Page 141 of Bloodwitch

They broke from the trees, and the island ended. A battle spanned before them, raging across the frozen river. Raiders and monks caughtin combat. A seething mass of bodies and Threads, crammed wherever seafire did not rage.

As far as Iseult could see, there was no way through the chaos. She felt no affinity for those flames, no desire—or ability—to control them. The Firewitch trapped within her had gone silent. Released, she supposed, by the magic of an ancient Well.

Iseult turned to Aeduan. Behind him, raiders and monks stood stiff as stone, a trail of statues through the trees. A silent tribute to the flames’ howl and the screams of the fighting, of the dying.

A deep breath swelled in Aeduan’s chest. He rolled his shoulders. Just once. Then he lifted his free hand, arm trembling. His eyes screwed shut, and like a wave lapping against a sandy shore, Aeduan’s power rippled outward. Swords paused mid-thrust, shields stilled mid-defense. Blades stopped, embedded in flesh, while faces went rigid, trapped in agony or anger or surprise.

And on that wave rode a tide of shock. In moments, the weave of the battle shone brighter than the moon.

Aeduan’s eyes opened. There was no white left within them, no blue, only red from rim to rim.

“Now we run,” he told Iseult, a ragged sound against a battle suddenly silenced. Only the flames sang now.

“Yes,” Iseult agreed. “Now we run.”

She squeezed his hand.

Aeduan led the way, a snaking path across the ice, between the flames. Around frozen fighters—and corpses too—they twisted and raced. Black smoke burned Iseult’s eyes. Heat blasted against her, and in the back of her mind, she wondered how many times she and the Bloodwitch named Aeduan had raced together like this. Through hell-fire and beyond.

The longer they ran, though, the more people began to move. As if trapped in quicksand, a subtle inching forward.

Aeduan was losing control. So Iseult ran faster, and Aeduan ran faster beside her. Soon enough, the heat reared back, and through the smoke, a dark cliff face appeared. At its base, surrounded by frozen marsh, was a shadowy door.

Iseult tried to stop at the sight of it, but Aeduan tugged her on. His breaths were rough and erratic now. His eyes had darkened from red to rust, like blood drying upon a blade.

“That goes to the Monastery, Aeduan!” She had to shout over the seafire.

“It also goes outside,” he shouted back—or tried to, but like his breathing, his words were weak, unstable. “There is… a fork.”

Yes, yes. Iseult remembered that split in the tunnel. She and Leopold had chosen down…

Leopold.Goddess, where was he? She had left him without thought upon the battlefield, and she had not considered him since.

“If we go right at the split,” Aeduan continued, “then it will lead us beyond the Monastery…” His voice faded, and Iseult flung a backward glance, worried his exhaustion had finally caught up to him.

It had. The battle moved faster now, a thousand figures slogging through mud and writhing this way. Still, Aeduan ran. Still, he held Iseult’s hand tightly and did not stumble.

Above, she felt silver Threads blaring.Blueberry,she thought hazily. The bat was near; Iseult prayed Owl was not. Before she could search the sky for the creature, though, a new set of Threads cut into her awareness. A shivering, melting, dangerous set that bled from death to hunger to pleasure to rage.

The Abbot.

Iseult snapped her gaze forward once more, to where Natan fon Leid emerged from the cave’s entrance, sword in one hand and buckler in the other. His Carawen hood was towed up, a fire flap fastened—but Iseult didn’t need to see his face. She knew those Threads. She knew that cloak too, with its red trim.

Aeduan’s hand lifted. He reached for the Abbot, stride slowing ever so slightly. His hand shook.

Nothing happened, though. The Abbot did not freeze; no shock overwhelmed his bleeding Threads. Instead, he laughed.

“Salamander fibers,” he called. “A trick I learned from you, Bloodwitch. Now give me the Cahr Awen.” His Threads wore sky bluecalm, as if he intended to wait patiently. As if all he had requested was a bit more salt for his lamb.

Which was why there was no warning before he rushed at them. Far quicker than his bland shape had suggested; he was still a fighter trained by the Carawens.

Aeduan barely swept back in time. Iseult had to yank him and shove. Their hands released. They evaded.

Behind them, the battle picked up speed. Threads shifted this way, and it was only a matter of time before Aeduan lost control entirely. He could not fightandhold the raiders and monks. He could barely keep standing and hold them too.

Burn them,Iseult’s heart said, and this time it was not the Firewitch speaking. She knew what to do here. She had done it before, and she did not need flames to do it. A different kind of fire lived inside her: the power that broke through enchanted ice and Origin Wells.

She lifted her arms, fingers stretching wide. Just as Esme had shown her. Just as she had done before in the Contested Lands.