Page 150 of Witchlight
It took far too much effort for Aeduan to return his attention to Lizl.
“But,” the abbot was saying, half leaning against the stones and fully oblivious to his lapse in concentration, “I’ll respect your decision to keep it a small party. For now. If you end up targets, though, I’llforceyou to bring more monks—understood? We might have a slightly different mission, now that we know the true origins of the Cahr Awen… But we monks are prepared for anything, so we will continue to serve. And to serve the new tool-bearer too.”
“Yes,” Aeduan replied. If Lizl noticed that he sounded rougher, cooler than before, she gave no sign. “But until we know exactly how the rulers and leaders of the Witchlands will accept—or will not accept—the mandate of the Cahr Awen, then it’s easier and safer this way.”
“Right, right.” Lizl swatted the air, her eyes flitting again to the satchel at Aeduan’s chest. “The light-bringer explained all of that to me when she came.Iam simply asking that you not make this as difficult as you always make things for me.”
Aeduan knew this was a joke; he knew he was meant to laugh; but with the silver taler so near, he could barely grind out a smile. He bowed his head. “I understand, and I promise we will not keep you waiting, Abbot.”
“Good.” Lizl nodded. “In that case, I will make sure the thirteen I have so far are in top shape for whenever you return. I’ve already got one of Evrane’s lessons in mind.”
Aeduan’s eyebrows lifted. For the first time in several moments,thisfully captured his attention. “You’ll teach them yourself?”
“Why not? You just said how much responsibility and weight these new roles carry. What better way to instill that than having the abbot be their teacher?”
Aeduan saw the logic to this—and also felt a surge of gratitude. His fingers flexed at his side. Once. Twice. “Thank you, Abbot. For this and everything else.”
Lizl gave an absent grunt as she squinted into the valley, toward the campfire flickering like a candle in the wind. Then past that and up, up into the steep mountains beyond.
“You know, Bloodwitch,” she said eventually, “you still owe me a number of life-debts. Six, I think, was the count before the battle at Poznin. Now, though… Well, I’d wager that battle alone added at least anotherten.” A sidling glance. A crooked smile. “In other words, don’t die before I can claim them, yeah?”
This time, Aeduan didn’t have to force the smile or the laugh. “Yes,” he told her, bowing again, now in supplication. Now with the respect she deserved for the title she’d earned. “I have not forgotten, and if you ever need me, Abbot Thewan, I will come right away to repay you.”
She sighed, a sound that was satisfied, but also.…wistful. Like perhaps she envied that Aeduan would get to leave while she had to stay behind. Yet Lizl gave no final good-bye nor bow—nor even glance as she twirled sharply away. Her cloak streaked white. Her steps clipped out.
And the scent of speed and daisy chains, of a mother’s kiss and sharpened steel faded along with the sight of her.
Iseult knew her hatred of the Old One Nadje wasn’t wholly justified. In the end, that Exalted One had chosen correctly—and in the end, it hadn’t been his fault he had taken Aeduan’s body. That he’d hurt Aeduan, and in turn, hurt Iseult and Owl.
Yet as Iseult stared at the jagged crater where the Aether Well had been—while dry, Sirmayan cold crisped around her, while her breath tendriled from her mouth like Threads, while her hands ached inside the gloves she always wore…
Iseult hated Nadje.
And she was glad—glad—that he was gone.
She was glad that Leopold was gone too. Owl had told Iseult what had happened; Aeduan had told Iseult what he’d seen in the Sleeping Lands. And while she couldn’t deny there were shards of grief dug into her heart—as if the looking glass that had once been a part of her soul had left fragments behind—most of her was glad he was gone. That she no longer had to navigate him and his thousand-year Trickster plans.
Or him and his thousand-year-old Threads. Too bright, too dominating for a mind such as hers.
She was a Threadwitch again. And a Weaverwitch of sorts, able to touch Threads. Control them as the Puppeteer once had. But for reasons she didn’t understand—but that the Sightwitches were already racing to research and explore—she could no longer cleave. She could no longer sever, sever, twist and sever.
She didn’t grieve the loss of that magic.
She almost hoped Ryber and the other Sightwitches never found an answer.
The night’s sky, stippled with stars, was unmarred by moon or clouds. Only the Moon Mother’s own Threads hovered here—although these days, no one but Nomatsi Threadwitches could see them.
Iseult crouched at the edge of the Well, where snow had banked. Soon, this hole would be filled with that snow; soon it would look solid when it was not.
“You’re here.”
Iseult almost leaped out of her skin. She spun so fast, jolted so high, that she lost her balance. Her arms windmilled.
Then Aeduan was there, catching her before she could topple backward into the new abyss.
His breaths feathered as hers did. His eyes were near, and she couldn’t help but notice—as she did every time she’d looked into them since the Great Collapse—that they were notquitethe same blue they’d once been. Now there was a ring of silver around the edges. A faint glow like the annulus of an eclipse.
“You’re here,” he repeated, harsher this time as he pulled her away from the edge and toward her nearby campfire. She’d set up a small tent.
