Page 119 of Bloodwitch

It made no sense, though. “Why?” The question croaked out, surprising Ragnor. Aeduan did not withdraw it, though. “Why do you want the Cahr Awen?”

His father considered him, frowning. Never had Aeduan pressed him for deeper explanations, never had he required more answers. But now, Aeduan did not merely want them. Heneededthem.

His father seemed to understand, for the lines of his face abruptly smoothed, and he held Aeduan’s gaze a beat longer than was comfortable.

“You… have her eyes.” He turned away, lips compressing. Lines returning. “Perhaps, though, it is time I explain what your mother wanted—”

A horn, deep and distant, bellowed out. Three short blasts, followed by a fourth long drawl.

Ragnor’s demeanor turned to stone once more. He was not a father, but a king. “Remove your cloak. A spare fur is in that trunk.” He jerked his head toward a shadowy corner. “Take it and your blade. Then meet me at the tallest mountain pine. We ride out when the second horn sounds.”

A flap of tent and a gust of wind marked the Raider King’s exit.

Aeduan was alone.

Alone, yet no longer unsure. He had been wrong back in Tirla. Lady Fate’s knife had not yet fallen.Now,it hovered above him.Now,the edges gleamed, ready to draw blood.

With pained care, he peeled off his old cloak. Blood-streaked and shredded, the white salamander fibers had carried him far. He had lived inside this cloth for three years, believing it would protect him. A wall against the flames.

But walls hadn’t saved his mother. They hadn’t saved the woman and babe dying on the forest floor. And this cloak had not saved him from a curse borne by Nomatsi arrows.

The cloak pooled around Aeduan’s feet, and it was done. He turned his attention to his chest, to where the Painstone made a small bump beneath his blood-crusted uniform. No matter how hard he strained, how deeply he inhaled, he could not feel his heart pumping just below it. He could not sense any of his organs or any of his blood.

He was alive, but he was empty. The curse’s work was complete.

There was nothing he could do about it either. He had known this moment would come, and caring now seemed impossible. If he had truly wanted to stop the curse, then he should have made different choices, should have followed different paths.

He was a Bloodwitch no longer. He was a monk no longer.

He was man, just a man.

It would have to be enough.

Iseult stood half crouched beside her bed, breath held as she stared at her Threadstone. It blinked, insistent and inescapable.

Safi was in trouble. And judging by the stone’s brightness, Safi was far away.Very.

Even if Iseult could escape this Monastery, she would be too late. Safi needed her now. Safi’s life was in dangernow.

Her gaze flicked to Leopold sleeping in his armchair. Was he the enemy or her salvation? Could he help her reach Safi or would he slow her down? Lips parted and head tipped to one side, he looked young. Just a boy, innocent and dreaming. Even in the dim moonlight, he shone bright as sunshine, his Threads spun from gold. His promises spun from charm. Iseult so desperately wanted to believe he was on her side, but even she was not so fanciful a fool.

Not after what she had seen tonight.

Evrane, the Abbot, the Firewitch forever cleaving, the shadows that flew on black wings.No onecould be trusted but Safi.

And Safi was leagues upon leagues away, her life hanging on a knife’s edge. Each second Iseult stood chained by indecision was a second lost forever. Another moment in which Evrane might return, or the Abbot. Another moment in which the insurgents might finally break the fortress walls, or the danger that threatened Safi might overwhelm her forever.

Trust Leopold or leave him?

He was a prince; he had connections; he knew the full reach of Eron fon Hasstrel’s plans. He was also Iseult’s only way of reaching the Archives—at least without losing her way.

But Leopold might be working with the Abbot. Or with Evrane. Or both. He might lead her straight into their clutches, and there would be no way of knowing what he intended until it was too late. Iseult had no weapons to defend herself. No strategies for evasion.

She also had no time, notime. She had to decide now.

“Wake up.” Her voice split the room, clear as in the Dreaming. Commanding and pure.

Leopold woke up. A jolt in his body and across his Threads. Then confusion as Iseult stalked over. Three long steps. Her shadowstretched over him. “You said you were here to serve me, Prince. Wholly and completely. So prove it. Lead me to the Archives.”