of the Nines forgotten. Cam was curled in on herself, her left hand clutched to her belly. Blood streaming.

“We need to get you help,” Merik said. He tried to lift her, but she resisted. Her head wagged.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she whispered. “I didn’t know what Garren was gonna do—”

“And I don’t care about that, Cam. Stand up, damn it. We need to get you help.”

Vivia’s shadow stretched over them. “Pin’s Keep,” she said. “We can get a healer there, and it’s that way.” She motioned across the square.

“Then let’s go.” Ignoring Cam’s arguments, Merik eased a hand behind the girl while Vivia moved to Cam’s other side.

But Cam, stubborn as ever, shrugged them off. Her face was pale. Blood stained everything. “I can walk,” she huffed. “It hurts like hell, but I know the fastest way. Come on.” She stumbled over the corpses, leaving Merik and Vivia with no choice but to hurry after.