Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(102)

Iseult didn’t respond. Any thought or movement would betray what pulsed deep inside her: horror.

And worse, a slight digging of pity.

Fortunately, the shadow girl didn’t notice Iseult’s reticence, for her talking never slowed.

“I will be gone for the next few days, Iseult. My King has given me a task that will drain my power. I imagine I’ll be too tired to find you after that. But,” she said with a promising sort of emphasis, “when I am fully restored, I’ll come to you again.”

She paused for a jaw-cracking yawn. “I must thank you before I go. All those plans and places tucked away in your brain have made the Raider King very happy. That’s why he gave me this grand mission for tomorrow. So thank you—you made all of this possible. Now, I need my rest if I am to cleave all these men as ordered.”

What men? And what plans and places? Iseult tried to ask. What did you take from my brain?

But the words wouldn’t come. Nothing but frantic, skittering fire came to her now—in her brain, on her tongue, across her lungs like veins of lightning.

Then, as abruptly as it had appeared, the view of Poznin spluttered out like a lantern, leaving Iseult back in her own skin. Back in her own dreams and stuck with her own horror.

*

Never in Aeduan’s life had it taken this much focus or power to track someone. Safiya had been easy—her blood took no effort to hold—but this person’s blood, with its crisp lake water and snow-filled winters, was elusive. One moment Aeduan would have it, then twenty paces later he would lose it—only to stumble on it farther into the forest.

It made no sense, and by the time Aeduan lost the scent for the hundredth time, he had all but given up on the prince. He was supposed to betray the man anyway and keep the Truthwitch for his father’s use. Yet each time Aeduan considered leaving the prince to some invisible foe, a strange nagging dug into his shoulders. Scraped along his neck. It was as if …

As if he owed the prince a life-debt and felt obligated to repay it.

By the time the trail went completely cold, the sun was already lowering on the horizon. Aeduan stood before a black, shadowed cliff with steep stairs ascending to the top. The river was almost deafening here, and fat bats swooped overhead.

The Truthwitch had been here earlier—Aeduan caught traces of her scent—but she hadn’t stayed. Which meant Aeduan shouldn’t stay either. Prince Leopold was not his concern; Safiya was. It was time to give up on the prince.

However, just as Aeduan swiveled around to resume the only hunt that actually mattered, a breeze gusted off the cliffs and carried a smell into Aeduan’s nose—into his blood.

Leopold.

Aeduan launched himself up the worn steps. Two, then three at a time, he flew upward until at last he reached the top. A pink sun glittered over rippling water. Wind rustled through the green-filled branches of six cypress trees, and a thunderstorm rumbled in the distance.

Aeduan was at an Origin Well. The Water Well of the Witchlands. He should have known it was here, should’ve guessed this would be it. His old mentor had spoken of it endlessly when Aeduan was a child.

Yet this place didn’t look like what his mentor had described. There was life here. Green on the trees, a ripple in the water. It was almost as if the Well were alive—except that that was impossible.

Aeduan dismissed it. He didn’t have time to inspect the area, nor did he care to.

Nose high, he stalked to the right of the Well. He made it twelve steps before the blood-scent switched back to the enemy’s—and a slow applause broke out.

Leopold stepped out from behind the nearest cypress, clapping. “You found me, Monk.” The prince offered a humorless smile. “Faster than I’d hoped.”

Aeduan’s nostrils twitched. He reached for a throwing knife. “You planned this.”

Leopold sighed. “I did. Before you impale me, though, I would like to point out that I was supposed to kill you and chose not to.”

“Kill me,” Aeduan repeated. In a heartbeat, he had his knife out and arm reared back. “On whose command?”

Leopold only smiled again. That inane, vapid smile that Aeduan hated.

So Aeduan raised his left hand …

And took control of Leopold’s blood.

He halted the new leather, the smoky hearths. “I can force the answer from your throat,” he said flatly. “So tell me who commands you.”

A salty breeze swept through Leopold’s hair while lightning sparkled on the horizon, looking—at this angle—like a crown atop the frozen prince’s head.

“No one commands me,” Leopold finally answered, “and no one is with me.” Aeduan tightened his grip on Leopold’s blood. The prince’s pupils shuddered wider, wider … Not wide enough. Leopold was unsettled, but he wasn’t terrified.

That was when Aeduan realized, He wants this. Leopold wanted Aeduan to torture the truth from him …

Because it will take time.

The prince had intentionally wasted as much of the day as possible. His aim since Ve?aza City had been to delay Aeduan.

“You’ve figured it out,” Leopold said. “I can see it in your eyes, Monk.”

“Call me demon like everyone else.” Aeduan squeezed the prince’s blood even tighter—enough to hurt.

But Leopold only stared at him steadily before saying in a hoarse voice, “I can’t … let you find Safiya before she reaches Lejna. She is almost there now, and soon she will be out of your reach entirely.”