Page 58 of Bloodwitch

Not until its massive body had cleared the trees did Caden jump. And before Safi’s eyes, he became a man again. A split second later, he plunged into the Well. And a split second after that, the hawk was gone, only smoke and charred remains to prove it had ever been there.

While Lev and Zander moved to haul out Caden, Safi staggered to the Empress, who was just coming to. Her nose bled, a sign her magic had drained. And now more soldiers coalesced within the smoking cedars.

Gods below, this battle would never end.

Safi grabbed for the closest weapon: a saber off one of the fallen, fake soldiers. It was shockingly light.Not iron,Safi realized as she straightened.Nor steel.Which was why Vaness hadn’t been able to control it. Whoever had planned this attack had planned it well, from the ambush to the weapons to the timing.

Safi reeled about, ready to face the next onslaught of soldiers, when Zander and Lev appeared beside her, a flanking position.

“Fancy meeting you here!” Lev grinned, her scarred face streaked with blood and ash. She snatched up two swords from the fallen and tossed one to Zander. “Come here often?”

Safi couldn’t help it. She laughed, a high-pitched, almost neighing sound. And when Caden moved into position on her other side, she said, “I thought you left the city!”

“Not yet” was all he had time to reply before the soldiers poured out of the trees. This time, though, Safi’s magic had nothing to say. No skittering scritch of lies, because this time, the soldiers were real. And Habim was at their head, bellowing, “Stand down, Cartorrans, or die.” As one, every Marstok behind him fixed their pistols and blades upon the Hell-Bards.

And the Hell-Bards were left with no choice. Magic they could defeat. Crossbows and cold iron, they could not.

They stood down.

TWENTY-FOUR

Iseult had no idea where she was going. What few Tirlan streets she recognized from before were destroyed, buildings collapsed, trees fallen, roads flooded.

Owl wailed against her, but at least she did not try to flee. She held fast to Iseult, and Iseult held fast to the horse—so well trained, so unflinching in the face of a battle crowding at their heels. The soldiers were giving chase.

“Left!” a voice bellowed, brilliant Threads approaching from her right. It was the prince, his face bloodied and bruised, atop a Marstoki army roan. “Take the left!”

“Why?” she shouted. “Where will that go?”

“Out of the city and away from the soldiers—unless you have a better plan?”

Iseult did not have a better plan. In fact, she had no plan at all. She always relied on Safi in these situations. While Safi could think with the soles of her feet and sense with the palms of her hands, Iseult only ever managed to shut down. No stasis, no use to anyone. There was too much happening around her right now, too little time to breathe. She had not even processed that Aeduan was gone. That he hadabandonedthem.

She felt trapped. Caught on some path she had never intended totake and now unable to change course. If Leopold could guide her off this trail, then she would take it. He had helped her escape the inn; she had to hope he would help her again.

Especially since alarms were sounding from nearby rooftops.

“Right!” Leopold barked next, his Threads blazing with a green so dark it was almost black. No fear or panic in him, only intense energy focused on escape.

He was as well trained and unflinching as his horse.

They sped onto a wider artery, a view of the lake opening before them. Wharves were half submerged, ships and docks smashed askew. The storm, Iseult guessed, though how it had done so much damage here while scarcely touching the inn, she had no idea.

She hugged Owl more tightly to her. They rode on.

Sometimes the lake would appear, its waters a mess of wood and debris. Other times, they would race down streets that their horses could barely fit into. Always, always the alarms blared. Even after they had left the city behind and small farms and thatch huts took hold. Even when the terrain steepened and a forest crowded in. Still, they could hear the horns crowing after them.

Iseult sensed Threads too. Occasionally, she saw the weary faces attached, brought to their doors by curiosity. Or more often by fear.

When at last no Threads grazed her awareness and they had seen no signs of habitation for several miles, she towed the gelding to a halt. A rickety bridge spanned a stream frothy with rainwater. Mist clouded the mossy clearing around it.

Far, far behind, the alarm still echoed, a faint call on the horizon.

Before Leopold could tow his roan to a stop, Iseult had her right leg over the saddle. She pulled Owl to the ground. The girl had stopped crying, but what replaced it was so much worse. Dead eyes and faint, shrinking Threads of numb white. She was in shock.

“Owl,” Iseult said. “Look at me. Can you look at me?”

Owl could not look at her.