“We’re alone,” the Threadwitch croaked, her voice ruined by smoke. “We should stop.”

It was the first thing anyone had said in hours, and for half a moment, her words were gibberish to Aeduan’s ears.

Then he realized she spoke in Dalmotti instead of Nomatsi. He assumed so Owl would not understand.

“I’ve sensed no one near since long before the sun began to set.” She pointed vaguely at the horizon. “And … I’m thirsty.” That was it. The end of her reasoning.

Aeduan’s lips parted to argue, but now Owl was shifting in his arms. She yawned.

So, muscles screaming, he eased her to the ground. Then she was on her feet, stretching as if she were nothing but a normal child waking from a normal nap.

Four whooshing riptides of air swept over the water, flapping at Aeduan’s coat as he peeled it off his sore shoulders. Then the mountain bat was there, settling atop the sunken wall, where its long tail could slither around the ruined corners. The tufted tip sank beneath the water.

Owl showed no interest in the enormous beast—who now cleaned itself like a cat, starting with its bloodied right ear. Instead, Owl was thoroughly absorbed in making her way over the boulders that lined the pond’s edge. When she reached the water, she tentatively mimicked Iseult, spooning out mouthfuls of water with her hands.

“Little Sister,” Iseult said while the girl drank. “What’s your true name?”

Owl ignored her, and Iseult flung a helpless glance at Aeduan.

He shrugged. After all, Owl wouldn’t be the first child to lose her words to war.

Still the Threadwitch pressed, and a strain pulled over the words. “Can you speak, Little Sister? C-can you tell us the name of your tribe? Anything?”

Owl merely continued lapping at the pond, acting as if Iseult wasn’t even there.

With a hard sigh, Iseult finally abandoned her attempts. She pushed upright and hopped over the stones. Even silhouetted against the dusk, there was no missing how filthy she was. The tips of her black hair were shriveled from flame.

This was not the Threadwitch who had cornered Aeduan beside a bear trap. Nor the Threadwitch who’d sparred with him that very morning. This was a woman changed.

Aeduan knew because he’d been there before himself. Soon she would learn—just as he had—that there was no outrunning the demons of one’s own creation.

Forever after today, she would flex and furl her fingers, precisely as she did right now. She would roll her wrists and crack her neck. She would stretch her jaw and wonder who might next die at her hands. Who might not get away.

And forever after tonight, she would be hungry to outrun the nightmares. She would race and she would fight and she would kill again, just to make sure the ghosts were real.

They were.

Aeduan wondered if perhaps he should feel remorse. After all, she had cleaved to save him. He felt no heat in his chest, though, no sickness in his belly. She would have found her true nature one way or another.

“Your friend is moving again,” he said as Iseult took up sentry beside him. Her hands dripped water to the stones. “My guess is by sea. You would not have reached her in time had you continued on.”

Iseult gave no reaction. But she did stare hard into Aeduan’s eyes, which he knew must be spinning with red. It took all his power—what little was left—to reach for the Truthwitch’s scent.

“Owl’s family is probably dead,” she said at last, gaze still pinned on Aeduan.

“Probably,” he agreed.

“Where will you take her, then? I doubt many families will welcome a mountain bat to their ranks.” She spoke with no inflection, as always, yet there was no missing the twinkle of humor beneath her words.

So Aeduan answered in kind. “Nor will they welcome a Bloodwitch.”

Her lips ticked up. Then instantly flattened. “Nor a Weaverwitch, I suppose.” The word fell like a hammer between them.

Aeduan didn’t contradict her. She was what she was, and fighting one’s nature only brought pain. Sometimes death too.

Which was why he found himself saying, “No one is ever turned away from the Carawen Monastery.”

“Not even mountain bats?” Again came that flickering hint of a smile.

“Not so long as they serve the Cahr Awen.”

Iseult stiffened, and Aeduan wondered if he’d spoken too soon. It was hard enough staring into the Void, but what did one do if the Void looked back?

It was certainly looking back now. That sway to her stance. That fevered flick of her tongue along her lips. If she was indeed a Weaverwitch, then she was bound to the Void. And if she was indeed a Voidwitch, then she could be the Cahr Awen. She saw that now.

Aeduan saw that now too.

“The Carawen Monastery.” The words fell from her mouth like a prayer. Then she blinked and said, “I thought you were no longer a monk.”

“Which is why”—he stretched his shoulders—“I won’t stay. I’ll leave Owl, I’ll leave the bat, and I’ll leave you. Then I’ll go to Lejna for my coins.” And perhaps hunt for Prince Leopold too.

Iseult nodded, as if this plan suited her. For some reason, the movement bothered him. Her easy acceptance made his lungs stretch tight.

Whatever that feeling was, though, it passed in an instant, and now Owl was splashing deeper into the shadowy pond. The mountain bat, meanwhile, slapped its tail against the wall with what looked to be displeasure. Though it might have been amusement. Impossible to guess which.

Tags: Susan Dennard The Witchlands Fantasy
Source: readsnovelonline.net