Windwitch (The Witchlands #2)v(14)

Aeduan gazed pointedly into the middle distance before answering, “The king doesn’t know.”

A bark of laughter from the priest. He dropped the chain with a hollow thunk against his chest. “Now this is unexpected, is it not?” He spun away, aiming for a cluster of huts in the back of the compound, and leaving Aeduan with no choice but to prowl after.

Chickens careened from Corlant’s path, as did more men in brown robes. Men, Aeduan noted—the Purists were always men. Aeduan followed, careful to stay a footstep behind. Not because he felt Corlant deserved the lead, but because it pleased him to watch the man constantly crane his neck backward to speak.

“We are at an interesting crossroads,” Corlant said over his shoulder. “You see, I need something done, and you need something hidden.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

Corlant’s eyes flashed. “You seem to think you have more power than you actually do, boy.” He paused before an open door. Beyond, a set of stairs sank into filmy darkness below the earth. “You may be Ragnor’s son, but I have known Ragnor for far longer than you. When it comes to where his loyalties lie—”

“Neither of us,” Aeduan interrupted. “The king would sacrifice us both if it meant winning this war.”

Corlant sighed, a frustrated sound, before ultimately conceding, “You are right in that regard, boy. Which is all the more reason for us to cooperate. I need someone found. My men have had no success, but perhaps your … skills will prove more capable.”

Aeduan’s interest was piqued, for anyone this filthy priest wanted found was likely someone of interest—and likely a weakness for Corlant as well.

However, Aeduan forced himself to first ask, “What are my father’s orders?”

“To do whatever I need.” Corlant smiled.

Leaving Aeduan to imagine, once more, smashing the man like an earwig.

“What I need, boy, is for you to find a Nomatsi Threadwitch. Last I heard, she was in a town called Lejna on the Nubrevnan coast.”

Something dark and vile tickled over Aeduan’s skull. “Her name?”

“Iseult det Midenzi.”

The shadows spread down Aeduan’s neck. “Why do you want this girl?”

“That is none of your concern.”

Aeduan moved his hands behind his back, fingers curling into hidden fists. No expression on his face. “What can I know, then? Information helps me track people, and I assume, Priest Corlant, that you want this girl found quickly.”

Corlant’s eyebrows lifted, the three lines returning. “Does this mean we have a deal, boy?”

Aeduan pretended to consider the proposition. Four breaths passed. Then: “Is it not against your oath to work with someone of my … talents?” He didn’t want to declare his power aloud, not among people who opposed magic of any kind.

Corlant understood the implication, though, and anger flashed in his eyes. “You are unholy, yes, but you are also the king’s son—and just as you need something, I need something. I will tell the king your money arrived as planned, and in return, you will hunt down this young woman.”

Aeduan’s fingers flexed taut. The urge to freeze Corlant’s blood—to wrest the answers directly from his throat—pumped through Aeduan’s veins. Questions, however, would only raise more questions.

He nodded. “I understand.”

Corlant’s forehead smoothed out. “Excellent.” He smiled his foul smile and slid a hand beneath the collar of his robe, fumbling with some inner pocket, until at last he withdrew a sharp strip of iron.

A needle arrowhead. Nomatsi in style, and bloodied.

“This is her blood.” Corlant offered the iron to Aeduan, who accepted it, his face carefully impassive. “When you reach her, boy, you will not kill her. She has something that belongs to me, and I want it back. Now tell me, how long until you find her?”

“As long as it takes.”

The smile fell. “Then pray that it happens quickly, before my patience drains. Pray to the Moon Mother or the Cahr Awen or whomever it is you worship.”

“I pray to no one.”

“Your mistake.”

Aeduan pretended not to hear. He was already spinning away.

After all, he had no time for prayer. Particularly since he knew no one ever listened.





SIX

Merik’s steps were long and brisk as he followed Cam’s wet, fuzzy head into Old Town.

He still wasn’t used to her shorn hair—she’d chopped off the braids that all Nubrevnan ship boys wore only that morning. What’s the use in lookin’ like a sailor when I’m not one anymore? she’d asked on their ferry ride into the capital. Besides, this way, no one will recognize me.

Merik wasn’t so sure about that. Though he’d seen others with dappled skin, it was rare—and Cam’s lighter patches were especially pronounced against her dark skin. Plus, with that mangled scar on her left hand, she wasn’t a person one was likely to forget.

She kept her hood low like Merik did, as they trekked onward through storm-soaked streets. Here in Old Town, in the northwest corner of the city and miles west of Judgment Square, the buildings sagged in on each other. Four families were often crammed into a single narrow house, and the streets seethed with humanity. Here, Merik could find shelter and ready himself for the trip to Pin’s Keep.