Page 88 of Witchlight
“Isit why you are here, though?” Ragnor elevated his chin slightly, a military man addressing his troops. “What if you broke the cycle instead? What if you stopped the draining before Sirmaya could die? We could let Her claw back the magic She needs until life and land are stable again.”
Iseult blinked at Ragnor. Her lashes wanted to freeze shut. Her nose had lost all feeling. Not that she noticed; her mind was too wrapped up in Ragnor’s words—because, against her better judgment, she could follow his logic. “But cleaving the Wells will kill people.”
“And so will healing the Wells.”
There was no missing the threat in Ragnor’s tone—and Iseult’s mind shot back to all the Threads scurrying through Poznin, all the streets he would not let her see.
“There are political ramifications to also consider, Dark-Giver. The Wells go beyond magic, beyond even our Moon Mother. You must remember, the nations and empires of the Witchlands have fought for centuries over who controlled the Wells, convinced that possessing them would increase their power, their worth, their claims to rightful control. If there are no Wells, that stops.”
“But…” Iseult shook her head. “They w-will just find something else to fight over.”
“Will they? Or will a new era of peace be ushered in with the right rulers at the helm?”
Iseult couldn’t help it: she rocked back a step. It felt as if she were staring at Eron fon Hasstrel. A different twenty-year plan with a different solution for the same problem. The same insistent, single-minded obsession on Ragnor’s face and in his Threads. “Rulers chosen by you?”Rulers like Safi, who do not want to be one. Like Mathew and Habim, who make matters worse.
“No. Rulers who are chosen by the people. Not by Wells, not by Paladins. I…” Ragnor hesitated. His chest swelled. Then he turned away. Cold clarity and certainty still gripped his Threads, even as his words bordered on fanaticism.
“Did you know,” he asked quietly, “that this city was once ruled by elected leaders?”
“Of course I know.” Iseult’s tongue shrank beneath the comfort of an easy answer. “This city was the capital of the Republic of Arithuania. It collapsed because of the plague.”
“Yes, the plague that wasn’t really a plague, but rather a curse from three empires who felt threatened. They introduced a slow, seeping thing into the earth.” Ragnor paused here to remove his left glove. He dropped it to the snow, a smear of darkness on white. Then he unstrapped the bracer over his left forearm. It too fell to the snow. Lastly, he pulled up the sleeve of his thick wool gambeson.
Black lines ran down his skin, pooling at the top of his wrist. It looked almost like Iseult’s Witchmark. Almost like the waters of the Well, ready to reject all light and magic.
Iseult swayed.
The Raider King was slow cleaving.
“This Well,” he continued matter-of-factly, “was cleaved long before Esme got to it. Carefully and crudely by three empires who wanted to end what they saw as a threat. The Puppeteer… I introduced her to it, andyes, she finished the job by building her Loom. But this misery began long before we arrived.”
Iseult felt her neck stiffen. Felt all of her muscles brace as if they were about to get hit—hard,hard,by the power of a thousand truths slamming into her.
Then it came. Ragnor had one more missile to launch her way. One more explosion to topple her to the snow.
“If you can provide me with an answer, Dark-Giver, for why this”—he dragged a gloved thumb down the oily lines marking his skin—“has spread and worsened over the decades, then I will change my course immediately. I will give you and the light-bringer access to the Well. I will disband all of my forces and walk away. There will be no fight left in me, and I will let you fix what ails the Witchlands and Moon Mother. So tell me now: Why has cleaving worsened with each Well you have healed?”
Iseult swallowed. Her tongue bulged, bigger than ever. So much pressure, she thought she might choke. Because wasn’t the answer obvious?Don’t ruin this, Iseult. Don’t falter.“Because Moon Mother i-i-isdying, so cleaving has spread.”
“Except,” Ragnor countered, a mere murmur to be swallowed up by the trees, “with each newly healed Well, cleaving has only spread wider, poisoning more and more each time. People like me, with no magic inside them at all.
“So again, I ask: Why has cleaving worsened? Why, as you have healed more Wells, have more people died instead of getting better?”
FORTY-FOUR
The river moved too fast. Safi was used to the sea, to streams, and even to sharp, churning rivers—but this stout, glutted python? She’d thought it would be sluggish. Slowed by winter’s breath across its cold skin. Instead, the current sped so hard, so fast that no matter how desperately Safi slammed her heels onto the icy shelf along the shoreline, she couldn’t keep pace with the blip of pallor that marked Merik in the water.
And soon, the blip was gone.
It didn’t help that the ice was unpredictable. Some places, it held her weight with sturdy ease. Other places, her foot would smash through and feel the river’s teeth.
Behind Safi, Merik’s advisors ran. Ahead, Aurora darted back and forth, corkscrewing inside her winds. Every few moments, she would dive into the water, disappear for several agonizing seconds. Safi’s feet would hammer, a wild gallop next to the three people with her. The ice would groan. Break. Slide. Slip. Then Aurora would emerge again, her fur sodden, her wings limp, and her magic over storms waning.
Every dive, she grew weaker.
“Stop,” Safi shrieked after the hound’s fourth attempt. Her voice was reedy and pinched in the frozen air. “Stop or you’ll drown with him!”
A poor choice of words. The worddrownsent Aurora yowling back toward the open slit of river. There was no sign of Merik in there now—at least not from where Safi and the others ran. He might have sunk to the bottom. He might be trapped somewhere under the ice, right under Safi’s own feet for all she could see.
