Windwitch (The Witchlands 2)

The line deepened on his forehead, and he quickly examined Safi’s bound arms and fettered feet. But she was still trussed up tight. “Why the good mood, Heretic? Why the nice manners?”

“I’m a domna. I can smile at even the ugliest toad and flatter him on his perfectly placed warts.”

A huff of breath, not quite a laugh. Caden offered the pork; it hovered inches from Safi’s lips, forcing her to extend her neck. To chomp down and tear. Demeaning. Weakening.

So Safi grinned all the more cheerfully as she chewed and chewed. And chewed some more before the salty toughness would fit down her throat. “It’s … dry,” she squeezed out. “Could I have some water?”

Caden hesitated, one eye squinting. A look Safi remembered from their night at the taro tables. A look that said, I’m thinking, and I want you to see that I’m thinking.

Then came a shrug, as if Caden saw no reason to refuse, and he untied a half-drained water bag from his hip. He held it to Safi’s lips, and she gulped it back.

He let her drain the bag. “Thank you,” she said after licking her lips. She truly meant it too.

He nodded and replaced the bag on his belt, a movement that his left fingers clearly didn’t like.

“Hurt?” Safi chimed.

“Hell-Bards can’t be hurt,” he muttered.

“Ah,” Safi breathed. “That must make it so much easier when you’re killing innocent witches.”

“I’ve never killed innocent witches.” His head stayed down, still fumbling to lace up the bag. “But I have killed heretics.”

“How many?”

“Four. They wouldn’t yield.”

Safi blinked. She hadn’t expected him to answer, and though she couldn’t read him with her magic, she suspected he spoke the truth. He had killed four heretics; it had been their lives or his.

“What about the entire ship of Marstoks you just slaughtered? Do you count them on your list of murders?”

“What ship?” The line returned between his brows. His gaze finally flicked up.

“The one you burned to embers. The one the empress and I were on.”

“Wasn’t us.” He bounced his right shoulder, a vague gesture toward Lev and Zander. “We’ve been tracking you since Lejna.”

“Lies.”

Another huff—this one undoubtedly a laugh, for a sly half smile crossed his face. “I’m glad to see your witchery still doesn’t work on me, Heretic.”

Safi’s own smile faltered. She couldn’t fake her way through this. She truly couldn’t read him. So for once, she chose honesty. She let her grin slip away, and a frown bubbled to the surface. “Why? Why doesn’t my magic work on you?”

“No magic on Hell-Bards.”

“I know,” she said simply. “Why is that?”

He scratched the tip of his chin, where the scar ran down. “I guess your uncle never told you, then.

He eased backward a single step. “Magic, witcheries, power. Those are for the living, Heretic. But us?” Caden patted his chest, clanking the brigandine’s metal plates. “We Hell-Bards are already damned. We’re already dead.”

* * *

The arrowhead in Aeduan’s pocket felt aflame as he scanned the dark pines and oaks around him. Who would betray whom first? An hour had passed since the agreement between him and the Threadwitch, yet Aeduan was still asking himself this question.

The rain had finally stopped. Not a gradual tapering like the rains at the Monastery but an abrupt end. Storm one moment. No storm the next. Southern weather was like that: all hard lines and nature waiting to pounce upon the off-beats.

The instant the rain ceased, the insects of the night were out. Cicadas clicked, moths took flight, and the bats that ate them awoke too. They swept and crisscrossed over a dull black sky. Eventually the clouds slipped away to reveal starlight, and Aeduan watched the Sleeping Giant rise—that bright column of stars that always guided north.

He watched it alone, for the Threadwitch slept. Shortly after their conversation, she’d settled into the driest corner of the overhang. Moments later, she’d been asleep.

Aeduan couldn’t help but wonder at how quickly she had drifted off. At how miserable that sideways position must be. Or at how fearless she was to drop her guard so completely.

Fearless or stupid, and judging by her trick with the knives, it was the latter. Then again, she had deftly lured Aeduan into this insane partnership. Who will betray whom first?

All Aeduan knew for certain was that it was connected. The arrowhead. The Purist priest Corlant. And Aeduan’s missing coins. It was all connected, even if Aeduan couldn’t yet see how.

He released the arrowhead in his pocket and moved quietly, deliberately through the forest. There was a stream near; he needed a bath.

He found a spot on the shore where the canopy was less overgrown. Starlight poured down. Water burbled past.

Aeduan eased off his baldric, then his shirt. He hadn’t had a moment since leaving the bear trap to check the old wounds. They had, no surprise, reopened. But a cautious dab revealed only dried blood.

Aeduan sighed, annoyed. His shirt and breeches were ruined. While the forest wouldn’t care, humans would. The Threadwitch would.

Doesn’t matter. Blood was a part of Aeduan, and bloodstains had never slowed him before. He had come this far. He would keep going.

For some reason, though, he found himself bringing the shirt into the frozen stream. He found himself rubbing it, trying to get it clean. But the blood had set and could not be lifted.