Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(110)

And her expression as gentle and concerned as Aeduan remembered.

It angered him. She’d never had a right to care about him—and she most certainly didn’t have that right now.

“It has been too long,” she said in that throaty voice of hers. “You have grown.”

Aeduan felt his jaw clench. Felt his eyes twitch. “Stand aside.”

“You know I cannot do that, Aeduan.”

He unsheathed his sword. It was a bare whisper over the crash of waves below. “I will cut you down.”

“Not easily.” Evrane flicked up her wrist. A vicious blade dropped into her hand. With a smooth dip of her back foot, she sank into a defensive stance. “You have forgotten who trained you.”

“And you have forgotten my witchery, Monk Evrane.” He eased his parrying knife from his hip and matched Evrane’s knee-bent stance.

She moved—a spin that sent her white cloak flying. Distracting—certainly, but Aeduan had his eyes on her hand. After all, she was the one who’d taught him that the key to any knife fight was controlling the knife hand.

Evrane whirled in close. He ducked low to meet her.

But it was not her blade that he met. It was her feet—a boot heel in his neck. Then the dagger at his chest.

He tottered back, not as fast as he should have. As he could have if he were fighting anyone but her.

With a burst of magic, he shot back ten steps—too fast and too far for her to easily catch. Then he glanced down.

Her knife had cut him. Four shallow slices that his witchery would heal whether he wanted it to or not. He would waste power on harmless surface wounds.

“You know who they are,” Evrane called. She stalked steadily toward Aeduan. “It is your sworn duty to protect them.”

Aeduan watched her from the tops of his eyes. “Have you heard the rumors, then? I can promise you, Monk Evrane, they are not the Cahr Awen. They’re both Aetherwitches.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She smiled, a terrifying smile of rapture and heady violence combined. “We must have misinterpreted the Records, and no Voidwitch is needed. For I saw it, Aeduan: those girls woke the Nubrevnan Origin Well—”

Aeduan attacked then, sword out, yet for some reason, he did not lunge as hard as he should have. He did not veer his course at the last second or toss out knives in quick succession. He simply thrust out his sword, and, as he expected, Evrane swirled left and parried easily.

“The girls swam to the spring’s center,” Evrane said.

“Impossible.” Aeduan spun left.

“I saw them do it. I saw the magic ignite and the earth tremble.” She jabbed at Aeduan with her knives—and then snap-kicked her toe into his knee.

A toe that had a blade upon it.

Pain exploded in Aeduan’s leg—as did blood. He bit back a roar, and twirled aside before more blades could reach him.

She was trying to wear him down. Small wounds to slow him.

But she was breathing heavily now—something that would never have happened two years ago. She was tired, and she would never outlast Aeduan. Even with her quick, relentless attacks. Even with him going easy.

“What you saw,” Aeduan said, skipping back, “was what you wanted to see. The Well would never let them reach its center.”

“Yet it did.” Evrane paused, hands and blades at the ready and an exultant gaze fastened on Aeduan. “Those girls touched the spring’s source and it awoke. Then the waters healed Iseult.”

Iseult. The Nomatsi girl with no blood-scent.

She was not one of the holy Cahr Awen—Aeduan refused to believe that. She was too plain. Too dark.

As for the Truthwitch, if she were indeed the other half of the Cahr Awen, then giving her to his father would mean breaking his Carawen vow. The mere thought of that ignited ire in Aeduan’s veins. He would not lose all his fortunes because Monk Evrane was a gullible, desperate old fool.

So in a burst of speed, Aeduan let a throwing knife fly.

Evrane swatted it from the air and used the momentum of her spin to loose a knife of her own.

Aeduan jerked left. Caught the knife—volleyed it back.

But Evrane was already dancing up the overhang, using the terrain to her advantage. She scrabbled easily up the stones, unsheathing her stiletto—her final weapon—and then sprang out at Aeduan.

He dove forward, rolling beneath her. Then he was on his feet, sword slashing out—

It clashed against Evrane’s stiletto, locking in place on a parrying prong. Her arm trembled. Her small blade would never stand up to a sword; her strength would never stand up to Aeduan’s.

“Remember … who you are,” she ground out. The steel of Aeduan’s sword slid … slid ever closer to her. At any moment, her elbow would give. Aeduan’s blade would slice through her neck. “The Cahr Awen have come to save us, Aeduan. Remember your duty to them.”

Her stiletto slipped.

Aeduan’s blade arced down. Bit into her neck—

But he stopped it. Halted the blade at the last fraction of a second. Blood pooled on the steel. Evrane gasped for air, eyes huge.

“We are done here,” Aeduan said. He wrenched back his sword. Drops of blood sprayed. Splattered on Evrane’s face and Aeduan’s uniform.

Evrane’s whole face fell. She became a tired, old woman before his eyes.