Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(111)

It was more than he could bear so, without another word, he sheathed his sword and launched himself down the path.

Yet as he rounded a bend into the woods—and as thunder clapped much closer than it should’ve—steel thunked into Aeduan’s back. Grated against his ribs. Pierced his right lung.

He recognized the feel of it. A Carawen throwing knife—the very one he’d thrown at Evrane only moments before.

It hurt—not to mention all the blood that bubbled up in his throat made breathing tricky. Yet Aeduan couldn’t help but smile, for Evrane was as ruthless as ever. At least that hadn’t changed.





THIRTY-SEVEN

This might have been the dumbest plan Iseult had ever enacted and, by the Moon Mother, Merik and his contract had better be worth it.

Eighty paces, Iseult thought as she watched the seventeen sailors approach her at full-speed down Lejna’s main seaside avenue. Twelve more thumped down the first pier at which their ship was now anchored.

Because, of course, Marstoks had reached town right as Iseult and Safi had. Now soldiers—some of them no doubt Firewitches … or worse—were pelting toward her with terrifying grace.

Iseult didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. She stood at the very edge of the city. When the sailors reached twenty paces away, she would move. That would be enough distance to stay ahead—or at least stay ahead long enough for Safi to get into town.

Iseult had gotten a good glimpse of the terrain on the ride in, but most of her planning was based on guesswork. A lot of what she thought she knew about the cobblestoned streets and byways of Lejna could be wrong, and if those gaps in rooftops weren’t streets and that big square hole wasn’t a central courtyard, then she was, quite simply, screwed.

There were other holes in her plan too—like how the white kerchief cut from Safi’s shirt (meant to hide Iseult’s hair) might not stay put in all this wind. Or how her choice of an alleyway between row houses—with its shadowy darkness and steep incline—was a terrible one.

Or how standing here with her arms high and cutlass still sheathed might be a bit too vulnerable.

Sixty paces. The sailors’ eyes were now visible, the gleam of their outthrust sabers impossible to ignore—as were their Threads of purple eagerness.

They won’t kill you, she reminded herself for the hundredth time. Stasis. Stasis in your fingers and in your toes.

Iseult sensed Safi’s Threads behind her—burning with dark green readiness as she crept through the shadows of the forest. If Safi was ready, then Iseult would be ready too. Initiate, complete—just in reverse this time.

Thirty paces.

Iseult braced her heels, sucked in a breath …

Twenty paces.

She ran.

Shadows swallowed her whole, but gray light shone ahead. Cobblestones and storefronts.

Footsteps followed behind. Even in their soft boots and with lightning crashing closer every second, there was no missing the drum-roll of Marstoki feet.

Iseult skidded to the end of the alley, turning hard and aiming right. Street—a wide one. It was exactly what she’d hoped for, and it headed diagonally up the hill, toward some distant place that might be a courtyard.

That had better be a courtyard.

Broken doors and shattered windows coursed along the sides of her vision. The wind was still at her back, pushing her forward. Rain fell now too. It splattered on the street—made the cobblestones slick.

In the back of her mind, Iseult considered how to account for the rain when she reached the courtyard. It would affect her defenses …

Or not, since there were definitely more men pouring out of the street ahead. The ones on the pier must have moved up the hill to cut her off.

Iseult had run herself directly into a corner and her plan was ruined before it had even begun.

No, no. She could not let panic claim her. All she needed was a moment—just a brief second without Marstoks breathing down her neck.

Iseult twisted sharply left; her feet slipped; she tumbled forward … and caught herself on a signpost. She lost precious time doing it, but no time to regret. Gulping in air, she punched her legs back into full speed. Surely this alleyway would lead her to another main road. Surely she could find a moment to think.

Iseult honed in on individual cobblestones. On slamming one heel in front of the other and sucking down one more breath … Then one more after that. Stasis. Stasis. She could do this.

She wheeled onto another wide lane.

Where there were more Marstoks—barreling from another alleyway ahead. One after another, they sprinted at her. She was trapped. Or …

Iseult skidded left—right through a broken door.

Her shoulder shrieked at the impact. She bit through her tongue, filling her mouth and her mind with the bark of pain and the taste of blood. It was exactly the distraction she needed. Calm briefly swept in and allowed her to scan her terrain: a shop with a counter and a doorway beyond.

Iseult launched herself over the counter. The window exploded, and the storm bawled through.

Soldiers too, but Iseult was already uncoiling and hammering out the back door into an alleyway. She skirted right—sharp and fast. Lightning flashed and wind gusted overhead, but the buildings protected her.

Iseult hit a corner, swooped around … and poison darts skittered into the wall behind her. Which meant there were Poisonwitches in the mix now. Marstoki Adders.