Windwitch (The Witchlands #2)v(29)

Behind Safi, the sounds of struggle continued. Vaness’s cries and kicks. Zander’s grunts and clanking armor. Safi scarcely noticed. All she could do was absorb the Chiseled Cheater’s face and try to assemble the pieces of a story she didn’t understand.

Perhaps if she’d had a chance at actual escape, she would have tried. Perhaps if she’d seen a way to wrestle Vaness from Zander’s grasp and that cursed collar, Safi would have tried that too.

But that wasn’t the terrain before her, and she had too many questions churning to life like a stirred-up wasps’ nest.

Which was why Safi didn’t notice when Lev returned from her excursion to the settlement. It was why Safi didn’t try to fight when Lev emerged directly behind her and kicked out her knee. Then, when the Chiseled Cheater, wincing, hefted up his helmet and became the Hell-Bard commander once more, Safi simply observed mutely. Even when they wound a rope around her ankles so she couldn’t run or kick or fight, she let them.

Yet when the commander wrenched Safi around and growled, “Nice try, Heretic,” Safi finally reacted. She grinned.

It had been a nice try, and worth the swelling right knee. Because she had learned more about her opponents than she’d ever expected. She knew the giant was strong but slow. The commander favored his right side in a fight because he was hurt—and his old wounds could clearly be reopened.

Best of all, Safi knew the Hell-Bards wouldn’t hurt her. The commander could have as soon as the fight had begun. He could have sliced her open—just enough to slow her, and Lev could have taken Safi down with a lot more force than she’d actually used.

Yet neither Hell-Bard had hurt Safi or Vaness. Which meant they wanted both women alive. Unharmed. Or rather, the Emperor of Cartorra wants us alive and unharmed.

It gave Safi power, even with her legs bound and the empress collared.

The next time Lady Fate offered up an opportunity, Safi would be ready.

*

The sun was hidden by rain clouds when Aeduan awoke. He couldn’t gauge how long he’d been out, but he was certain it was longer than he ever allowed himself. His magic had demanded energy from somewhere, and when food wasn’t an option, unconsciousness it had to be.

It had been a shallow sleep. The kind where dreams fused with reality. Where he thought he was awake, but upon actual waking, he could see how strange the world had been. Bear traps as big as a man. Pine needles sticky with a blood that would never dry. Rain to flay off fresh skin.

And the scent of silver talers, ever present in Aeduan’s nose.

His eyes snapped wide. With his new muscles protesting and the skin stretching too tightly, Aeduan hauled himself into a sitting position. His clothes were soaked through.

A quick glance around the area showed nothing save a gray sky rippling overhead and fresh mud all around, while a quick inhale revealed nothing dangerous near. He turned his attention to his healed leg. The breeches were shredded, and the new pink wet skin gleamed in the cloudy light. It itched, but he ignored that, instead crawling stiffly on all fours toward the talers.

The bag hadn’t moved since Aeduan’s blind stumble into the bear trap. With his hands trembling ever so slightly from exhaustion, he lifted the sack and peered inside.

A branch cracked.

Aeduan lurched to his feet. His vision spun, yet he smelled no one.

“Don’t move,” said a voice in Nomatsi. Directly behind him.

The Threadwitch. Of course it would be her, yet Aeduan couldn’t decide if Lady Fate was favoring him or cursing him.

He chose the latter when the Threadwitch said, “I removed your knives. They’re hidden.”

In his mindless drive for the coins, he’d entirely forgotten the blades. Fool.

He twisted toward her, calling in Dalmotti, “I do not need my knives to kill you, Threadwitch.” Rain began to pelt his neck, his scalp.

The girl expelled a harsh breath before circling into the clearing. She wore Aeduan’s cloak, turned inside out. Smart, even if it was against Monastery rules. One step became ten, until she paused at what would have been a safe distance against anyone but a Bloodwitch. Aeduan could tackle her before she blinked.

Instead, he let his arms hang limp at his sides. He could attack, but information was better earned through conversation. At least so Monk Evrane always said.

Then again, Monk Evrane had also said this girl was half the Cahr Awen, that mythical pair their Monastery was sworn to protect. Aeduan found it unlikely, though—not merely that this girl could be half of that pair, but that the Cahr Awen even existed.

“Where are the rest of my coins, Threadwitch?”

No answer, and for three heartbeats they simply eyed each other through the rain. Droplets streaked down her face, leaving trails of white amid the dirt. She looked thinner than two weeks before. Her cheekbones poked through transparent skin, her eyes sagged.

“Where are the rest of my coins?” Aeduan repeated. “And how did you get them?”

Her nose wiggled. A sign, Aeduan guessed, that she was thinking.

The rain fell heavier now, pooling atop the mud. Rolling down the Monastery cloak that Aeduan wanted back. His own filthy wool coat was sodden through.

As if following his thoughts, the girl said in Nomatsi, “I’ve found us shelter.”

“Us?” Aeduan asked, still in Dalmotti. “What do you think this is, Threadwitch?”