Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

Aeduan attacked then, sword out, yet for some reason, he did not lunge as hard as he should have. He did not veer his course at the last second or toss out knives in quick succession. He simply thrust out his sword, and, as he expected, Evrane swirled left and parried easily.

“The girls swam to the spring’s center,” Evrane said.

“Impossible.” Aeduan spun left.

“I saw them do it. I saw the magic ignite and the earth tremble.” She jabbed at Aeduan with her knives—and then snap-kicked her toe into his knee.

A toe that had a blade upon it.

Pain exploded in Aeduan’s leg—as did blood. He bit back a roar, and twirled aside before more blades could reach him.

She was trying to wear him down. Small wounds to slow him.

But she was breathing heavily now—something that would never have happened two years ago. She was tired, and she would never outlast Aeduan. Even with her quick, relentless attacks. Even with him going easy.

“What you saw,” Aeduan said, skipping back, “was what you wanted to see. The Well would never let them reach its center.”

“Yet it did.” Evrane paused, hands and blades at the ready and an exultant gaze fastened on Aeduan. “Those girls touched the spring’s source and it awoke. Then the waters healed Iseult.”

Iseult. The Nomatsi girl with no blood-scent.

She was not one of the holy Cahr Awen—Aeduan refused to believe that. She was too plain. Too dark.

As for the Truthwitch, if she were indeed the other half of the Cahr Awen, then giving her to his father would mean breaking his Carawen vow. The mere thought of that ignited ire in Aeduan’s veins. He would not lose all his fortunes because Monk Evrane was a gullible, desperate old fool.

So in a burst of speed, Aeduan let a throwing knife fly.

Evrane swatted it from the air and used the momentum of her spin to loose a knife of her own.

Aeduan jerked left. Caught the knife—volleyed it back.

But Evrane was already dancing up the overhang, using the terrain to her advantage. She scrabbled easily up the stones, unsheathing her stiletto—her final weapon—and then sprang out at Aeduan.

He dove forward, rolling beneath her. Then he was on his feet, sword slashing out—

It clashed against Evrane’s stiletto, locking in place on a parrying prong. Her arm trembled. Her small blade would never stand up to a sword; her strength would never stand up to Aeduan’s.

“Remember … who you are,” she ground out. The steel of Aeduan’s sword slid … slid ever closer to her. At any moment, her elbow would give. Aeduan’s blade would slice through her neck. “The Cahr Awen have come to save us, Aeduan. Remember your duty to them.”

Her stiletto slipped.

Aeduan’s blade arced down. Bit into her neck—

But he stopped it. Halted the blade at the last fraction of a second. Blood pooled on the steel. Evrane gasped for air, eyes huge.

“We are done here,” Aeduan said. He wrenched back his sword. Drops of blood sprayed. Splattered on Evrane’s face and Aeduan’s uniform.

Evrane’s whole face fell. She became a tired, old woman before his eyes.

It was more than he could bear so, without another word, he sheathed his sword and launched himself down the path.

Yet as he rounded a bend into the woods—and as thunder clapped much closer than it should’ve—steel thunked into Aeduan’s back. Grated against his ribs. Pierced his right lung.

He recognized the feel of it. A Carawen throwing knife—the very one he’d thrown at Evrane only moments before.

It hurt—not to mention all the blood that bubbled up in his throat made breathing tricky. Yet Aeduan couldn’t help but smile, for Evrane was as ruthless as ever. At least that hadn’t changed.

THIRTY-SEVEN

This might have been the dumbest plan Iseult had ever enacted and, by the Moon Mother, Merik and his contract had better be worth it.

Eighty paces, Iseult thought as she watched the seventeen sailors approach her at full-speed down Lejna’s main seaside avenue. Twelve more thumped down the first pier at which their ship was now anchored.

Because, of course, Marstoks had reached town right as Iseult and Safi had. Now soldiers—some of them no doubt Firewitches … or worse—were pelting toward her with terrifying grace.

Iseult didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. She stood at the very edge of the city. When the sailors reached twenty paces away, she would move. That would be enough distance to stay ahead—or at least stay ahead long enough for Safi to get into town.

Iseult had gotten a good glimpse of the terrain on the ride in, but most of her planning was based on guesswork. A lot of what she thought she knew about the cobblestoned streets and byways of Lejna could be wrong, and if those gaps in rooftops weren’t streets and that big square hole wasn’t a central courtyard, then she was, quite simply, screwed.

There were other holes in her plan too—like how the white kerchief cut from Safi’s shirt (meant to hide Iseult’s hair) might not stay put in all this wind. Or how her choice of an alleyway between row houses—with its shadowy darkness and steep incline—was a terrible one.

Or how standing here with her arms high and cutlass still sheathed might be a bit too vulnerable.

Sixty paces. The sailors’ eyes were now visible, the gleam of their outthrust sabers impossible to ignore—as were their Threads of purple eagerness.

They won’t kill you, she reminded herself for the hundredth time. Stasis. Stasis in your fingers and in your toes.