Page 130 of Bloodwitch
He was dying and bloodied. Broken and burned. She crouched beside him, cradling his head in one hand, resting fingers to his throat with the other.
There was no pulse.
No pulse, no life, no Bloodwitch named Aeduan.
No.
The word slipped from her throat. A raw, distant thing.
No.
He could not be dead. She would notlethim be dead, and she would not let this be his end. Not after what had happened in Tirla. Not aftereverythingthat had passed between them.
She dug her hands beneath his shoulders and with a strength she did not know she possessed, she pulled.
Iseult pulled and pulled andpulleduntil eventually, his body tore free from beneath the mare. The flames caressed her. Hungry and wanting more than Iseult would give.Not now,she told them.Not now, not now.And they listened, a cocoon to hold her while she strained to lift Aeduan higher.
She tried. Four times, she tried to get him onto her shoulders. He was not so heavy, not so large—but limp and unresponsive, he was dead weight she could not carry.
On the fifth try, she found that she was crying. She did not know when the tears had begun, and now that they’d started, there was no stopping them.
Do not cry,the flames whispered, and inside her, the Firewitch whispered too:Do not cry, Iseult, do not cry. The fire eats what it wants, so you must do the same.
Oh,she thought.I see.And in that moment, it was true. Power was Threads, and Threads belonged to her. All she had to do was take them.
So she did. She sucked in power from the heat, power from the black flames, and power from the man she had cleaved in the Contested Lands. She focused it into her muscles. Into her legs and arms and back…
On the sixth try, Iseult hefted Aeduan up high enough for her to stand—and on that sixth try, she got him across her shoulders.
Then she walked. One hobbling step turned into two, then three. She left the dead horse behind. She crossed the seafire.
She did not know where she was going. She could not see beyond the shadowy fire and moonlight. Yet something stirred inside her. A string winding tighter and tighter—but only so long as she walked in this one, true direction.
She planted one foot in front of the next, following that string, until at last, she left the frozen, burning river behind. Until at last, her feet landed on solid, craggy earth.
Ahead of her, through the smoke, was a fir tree. Somehow, despite the chaos and the fire, it seemed to shine. Green and healthy and strong. A hand beckoning her onward, so onward she moved.
Iseult’s strength was flagging, though. Without the flames to fuel her here, she was just a girl. Just a girl with a man upon her back and tears—inexplicable, unwelcome tears—still sliding down her cheeks.
Threadwitches do not cry,she thought as she hauled Aeduan ever onward.Threadwitches do not cry.
The pines thickened around her, as did the sense of life that breathed here. Even in the dead of night, birds chirruped. Snowdrops bloomed.
Then the conifers cut away, and she reached the Origin Well of the Carawens.
Six downy birches shivered on the smoke-charged breeze, oblivious to the fire and explosions raging so near. The ice stretched between them, glimmering beneath the moon. Where the river had shone white, the Origin Well simplyshone. As if it bore a light of its own. As if it sensed Iseult near and now it listened, it waited, it welcomed her approach.
The Aether Well, some called it. The spring to which Iseult had always believed her magic was bound. Now she knew better. Now she knew she was bound to the Void, and cleaving and Severed Threads were all her future had ever held.
But she was also the Cahr Awen. Shebelievedthat, even if the Abbot did not, and if anyone could save Aeduan, then it was she.
Iseult reached the edge of the Well, where a fringe of snow hugged the ice. Two steps out and her knees finally gave way. She collapsed, dropping Aeduan onto his back beside her.
The frozen Well did not shudder, it did not break. She knew, of course, that the surface was hard as stone. Sheknewit took the Nomatsi pilgrims an entire day to carve through. She didn’t have an entire day, though. Eventually, the battle would spread. Eventually, Aeduan would no longer be savable—if he was even savable now.
She had to believe that he was. That he always had been.
“Aeduan,” she panted, turning toward him. So many arrows, so many burns. And still no response.
