Page 40 of Bloodwitch

“A few.” The woman craned toward a cubby on her left. “The Marstoks are diverting all supply to the border skirmishes, though, so I’ve had to raise the price on them… Wait.” She froze mid-reach, gaze leaping back to Aeduan. “Why doyouneed a Painstone?”

“It is not for me,” he lied.

She did not look as if she believed him, but she also did not press further. Several breaths later, a small satchel dropped onto the counter.“That’s a tier four by the new rules. Expensive,” she clarified. “Are you sure you want it?”

All supplies in the Monastery had to be paid for through service, but Aeduan did not care if the cost of this stone was a tier four or a tier ten. He needed something to keep him strong until he could meet with a healer witch, and he would take whatever he could get.

“Yes,” he was all he said in reply, snatching it off the counter and depositing it in a pocket. Now he just had to finish this errand. Then he could slip off somewhere and don it. “I also need a new uniform for myself. Black.”

Black, he had decided, would cover these recurring bloodstains.

“Do you want a new cloak too?” She eyed the shredded, filthy fabric. “I have plenty. The cost is only a tier one.”

Aeduan shook his head. His cloak possessed modifications he could not purchase here: salamander fibers against flame, a fire flap against smoke. Even pocked with holes and streaked with blood as it was, he would rather wear this old cloak than any piece of cloth that might be new.

After confirming his size had not changed—and agreeing that a tier one assignment seemed fair payment, even if Aeduan was not sure what that meant anymore—he moved to the next item on the list.

“I need travel clothes for a girl. About six or seven years old. Small for her age.”

“Oh?” The woman clearly itched to ask why he needed this, but it was against the rules to inquire. Assignments were private; monks were discreet. “Well, Lady Fate favors you today, then. I just received…” Reach, grab, and drop. “These last week. Not new, but clean and well made.”

She was right. The wool tunic and breeches, a gray-brown shade like bark on a beech tree, looked a bit large, but better too large than too small. And the pine green cloak was just the right size.

Aeduan nodded. He would take them.

“Those will be another tier one,” the woman said. “Anything else?”

“More travel clothes.” He swallowed. Then swallowed again. “For a woman about your size.”

“Ah, for grown women, we have many options.” The monk opened her arms, gesturing to an entire column of shelves. “What quality do you need? What climate of travel? I have embroidered silk all the way from Dalmotti, if your woman is a wealthy one.”

“Not my woman.” His fingers flexed.

“Or I have more sturdy fare, cotton and wool. There are other options in between as well—and do you want a gown or breeches?” Without waiting for an answer, the monk began stacking items atop the counter. From silk to wool to velvet to homespun, all colors and fabrics were represented.

And Aeduan had no idea what to choose. Iseult had not actually specified that she wanted new clothes. In fact, the longer he stared at the growing piles, the more he wondered if she might be angry he would presume to know what she liked. Or would she be angry if he did not make a choice? Surely she would want new clothing to replace her current tatters, if for no other reason than new clothes would be warmer in the growing mountain cold. So perhaps that brown wool suit on the end would do…

Aeduan stared at it, his brain sluggish as spring thaw as he tried to catalog the advantages.Good for camouflage. Good against snow, and also movable in a fight.

And also, he had to admit, hideous.

Then, there was that midnight blue velvet beside it. A popular style in the mountains, a pretty color, and it looked movable as well. The fox fur on the collar was a nice touch. Or there was the gray suit beside it. Or the black one beyond that, or the teal-trimmed mustard beyond that.

It was not until he had moved through twelve different outfits that he realized the monk was grinning. An amused twitch of lips as if she knew something he didn’t.

Heat flared on Aeduan’s cheeks. His molars gritted in his ears. This decision was a trivial one; he was letting pain cloud his judgment. It did not matter what he got Iseult. He did not care if she liked it. She would take it, no matter what it was, and that would be that.

“Black,” he gruffed out, jerking a finger toward a suit he’d already passed.

“Are you sure?” The woman’s smile widened.

Aeduan glared. “Black,” he repeated, and outside, thunder boomed.

By the time the woman had stuffed his purchases in a homespun satchel and tallied up what he owed on the assignment ledger—two tier ones, a tier two, and a tier four—rain beat down outside.

He did not say good-bye when he left.

Aeduan changed into his new uniform in the outpost baths. Breeches, undershirt, brigandine, belt and baldric, and finally, the Painstone dangling from a leather thong. Not until he tucked it beneath his clothes and it touched his chest did he feel the effects of the magic.