Page 16 of Bloodwitch

“The traps were mostly triggered when I arrived,” he said. A lie. Although there had been several corpses, dressed in what he now realized was Purist gray, the bulk of the road had been navigated without triggering any protections.

Aeduan could only assume that the men who attacked knew what they were doing. The Nomatsi tribe had been killed without warning, just as the previous two had been.

He finished the water before saying: “It was the largest tribe yet. All dead.”

“Oh.” A mere sigh of sound, of resignation, even as Iseult’s face stayed impassive. “But if the traps were triggered, how did you get hit with so many arrows?”

“I found someone still alive. A monk. But he was not trained to fight. I… had to deal with him.”

Iseult’s eyes widened. A fraction of a movement, yet enough for Aeduan to catch. Enough for him to add, “I did not kill him,” even if he did not know why he wanted to clarify. “He was wounded when I found him, and after he died, I stayed to bury him. That was when I triggered the traps.”

Another soft sigh. Then she sank into a cross-legged position beside him. “Did he see who attacked them?”

Aeduan nodded, though instantly wished he hadn’t. The world spun. “The monk,” he forced out, eyes wincing shut, “said it was the Purists.”

“Not raiders then?”

“I do not know.” Again, a lie, but he saw no reason to tell Iseult that he knew of Purists working with the Raider King. That he knew of one Purist in particular, working with his father.

“Corlant,” she said, filling in one of the gaps on her own. “He was there, wasn’t he?” Without waiting for a reply, she tugged something from her coat pockets, then opened her hands for Aeduan to see.

Two arrowheads shone black against her pale palms. Both bits of iron were bloodstained, but only one gave off any blood-scent—Aeduan’s own.

“This one injured me in Dalmotti.” She furled her left fingers into a fist. “And this one I pulled from you at dawn. I think they’re cursed. No,” she amended, head shaking, “Iknowthey are. Owl called it ‘bad earth.’”

Bad earth.He glanced down at his chest, at the six old scars that marked his flesh and the four new puckers on his belly—puckers that should not be there at all, just as the seventeen holes in his back should not be there either. He’d had more than enough time to heal.

“Corlant,” Iseult continued, “can do that. He…” She tapped at her right biceps. “He almost killed me with a cursed arrow in Dalmotti.” There was a strain to her voice now, like a fiddle pulled too tight. “I was unconscious for a long time. I-I almost died.”

“That cannot happen to me. I am a Bloodwitch.”

She shrugged as if to sayHow can you be so sure?Aloud, though, she said: “Why was he with this tribe? The Midenzis are on the other side of the Jadansi. Unless…” She trailed off, a tiny frown wrinkling her brow.

Aeduan offered no reply. Lying did not come naturally to him, and he had already pushed his limits. Silence seemed his best option now.

For a long moment, Iseult gazed at him, unblinking. As inscrutable as all Threadwitches were trained to be. Behind her, the fire popped, and a final burst of flame guttered upward. Smoke gathered. A soft breeze pitched across Aeduan’s bare skin.

He wanted his shirt back.

“We need a proper healer,” Iseult said at last, giving a pointed glance to Aeduan’s stomach. “We need better healing supplies, too, and we’re out of lanolin for our blades.”

We,Aeduan thought, and before he could argue—before he could askWhy we?or evenWhy did you wait the whole night instead of leaving?—Iseult was on her feet and circling behind him. Trails from the movement streaked across his vision. Smoke and flesh and flame.

“You’re bleeding again,” she murmured. Then her fingers were on him once more, warm and sure while she pressed the damp cloth to his back. He hadn’t even seen her pick it up.

“No.” He reached around to take the cloth from her hand. “I can do it,” he tried to say, but the twisting in his ribs, the stretching of the wounds down his back, set his lungs to spasming once more.

This time, the coughing would not abate. Even after two cups of water, he could not suck in enough air. So when Iseult tried a second time to dab away the blood that never stopped falling, he did not protest.

Nor did he protest when she said, “We should go to Tirla, Aeduan. I know it is a Marstoki stronghold, but we can find a healer in a city that size. And we can get fresh supplies too.”

We, we, we.

The damp cloth felt like razors against his skin. Everything hurt in ways that it should not, and his shredded throat would soon bleed if he did not stop this coughing. He was weak; he hated it. Carawenmonks were meant to be prepared for anything, and Aeduan had always prided himself on being doubly so. Yet over the last two weeks, he’d been ill-equipped and constantly unsteady.

It didn’t help that Aeduan had never worked for free before. It was a nagging pressure along the back of his neck. Like words tickling:You should be getting paid. Each moment that passes is another coin lost.It was also another moment in which he had not contacted his father or pursued the coins owed to him.

Two weeks ago, Aeduan would have followed the scent of clear lakes and frozen winters—the ghost who had stolen his coins and aided Prince Leopold in Nubrevna. Two weeks ago, he would have also returned to Lejna and claimed those coins from where Iseult said they were hidden. And two weeks ago, he would have looked at each passing massacre and felt nothing. After all, death was inevitable in wartime, and as his father always said:Life is the price of justice.