Page 144 of Witchshadow

He took his time rising, testing each muscle, each bone. But he had no wounds or pain, and he was alone. Gone was the child named Saria, and gone was the black bird who had laughed at Aeduan’s pain.

All that lingered was a scent like rosewater, and a second like forest fog. The clear lake waters and frozen winters were gone entirely.

Now you understand,said the first Aeduan.The mystery of that smell. The games it likes to play.

Yes, Aeduan did understand, and he hated it. The Rook King had always enjoyed his mischief, and now Aeduan’s existence was beholden to him. As Paladins, they had both been bound to the Aether all those centuries ago, but the Rook King had always been much stronger.

You also understand,first Aeduan continued,what you must do. I do not care what you do to me, but she must be protected at all costs.

“Yes,” he croaked in reply, a mere whisper choked with soil, and though he told himself he would help the dark-giver simply because Saria’s punishment was not worth risking, the truth was murkier. It lay submerged, bound to the very skin and bones of this body in a shade of deepest red.

He would help her because the first Bloodwitch loved her.

And he would help her because he, the Old One, lovedHer.The goddess who’d made them all. Even in a thousand years of dark water, he had never lost Her memory. How could he? She was the closest to a mother he’d ever had.

Yet that hadn’t stopped him from betraying her in the end because, as Evrane had said, he alwayshadbeen the weakest of them all. He had never truly become an Exalted One, yet he’d never joined the Six.

He knew what he had to do now, though. Which side he had to choose, and it was not between bickering Old Ones and Paladins divided. It wasthe side of the dark-giver. The girl who looked so much like She once had—and not by mere coincidence.

Stones in motion,

Tools cleft in two.

The wyrm fell to the daughter made of moonlight long ago,

He just did not know it yet.

Snow beat against Aeduan as he aimed for Corlant’s camp. Winds picked up speed, shifting from a charged breeze to icy gusts. They slanted against him, slowing his steps. Blasting snow into his vision.

Lightning cracked, and hail pelted down. The evergreens and winter hardwoods creaked. The ground began to shake. Soon, Corlant’s blood dominated all others.Wet caves and white-knuckled grips. Rusted locks and endless hunger.

Yet mingling within that scent was a second smell—a new smell that plowed into him so forcefully he slammed to a stop as if it were physical. Hail beat against him; snow blustered and flew. Yet all of his being, all of the Bloodwitch’s magic had shrunk down to that smell.

A sky singing with snow. Meadows drenched in moonlight. Sun and sand and auburn leaves falling.

It was Her scent. Corlant was draining Her—again—because that had always been Portia’s aim. The General and the true Six wanted to restore the goddess; Portia wanted to end her. No more Paladins, no more Sirmaya. Only Portia’s soul for all eternity.

How had heevermistaken Corlant for Midne?

Aeduan ran faster, tapping into the deepest parts of his Bloodwitchery. Letting the first soul surge upward and claim control. There was no reason to fight now that they wanted the same thing.

The nearer he came to camp, the more scents crashed against him: fresh blood thick on the air, hundreds of scents to mash and mix. Sounds came too, carried on winds that flayed. Weapons and breaking stone, screams upon screams upon screams.

He smelled the shadow wyrm.Dark crevices and glowing ice. A lost child, forever pain.And above it all, brighter than any other blood, was Corlant. The hunger was larger than before. A scent to dominate, a need so powerful it had taken almost complete control. And already, the scent of Sirmaya was fading beneath it.

Aeduan reached the camp and took in the chaos. Purist, Nomatsi—some locked in combat. Most convulsing upon the snow as Corlant gorged on their magics and drained their souls. Snow still sliced down, hail still fell, and through the wild winds, Aeduan glimpsed no sign of the dark-giver.

He cursed that he couldn’t smell her blood.The mother,first Aeduan nudged.Find the mother.So the Old One did, seeking out the lavender and lullabies, the cold earth and colder gemstones. He found her at the center of the fray, and he set off across the madness of a battle dominated by one.

He had to lean against storm winds, he had to squint and strain against ice and snow. The closer he came to Corlant, the wilder the blizzard. The more lightning cracked and sizzled. He did not stop, though, for each step brought Gretchya’s scent closer.

And it also brought glimmers of Sirmaya again. A warmth to fight toward. A calm he missed more with every tilted step he claimed.

Until at last, he’d reached the eye of Corlant’s storm, and there was the man himself. The Paladin, the Exalted One he had feared so deeply a thousand years ago—and still feared. He could not help it. Sirmaya’s smile might live forever in his heart, but Portia’s laugh lived forever in his skull.

Corlant made that laugh now as Aeduan finally mangled free from the storm. A hurricane of white raged around them—and around Gretchya too, who knelt beside a fresh corpse that smelled of missed smiles and aching regret, of humid swamps and a child’s laugh.

For some reason, the first Aeduan mourned that blood-scent and the life that had been attached.