Chapter Twenty-Four
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 he knew had 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 pustules burbling 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 would not let 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.
Nadje had feared her, and illogical as it was, Aeduan now felt that ancient fear too.
He spurred his magic wider. Harder. And for hours, he only ever sensed Safiya and the horses. And of course, the silver taler Iseult always wore around her neck.
Which eventually stirred within the tent, and moments later, Iseult revealed herself.
Her eyes were thick with sleep, her face creased from a bedroll.
“The first watch ended an hour ago,” she scolded.
For once, the winds had softened on the plains—as if perhaps one of the many offerings here had finally appeased Middle Sister Swallow. “You should have woken me.”
“You need the sleep, Dark-Giver.”
“As do you, Bloodwitch.” She stepped toward him, picking her way through cleared snow. “Let me take over.”
“No.”
“Please. Aeduan.” She’d rarely said his name since leaving the hunting lodge. They had both been careful to adhere to their roles. He was a Bloodwitch monk; she was the Cahr Awen he served. Or failed to serve. Formality was safest when so much was at stake.
And yet …
“Forgive me.” Aeduan felt his face crease inward while his feelings reached outward in a way he didn’t want to place upon Iseult. “For earlier. I failed you and the Empress.”
“How?”
“I should have sensed the raiders coming. But I did not, and I failed you.”
“You failed no more than I did. I d-didn’t sense them either.”
“Yes, but you have not sworn vows to protect me. This is my one duty. The reason I’m here.”
Iseult’s golden-green eyes thinned. For several seconds, she simply stared at Aeduan. Then she murmured: “Maybe I should, though.”
“Should what?”
She didn’t answer, but instead claimed another step toward him. “Have you ever not had a master?”
“I … don’t understand.” It was true: he didn’t understand. He also didn’t like how instantly his abdomen tightened.
“You became a monk so young. Have you ever existed w-without some outside force telling you what to do? First it was the Monastery.” Iseult waved vaguely east. “Missions that sent you out for coin. Then it was Guildmaster Yotiluzzi. Then it was your f-father. Then … the Old One.” She shivered here. “And finally … me.”
Aeduan’s abdomen knotted tighter. “You forget the times I disobeyed.” Now he was the one to approach. To claim a single step. “I broke orders to help you find Safiya. To search for Owl and her tribe. To get you from the Aether Well to safety. And now…”
“And now,” Iseult replied. Her face pinched up. An inward frown that sent her gaze to the snow. Made her head wag with a self-loathing he recognized. “I don’t like it. I know I accepted your vow at the lodge, and I know I a-agreed to bring you—”
“Do not make me go back.”
“No.” Her gaze shot to him again. “But I want to know: if you could do anything, Aeduan, what would it be? If there was no Cahr Awen, no Well, no Raider King or slow cleaving or war across the Witchlands. W-what would you do?”
He sucked in sharply. Frozen air sliced his throat, his lungs. He felt the six old wounds throb as if they too awaited his answer. Run, my child, run.
“I do not know,” he said eventually. It was an honest answer, if a bleak one. “I … do not know.”
Iseult sighed. It was a sound of sadness, of grief, of pain. “Then I will make a vow to you.” She closed the space between them. Her fingers came to touch his jaw; they were cold, but then so was he.
Her eyes bored into his, a shade like the sun through forest leaves. “When this is done, you’ll serve no one but yourself, and we’ll find what you want. Together … i-if you will have me.”
Aeduan’s heart skittered. More frozen air cut deep. Then he scoffed and shook his head. “Stupid.”
Iseult blinked. “My vow is stupid?”
“No. Wondering if I will have you is stupid. Have I not made it clear?”
Her lips twitched with a nearly imperceptible smile. “Made … w-what clear?”
“In Lejna, when I told you to trust me as if my soul were yours—I had never said that before. Yet I was compelled to do so. I still am.”
The smile widened. “Then you accept my vow?”
“Stupid,” he replied before kissing her. Deep, full, with all the fury and the fear that still pulsed inside him. He had failed her hours ago by the road, but he would not fail her again.
He pulled away within moments. It was his only choice; otherwise, he would get distracted. He would lose sight of the plains and the bloods and the cold, gray night. “Go back to sleep,” he told her.
Her lips were parted. Her eyes wide. “No.”
“I will keep watch.”
“No.”
Now she was the one to kiss him. A brittle, urgent thing. Before she too pulled away. Then pointed at the tent. Her hand, Aeduan couldn’t help but notice, trembled slightly. “I will take second watch, Bloodwitch. I command you to sleep now, and please remember: I am your master, so you must obey.”
He sniffed. He could argue if he wanted, but truth be told, he was exhausted. Now that his wrath had quieted, there was only gaping fatigue left behind. And the wounds, of course. Always those six old wounds.
So Aeduan bowed his head, “As you wish, Dark-Giver.” Then he kissed her on the forehead and returned, pace agitated, to the tent.