Page 101 of Bloodwitch

“You,” he forced out at last, “have to get her away from… him.”

“I,” she said flatly. “Meaning alone.”

Molars clenching, Aeduan dragged his face up and forced his eyes to hold hers.Pain, pain, pain.“I cannot go with you.”

She scoffed. “Ofcourseyou can’t. You always run away, Bloodwitch. You have since we were young.”

Aeduan’s eyes dropped back to the ground. The Painstone gleamed inches away. He could take it again. He could end these screams in his muscles and feel his magic thrum once more.

He did not take it.

“The… longer you are with me,” he said, “the greater danger, Monk Lizl. The Fury… The man who came for me in Tirla… He will come again, and he will kill you.”

“Oh?” She gripped Aeduan’s chin, jerked his face toward hers. “And what does this ‘Fury’ want with you?”

“He works for my father. And my father wants me at his side.”

“Is that whereyouwant to go?”

“No,” he said, and it was true. Even knowing that his father had not killed these people, even knowing that a man like Corlant had defended the Purists and Nomatsis—he still did not want to return.

Lady Fate’s knife had fallen, though, and for him, there could only be one path.

“I wish I could believe you,” Lizl said. “But I can’t.” Even as she spoke these words, her face softened. The line between her brows smoothed away. “Your skin is fire,” she murmured, “and you bleed and bleed and bleed. You are dying, Monk Aeduan, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

She released his chin. Aeduan’s head dropped. His arms shook dangerously beneath him. If he did not move, he would fall on his face, and if he fell, he did not think he would get up again.

Lizl sensed this too, for suddenly she was there, grabbing his shoulders and hauling him upright. It took all his remaining strength not to topple backward. And it took all the focus he had just to keep breathing.

“You know,” Lizl said, “I thought that seeing you like this would make me happy. I used to imagine it even, when we were younger. I imagined surpassing you on the training block, or earning more assignments, or just getting more praise from Monk Evrane.

“But I don’t feel happy right now. I feel disgusted. All these years, I thought you were special. I thought you were stronger—bettereven, because your magic made you unstoppable. It turns out, though, that you die like every other man. And you are a coward like them too.

“So go. Leave me and rejoin your father as you so desperately wish to do. I do not want your weakness at my side.”

In a graceful sweep, she retrieved the Painstone from the bloodied soil. Then she stalked up to Aeduan and stared down. “Just remember, you owe me three life-debts, Bloodwitch. One for the Painstone. One for the Cahr Awen. And one for not killing you right now.” She dropped the stone onto his lap.

It did not touch his skin.

“And I will expect repayment, so don’t die before I can claim it.” Without another word, Lizl left. She stalked into the woods, away from Aeduan, away from the monks she had killed and the innocents she had tried to save.

Aeduan watched her go, waiting until she was out of sight before easing the Painstone around his neck. His hands shook. His lungs shook. Then the stone was on and the agony was tucked away, hidden beneath the lies of numbing magic.

He stood, muscles free and strong once more, and he moved. North toward the highest peaks of the Sirmayans. North toward his father.

Lady Fate’s knife had fallen, and it was time to see how sharp its edge might be.

FORTY-TWO

All Iseult wanted to do was wake up. All she wanted to do was stop these flames and the endless laughing. The Firewitch was there whenever Evrane put her to sleep—and Evrane put her to sleep whenever she woke up.

Iseult would have just enough time to stumble to a washroom, the curtains and ram’s head and four-poster bed spinning with each step. Then she would relieve herself, drink some broth, and… Back to bed. Back to sleep. Back to the Firewitch’s flames.

The silver king did not save her again.

Iseult begged Evrane to let her stay awake, but the words always came out strange. Garbled and small, like she spoke the wrong language from somebody else’s mouth. And each time, Evrane would simply shake her head, confusion on her face and in her Threads.