Page 51 of Bloodwitch

Then the Empress of Marstok turned to face Safi.

Part of Safi was stunned this question had not come sooner—that in their two weeks since reaching Azmir, they had not visited this place before. Most of Safi, though, was stunned to be heretoday. This was the imperial birthday procession. There was no reason to travel here now.

“It is true then?” Vaness asked, observing Safi. Simultaneously contemplative and predatory. “You are half of the Cahr Awen?”

“I… don’t know.” Safi’s toes curled in her boots. “Where did you hear that?”

“It is my business to know such things. And if it is true, Safi, then it is also my business to protect you. For over a century, Marstok has been the only empire with an intact Origin Well. If there are more—if therecouldbe more…”

Safi’s lungs loosened. Her shoulders drooped. For there it was, wasn’t it? Safi was valuable; Safi was a risk.

“I will ask you again,” Vaness continued, sharper now. Impatience flashing in her eyes. “Safiya fon Hasstrel: are you the Cahr Awen?”

Safi swallowed. She was suddenly too hot, the iron belt around her waist too tight. Without requesting permission, she tore off the Adder shroud. Air, glorious and free, kissed against her.

The truth was, Safi had no idea what she and Iseult were. According to Monk Evrane, they were the Cahr Awen—and theyhadswum to the heart of the dead Origin Well of Nubrevna a month ago, and a quakehadshaken the land.

Monk Evrane had claimed this meant Safi and Iseult had healed the Well, and while Safi’s magic had told her unequivocally that Evrane believed everything she’d been saying, her good sense had suggested it was supremely unlikely. The last Cahr Awen had lived five hundred years ago. There was no reason they would return now, and no reason they would be—out of all the people in the Witchlands—Safi and Iseult.

Not to mention, Safi had already lived her entire life with a target painted on her back. Did she really deserve a second? Gods below, she missed the easy days of Veñaza City. And gods below, she missed her Threadsister.

Her lips parted to repeat that shetrulydid not know if she was the Cahr Awen, but at that moment, a scream sundered the darkening sky. Inhuman and ear-shattering.

A flame hawk, searing like the sun, burst up from the nearby trees.

TWENTY-TWO

Iseult was furious, and no amount of thinkingStasismade a difference. She had been so stupid. Socarelessandloud.She knew how to fight quietly. She knew how to approach undetected. Yet she’d charged that man like a drunken brawler in a street fight.

She had tied him up, and now he lay sprawled on the floor beside the bed, his bloodied face peaceful. Even his Threads hummed with the calm ease of a dreamless sleep. Owl had been fascinated from the moment Iseult had hauled him in, taking up sentry beside him and staring into his sleeping face. She’d made no move to touch him, thank the goddess, but there was a sunset shade of reverence in her Threads that had kept Iseult on edge ever since she’d shut—and bolted—the door.

As if she needed any more kindling for these flames.

The guest in room twelve had seen her with the body. Stupid, careless,loudIseult had attracted his attention, and now it was only a matter of time before soldiers came to the door. That man was going to tell someone, if he hadn’t already, and that left only one solution to this mess: Iseult and Owl were going to have to leave this inn. Before Aeduan even returned.

Wildfire shrieked inside Iseult as she stuffed supplies into their packs. She did not need to see her own Threads to recognize rage and terror when she felt them.

Outside, lightning flashed. Rain hammered down.

“Different,” Owl declared, the first words she’d spoken since Iseult had returned, towing a body behind her.

“Because he is Cartorran.” Iseult shoved the new healing supplies into her bag. “They have different skin and hair where he comes from.”

“Poke?”

“What?” Iseult glanced up and found Owl canted in close to the unconscious man, like a dog sniffing a cornered hare. Light glanced off something in her hand.

A knife. She must have pulled it from Iseult’s things.

“Poke,” Owl repeated, brandishing the blade. “Wake him?”

“That willkillhim.” Hell-gates and goat tits, did the Moon Mother hate her? Iseult darted for the knife. “Owl, give that to me.”

The child swiped backward, laughing. First a childish squeal, then a wilder, gleeful giggle when Iseult grabbed for her waist instead. Iseult was tired; Owl was fast; and in a blur of high-pitched shrieking, she scampered for a corner behind the bed. “Poke, poke, poke—”

A knocking boomed at the door. Iseult froze. Owl froze. Then came Aeduan’s voice, “It’s me.”

Ofcourseit was him. There were no Threads—it had to be him.