Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(41)
Though she didn’t recognize the suburb, Safi could guess that the lighthouse was near—a few miles north at most.
She darted toward the inn’s yard as fast as her feet could carry her. A glance at the cart showed it ambling onward, and then a glance at the gray gelding showed it almost to the stable door.
Safi slowed only once, beneath the inn’s arched gate, to heft up the pitchfork. It was definitely heavier than her sword, but the iron wasn’t rusted and the fork points were sharp.
She raised it high, pleased when the scrawny stable boy caught sight of her charging his way. He blanched, dropped the horse’s reins, and cowered against the stable door.
“Thank you for making that easy,” Safi declared, grabbing the reins. The horse eyed her curiously, but made no move to run.
Yet before Safi could get her foot in the stirrup, her eyes landed on a small leather scabbard on the stable boy’s belt. She stomped her foot back down and heaved the pitchfork back up. “Give me your knife.”
“B-but it was a present,” the boy began.
“Do I look like I care? If you give me that knife, I’ll give you enough silk to buy twenty-five knives just like it.”
He hesitated, clearly trying to figure out how that deal would work, and Safi bared her teeth. He fumbled the knife from his belt.
She took it, stabbed the pitchfork in the mud, and snatched up her skirts. But the knife was dull and the silk strong. It took too many heartbeats to rip the blade through …
A cry of alarm went up in the inn. Whoever this gray belonged to had decided he wanted to keep him.
Safi threw the layers of silk in the boy’s face. Then with a great deal less grace than she normally exhibited when mounting a horse, she clambered into the gelding’s saddle, gripped her new knife tight, laid the pitchfork over the pommel, and kicked into a canter.
The horse’s owner reached the doorway just in time to see Safi wave good-bye—and to hear her shout “Thank you!” She gave the man one of her very brightest smiles. Then she veered the horse south and away from the northbound cart. She would circle around to a different street ahead.
But she didn’t get far. In fact, the gray had barely galloped to the next inn when she realized something was wrong.
There were five men in the street before her. They jogged in a perfect row, their white cloaks streaming behind them and their scabbards and weapons clanking.
Carawen monks, and the one in the middle was covered in blood. He even had arrow shafts poking out from his chest, his legs, his arms.
Bloodwitch.
Safi’s stomach punched into her lungs. Eron had tried—and failed—to stop the monk. With movements that felt impossibly slow, Safi yanked at the reins and wrenched the gelding north. Thank the gods, the horse was well trained. His hooves kicked up dried mud and he galloped in this new direction.
Safi didn’t look back; she knew the monks would follow. The last inn blurred past and a world of marshy coastline spread before her. Far in the distance the road inclined into cliffsides and limestone.
In moments, the cart and driver she’d just escaped came into view—and there was no missing the man’s Witchmark. Its shape was familiar enough to recognize, even with her speed. The man was not a peasant at all, but a Voicewitch.
Safi had just enough time to scream at him, “The Bloodwitch hunts me! Tell my uncle!” before barreling past him down the empty, moonlit road.
THIRTEEN
Iseult and Alma caught up to Gretchya in moments.
Shouts pursued for a time—as did the writhing gray Threads of the violent—but only two more arrows thunked into Alma’s shield. And somehow, though Alma did not follow the Nomatsi trails, her mare’s footing was sure.
After what felt like an hour, Alma directed the horses to a wide willow on a lazy brook. Gretchya hopped down first, a firepot in hand and Scruffs at her side. She circled the tree before motioning that all was clear.
Iseult slid off the horse—and almost toppled into her mother. Her legs were rubber and her arm …
“You’ve lost too much blood,” Gretchya said. “Come.” She took Iseult’s hand and guided her into a world of drooping branches and whispering leaves. The bay mare followed willingly, as if she knew this place. The stolen brindle, however, took some convincing from Alma.
“You planned this,” Iseult croaked, following her mother to a tree trunk dappled in moonlight.
“Yes, but not for tonight.” Gretchya lifted a long stick from against the tree and motioned up, to where two lumps sat on branches just out of reach—and just out of notice. Gretchya batted off both sacks.
Thump, thump! The bulging satchels hit the earth and dust plumed. A green apple rolled out.
Iseult dragged herself onto the willow’s roots, her back against the wide trunk. Scruffs settled beside her, and with her left hand, she scratched at his ears while Alma continued to coax the pony beneath the branches, the now arrow-filled Nomatsi shield still affixed to her back.
Though Iseult couldn’t see the blood on her right sleeve—not in this darkness—she couldn’t miss the pain. At least, she thought dimly, the cut on my right hand doesn’t hurt anymore.
After rummaging in the bags, Gretchya bustled to Iseult’s side with the dusty apple and a leather healer kit in tow. She wiped the apple on her bodice. “Eat this.”