Page 22 of Witchlight
“Could it be Ryber?”
“Maybe,” Cam acknowledged, but the slant to his brow suggested otherwise. “But I just… I feel it in my gut that it ain’t. I know I’ve led us wrong once today—”
“Please stop blaming yourself, Cam.”
“—and I don’t want to do that again. But really… I’ve got a bad feeling about this map. And”—he dropped his voice to a mere exhale—“I’ve got a bad feeling about those Hell-Bards.”
Hye,Vivia agreed.Me too.Aloud she said, “Thank you, Cam. I appreciate your insights. Now if you could pick a direction to get us off these stairs, then we can get moving before all this standing still leads me to madness.”
ELEVEN
For several miles, through evergreens and snowdrifts, Aeduan let himself sink into the hunt. He was a collection of thoughts. Of actions. He was not his mind, he was not his body. He was nothing more than the coastal storm and weeping father of two blood scents he wanted to catch up to.
The course ran downhill. Then uphill. Then zagged around thickets and past holly bushes pocked with red. Always, it trended westward. Higher into the Ohrins, and always it followed the easiest course through forest and stone.
The scents grew faint though, weakening by the second.
Until they ran out entirely. Six miles, Aeduan calculated, and almost to the edge of the lands that belonged to Eron fon Hasstrel.
Aeduan sniffed. Flexed his fingers at his sides. If the trail ran cold here, then that meant this was the way the Hell-Bards had comefrom.Not goneto.It was useful information to have, which was why he’d followed it this far. But it was not his targets nor their end destination. So he spun on a heel, kicking up snow, and returned, faster now, to the Well. Surefoot’s ears swiveled as he raced past. She opened groggy, long-lashed eyes. Recognized him. Snorted. And sank once more into slumber.
This time, the trail moved eastward, and the scents grew stronger with each claimed footstep. So strong, in fact, that Aeduan expected he might come across the Hell-Bards at any moment. If he was lucky, they too would have made camp for the night.
Aeduan was not lucky. Instead Lady Fate abandoned him a mere mile later, as sharply as if she had dropped the knife herself. All blood scents broke off and Aeduan found himself in a clearing filled with snow. At the heart was a granite slab several feet taller than Aeduan and three times as wide. Thick drifts hugged it; ice had gathered in its cracks, creating lines like the Cleaved.
Aeduan hurried behind the rock, hoping the blood scents would continue. But they didn’t, and Aeduan could guess why.
This must be the secret doorway into the mountain. The doorway Iseult and Safi—and their Hell-Bard companions, including Zander and Lev—had used to reach Cartorra many weeks ago. There were several such doors scattered across the Witchlands, each portal leading into a mountain filled with stars.
When Iseult had described it to Aeduan, he had struggled to imagine it—until flickering memories from Nadje had surfaced to show him the scale. The spirit swifts flying inside a crevasse with no end. The glowing blue that marked the seven portals carved inside the mountain.
Now Aeduan was faced with such a doorway, except it was shut. There was no magic to radiate off the granite, no bright hole through which he might crawl. The Hell-Bards must have done so, but the door had somehow sealed up behind them.
Aeduan and his hunt were finished already.
He lifted his chin to study the stone from the bottoms of his eyes. His orders were to continue westward, for there were two more pesky doms resisting their new Empress’s rule. But those orders had come from Eron fon Hasstrel and Monk Evrane. And although Safiya might have agreed that Aeduan’s skills were useful for a task of the violently persuasive nature…
He was certain she would much rather know that her missing Hell-Bards had been here. Recently, too, and alive.
Iseult is also east,Aeduan thought, and once more, he cast out his Bloodwitchery, reaching for a scent like fireflies stained on a silver taler. It wasn’t there, no matter how much he might wish it to be.
Aeduan’s nostrils flared. He tapped at the knives strung across his chest. He could easily use a Voicewitch to send this news of the Hell-Bards; as much as he might wish for it, there was no reason for him to return to the Solfatarra and deliver the information in person.
He lowered his chin, decision made—even if it was one he did not look forward to. However, as he twisted to return to the Well and to Surefoot, a third blood scent trickled into his nose. Skated across his magic. Likely it had always been there, but only by reaching for Iseult had Aeduan caught a whiff of it.Clear lake waters and frozen winters.
Leopold fon Cartorra. The Rook King. That Paladin of Aether who had cursed Aeduan with a soul not his own—hehad also been here. Either just before the Hell-Bards, or more likely alongside them.
It was unsurprising, for if Aeduan were the broken bear from Saldonica, then Leopold was the cruel Herdwitch who always made him dance.
Because Leopold made everyone dance. It was his nature. It was the truth of his Trickster self.
Aeduan sniffed again, just to confirm there was no deeper scent here nor the possibility of tracing the former prince’s path. But there was nothing, and already this one sliver of Leopold’s blood was fading into the night.
Within seconds, Aeduan lost hold of it entirely. And within seconds, he was charging back toward the Well—now with a new urgency. A new excitement. For as furious as he was to discover Leopold lurking and scheming and forcing more bears to dance, this was not news that could be sent via Voicewitch.Thiswas a message and a story Aeduan would have to deliver in person.
“Sorry, girl,” he said once he reached Surefoot’s side again. “I lied. We are traveling tonight. But at least, on the bright side, it will be almost entirely downhill.”
TWELVE
