Page 91 of Bloodwitch

Awake.Iseult was awake, but still shaking, still freezing. She didn’t know where she was. Lamps glowed so bright, they dazzled her eyes and turned the world to a mute, uniform amber. Even the glowing woman before her shone like a rising sun.

After a ragged breath and three shuttering blinks, it hit Iseult: she knew this woman. She knew the lined face above her and the silver hair.

Monk Evrane.She rubbed salves onto Iseult’s arms in gentle circles. A distant touch Iseult scarcely felt. She had numbed Iseult’s skin with… something, and Iseult’s vision sharpened the longer she watched Evrane. Circling, circling, always circling.

“You are awake,” Evrane murmured in Nubrevnan, words compassionate. Threads compassionate, even as her focus remained on her work. “Noden has blessed me, indeed. I never thought I would see the Cahr Awen here, in their sacred home.”

Iseult’s eyes stung at the sound of the monk’s voice. Her throat felt stuffed full of cotton.Evrane is alive. I didn’t kill her in Lejna.Aeduan had told Iseult this, but she supposed she hadn’t fully believed him until right now.

“H-how?” Iseult croaked. She tried to sit up, but Evrane easily stopped her. A single firm hand to her shoulder, and all Iseult could do was topple back. Her head sank against rosemary-scented velvet, and another realization swept through her:I am alive too.

“You are at the Monastery,” Evrane explained. “In the main fortress. We were able to reach the wreckage of the sky-ferry before the others.”

“Others?”

A sweep of cobalt hit Evrane’s Threads. Regret. “I fear the Monastery has split into two factions. Those who support the Abbot, and the insurgents, who do not.I,” Evrane added, “support the Abbot.” Her ministrations paused. She cocked her head. “Can you hear them? They lay siege even now. Ever since we brought you in.”

Iseult felt a frown hit her brow as she listened. Yes, yes—there was a distant roar, like voices shouting. Then every few moments, a boom would shudder out. More ripple in the bed than audible sound.

“Ceaseless catapults,” Evrane said. “Though they have run out of pitch and use only stone now.”

“Wh-why?”

A sigh. More sadness and regret in Evrane’s Threads. “Because they have lost their way and forgotten their vows to the Cahr Awen. It is a wonder you did not die, Iseult. I suppose, though, that Noden protects those He needs most.” Her dark eyes briefly met Iseult’s, a smile flitting across her lips. Then her gaze slid to a corner beyond Iseult. “The prince came out almost unharmed. He says you protected him in the crash.”

For the first time since awakening, Iseult sensed the second set of Threads inside the room. Pale with sleep, they hovered in the shadows. This time, when she tried to rise, Evrane allowed it—though not without a gentle hand to assist and an insistent, “Careful, careful.”

The full room materialized around Iseult. Heavy, rich fabrics in hunter green and navy draped her four-poster bed. Curtains hung floor to ceiling beside an ornate wardrobe with a ram’s head mounted to the wood above and a gold-framed mirror beside. Gold candlesticks, gold sconces, gold chandelier. Even the two braziers warming the space were painted gold.

The man in the corner, though, captured Iseult’s attention. Prince Leopold slouched in a satin armchair. A sling cradled his left arm and bandages covered his hands as well as one side of his face. His Threads, faded with sleep, curled languidly above.

“He would not leave your side,” Evrane said testily. “Though he did at least allow me to heal him.”

“Oh?” Iseult murmured, though the truth was she scarcely listened. Her eyes racked every inch of the room, every stone and shadow. But there was no third set of Threads.

There was no Earthwitch hiding.

“Where is Owl?” Iseult turned stiffly to Evrane. “What happened to her?”

Evrane shook her head, Threads blanching with confusion.

“Owl,” Iseult repeated, louder now. “She was a child. A girl. Aspecialgirl.”

“There was no one else in the crash—”

“But th-there was. There had to be!” Iseult’s words came faster, her stammer closing in.

They had lost Owl.Howcould they have lost Owl?Moon Mother, no.

“She was with us on the ferry, Monk Evrane. Sh-she must be somewhere!”

“Calm yourself.” Evrane laid a hand on Iseult’s shoulder.

“Was there no body?” Iseult’s voice slung louder, higher. Leopold stirred in his armchair.

And Evrane’s Threads darkened to mossy concern. “Iseult,” she murmured, “you must calm down. You cannot heal if you are hysterical.”

Iseult wasn’t hysterical, though. She had lost Owl. A child she had never liked, but whom she had finally started to understand—she was out there somewhere. Possibly trapped in a war between monks…