Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(119)

When he couldn’t sprint anymore, Aeduan jogged.

When he couldn’t jog anymore, he walked, his magic never releasing Evrane’s blood. Distantly, he knew he had lost his chance to claim the Truthwitch, but he didn’t care. Not right now.

Aeduan carried Evrane league after league, cliff after cliff, step after staggering step and, for the first time in years, he was afraid.

It took him half the day to recognize what he felt. The emptiness in his chest, the endless loop of his thoughts—Don’t die. Don’t die.

He knew this went beyond life-debts. Against everything Aeduan wanted to be—against everything he believed himself to be—he was afraid.

Before he saw the river, he heard its rumble over the buzz of afternoon insects and screeching birds. He felt the mist off its rapids, mingling with the day’s humidity. He also smelled the eight soldiers waiting by the Origin Well’s stairs. Someone must have found Prince Leopold and thought Aeduan might return.

So Aeduan used what little power he had left to choke off the soldiers’ breaths. It took forever. Aeduan was weakened; the eight men were not. Aeduan swayed in the wind, listing as wildly as the trees. He would drop Evrane if he had to stand much longer.

The soldiers finally thumped to the earth, and Aeduan stumbled by. Then he climbed, slowly but purposefully, up the worn steps to the Origin Well. Over the flagstones to the ramp. Into the water to float Evrane on her back.

She began to heal.

Aeduan sensed it more than he saw it. Whatever power was at work here moved so gradually that it would take days for her body to fully repair. Yet Aeduan felt her blood start to flow on its own. He felt the new flesh grow where her throat was cut.

Still, he kept a firm hold on her blood until enough of her throat had mended for her to breathe. For her heart to pump unhindered.

Then Aeduan carefully floated Evrane to the Well’s ramp and eased her onto the stones. He kept part of her legs submerged—so the healing would continue—before he clambered out of the Well, spraying water on the flagstones. Despite the extra weight of saturated clothes, he was surprised to find his spine erect. His witchery fully restored …

And his mind unable to ignore what was clearly before him: the Origin Well was alive again. Even if he hadn’t seen the magic at work, when he’d stood in that water, he had felt sentience.

Oneness.

Completion.

This Well was opening a single, sleepy eye, and it wouldn’t be long before it awoke entirely.

Which meant—as impossible as it was for Aeduan to accept—the Truthwitch was half of the Cahr Awen and Iseult …

That Nomatsi Threadwitch with no blood-scent—and another Aetherwitch too …

She was the other half. They were the pair that Aeduan had pledged his life to protect. The vow he’d sworn when he was thirteen—before his father had reentered his life—was now being called upon, yet Aeduan couldn’t decide if he should answer.

He’d never thought this day would actually come—a day when all his training and his future would be given up to the mythical, ancient Cahr Awen.

It was easy for Evrane. She’d spent her entire life a believer. It completed her to have the Cahr Awen return.

But for Aeduan it was a hindrance. He’d been forced into the Monastery by circumstance, and he had stayed there because he’d had nowhere better to go—nowhere else that wouldn’t kill a Bloodwitch on sight. Now, though, he had plans. Plans for himself. Plans for his father.

Aeduan didn’t know to whom he owed his loyalty—his vows or his family—yet he was at least certain of one thing: he was grateful the Well had saved Monk Evrane.

Perhaps that was why Aeduan found his feet carrying him to the nearest cypress tree. Its trunk glowed red in the brilliant dawn sun, its green, vibrant branches rustled on the humid breeze.

More leaves had grown since yesterday.

Aeduan knelt on the flagstones. Water dripped, dripped, dripped—from his clothes, from his hair, and even from his baldric, which he’d forgotten to remove. He barely noticed and simply curled over, flat against his knees and with his palms resting on the cypress trunk. Then he recited the prayer of the Cahr Awen.

Exactly as Evrane had taught him.

I guard the light-bringer,

And protect the dark-giver.

I live for the world-starte,

And die for the shadow-ender.

My blood, I offer freely.

My Threads, I offer wholly.

My eternal soul belongs to no one else.

Claim my Aether.

Guide my blade.

From now until the end.

When he’d finished the memorized words, he was glad to find them as tasteless as they’d always been—and he was also glad to find a mental list already scrolling through his brain. My blades are wet; I’ll need to oil them. I need a new salamander cloak—and a horse too. A fast one.

It was liberating to know he could ignore his Carawen vow so easily, even with the Origin Well right beside him. For the time being, he had a box of silver talers to give his father, and that was all that mattered.

Aeduan gave a final glance to his old mentor, the monk called Evrane. She had color in her cheeks now.

Good. Aeduan had finally repaid one of his life-debts to her.

So with his fingers flexing and wrists rolling, the Bloodwitch named Aeduan set off to join his father, the raider king of Arithuania.