Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

Though it strained his muscles, he reached down to start with his toes. His boots were intact, though completely soaked—the leather would shrink as soon as they dried—but nothing in his feet was broken.

His legs were fully healed too, though his right pant leg had ripped all the way to the knee and there were long strands of marsh reed wrapped around his calf.

Next he inspected his thighs, his hips and waist, his ribs (still a bit tender), his arms … Ah, the scars on his chest were bleeding—which meant the ones on his back would be bleeding too. But those tiny slices were old wounds. Ancient, even. The cursed things opened and seeped whenever Aeduan was hurt to the brink of death.

At least nothing new bled, nothing was broken, and nothing was missing that he couldn’t replace. He still had his salamander cloak and his Carawen opal. As for what the Nomatsi girl had taken—his stiletto and his cleaving knife—he could easily get more.

Yet thinking of the Nomatsi girl with no blood-scent made Aeduan want to gut something. His hand moved to his baldric, and as the sandpiper pranced closer, his fingers twitched over a throwing knife.

But no. Scaring the bird would do nothing to sate his fury. Only finding the Threadwitch would.

Not that he knew what he would do to the Threadwitch once he found her. Killing her definitely wasn’t it—he owed her a life-debt now. She’d spared him (sort of) and he would have to repay that.

Yet if there was one thing Aeduan hated, it was saving lives he wasn’t supposed to care about. There was only one other person to whom he owed such a debt, and at least she fully deserved it.

Aeduan’s fingers fell from the knife. With a final snarl at the eastern sun, he hauled himself to his feet. His vision spun even more and his muscles tremored, telling him he needed water and food.

A distant clanging sounded. Nine chimes, which meant the day was still young.

Aeduan swung his head toward the sound. Far to the south, he could just discern a village. Probably where the boys lived. Probably not too far from Veñaza City. So, rolling his wrists and flexing his fingers, Aeduan set off through the waves of an incoming tide.

* * *

The quarter-to-twelve chimes were tolling when Aeduan finally reached Guildmaster Yotiluzzi’s home. The guard there gave him a single once-over, balked, and then heaved open the gate.

To say Aeduan looked like he’d been dragged through the hell-gates and back was an understatement. He’d glimpsed himself in a window on the way through town, and he looked even worse than he felt. His short hair was crusted with blood, his skin and clothes streaked in sand, and despite having walked for three hours, his boots and cloak still hadn’t dried.

Nor had his chest or back stopped seeping blood.

Every street and bridge, every garden or alley, people had cleared from his path—and they’d recoiled just like Yotiluzzi’s guard was doing now. Though at least the people of Veñaza City hadn’t uttered “Voidwitch,” or swiped two fingers over their eyes to ask for the Aether’s protection as this guard did now.

Aeduan hissed at the man as he stalked past. The guard jolted, and then stumbled out of sight behind the door. As Aeduan strode into the garden, a saying flittered through his mind: Don’t pet the cat that’s had a bath. It had been something his mother always said when he was young—and something Aeduan hadn’t thought of in years.

Which only made his scowl deepen, and it took all his self-control not to slash at the flowers and leaves dangling over the paths. He hated these Dalmotti gardens, with their jungle-like vegetation and unchecked growth. This sort of garden wasn’t defendable—it was just a tripping hazard for old Guildmasters and one more example of laxness in the Dalmotti Empire.

When at last Aeduan came to the long patio on the western side of Yotiluzzi’s house, he found the servants clearing away the table where Yotiluzzi usually spent his mornings.

A maid spotted Aeduan trudging over the path. She screamed; the glass in her hands fell—and shattered.

Aeduan would have simply strolled on if the woman hadn’t then shrieked, “Demon!”

“Yes,” he growled, his wet boots slapping onto the patio. He locked eyes with her; she trembled. “I am a demon, and if you scream again, I will make sure the Void claims your soul.”

She clutched her hands to her mouth, shaking, and Aeduan smiled. Let her tell that story to everyone she met.

“Where have you been?” Yotiluzzi’s reedy voice bounced out from the open library doors. He snatched up his robes and stomped outside, his wrinkly jowls shaking. In the bright sunlight, there was no missing the fury in the Guildmaster’s eyes. “And what has happened to you?”

“I was away,” Aeduan answered.

“I know damned well you were away.” Yotiluzzi wagged a finger in Aeduan’s face.

Aeduan hated when the old man did that. It made him want to break the finger in half.

“What I want to know is where and why?” Yotiluzzi’s finger kept waving. “Have you been drinking? Because you look like filth, and no one has seen you since last night. If you keep this up, I will have to terminate your contract.”

Aeduan didn’t respond. He let his lips press into a line, and he waited for the Guildmaster to get to the point. In the background, servants continued to gather breakfast plates—but they moved slowly, their eyes latched on Aeduan and dishes rattling in their hands.

“I have great need of you,” Yotiluzzi finally said. “There is money to be made, and every second you waste is less money in my pocket. The betrothed of Henrick fon Cartorra was kidnapped, and the Emperor wants you to find her.”