Page 52 of Witchlight
After tending the horses, Aeduan brought a second lantern to Iseult’s side. All of their camping gear was now from Alma, which meant all was easily stowed and carried.
At Aeduan’s whisperedIgnite,flames flared, while outside, the winds briefly flared too. The tent wavered and flapped. Drafts of frosty air swirled through the gaps.
Iseult smeared a Waterwitch salve on Safi’s arm, meant to keep the blood in her wound pure. Then a Firewitch salve to heal Safi’s muscles, and finally an Earthwitch salve for the skin. Scents of lavender and calendula soon replaced the smell of blood. And soon, Safididrelax, just like the winds outside.
“Thank you,” she mumbled once Iseult had wrapped the wound. “I owe you one.”
“You owe me hundreds.” Iseult tried for a smile. “But I stopped counting years ago.”
Safi matched her smile.
“Do you want a Painstone?”
“No.” Safi bit her lip. “Let’s save those, in case I need them to, ah, you know…”
Iseult nodded.In case you need them to get through a fight. In case you need them at the Well.
They were so close to Poznin now.
After unrolling two sleeping pads, Iseult helped Safi lie down. Then they shared the cold remains of a rabbit caught the day before. Once Iseult was satisfied Safi had eaten enough, she layered a blanket over her. “Sleep.” She tried again for a smile.
This time, Safi didn’t match it. She simply closed her eyes, and in seconds, her Threads hazed into sleep.
TWENTY-FOUR
Aeduan was furious with himself. Beyond furious. Irate. Seething. He had not sensed the raiders until too late. The Cahr Awen had nearly died. How could he forgive himself for that?
Worse than his rage, though, was his fear. It was not an emotion Aeduan felt often. After all, as he’d once told Lizl:I do not know what fear is, so I can never be brave.
Right now, he knew fear. For if his father had been warned the Cahr Awen were coming, then it was only a matter of time until Ragnor caught them. He had witches; he had weapons; and he had numbers. The only advantage Iseult and Safiya had possessed was the element of surprise, and now they’d lost that.
Because of Aeduan.
Because the old wounds were getting worse. Crueler. And he’d been trapped in a rout of scalding pain when the raiders had arrived.
At least once a day now, the six holes in his chest would detonate. Like firepots loosing. Like pistols shot at close range. Sometimes he could barely move from the intensity of it. When Aeduan was atop Surefoot, he could hide the onslaught. Mask the sudden collapse of his spine with a pat for Surefoot’s head or a casual checking of his saddle.
But if he was trying to sense ambushing raiders… Or if he was in the middle of a battle against such enemies…
He’d almost killed the Cahr Awen with his lapse.
And now he was so angry. So afraid.
It was too cold, here on the Windswept Plains, to peel off his clothes and examine the wounds. He knew what he’d find anyway: blackened scabs that hadn’t been there before—that heknewhad healed in the Well, but now were opening up again.
Aeduan had thought perhaps he was cleaving. After all, so many now suffered from that slow spread of oily black lines. It could strike anyone; it could strike him. But he had no lines; he had no shadows or pustulesburbling beneath his skin; and the stench he’d smelled on those raiders had been death come early, a song cut short. Aeduan’s blood had none of that.
It was just the old wounds, returned after a brief respite. A cruel pause he’d thought would last forever.
The world was quiet around Aeduan as he stalked in concentric circles around the camp. Around the shrine. The night sky hung low, a ceiling of gray. No stars, no Sleeping Giant. With the lanterns snuffed out in the tent, there was only the snow to brighten the world. Everything became black and white. Everything became a threat.
Aeduan would not lapse again. He wouldnotlet this awful, inexplicable pain consume him.
He scanned the tall, endless grass around them. This shrine was too vulnerable to raiders.And to Itosha too.
That name—Itosha—was not one Aeduan knew. It had clawed up from the depths of his memory, where the marks of Nadje would never be scrubbed free. And while Aeduan could conjure no face, he could hear a cackling, hateful laugh.
Itosha. The Exalted One.
