Windwitch (The Witchlands #2)v(66)

She hit boulders, she hit substrate, she hit waves so hard they felt solid. Her ankles snagged on rocks, on branches. A thousand unseen claws in the riverbed. Each time the foamy rapids spat her out so she could gulp in air, they instantly sucked her down again.

Until Iseult hit something that hit back. The world punched from her mind. Then her body snapped around backward. All wrong, yet held fast by something.

Iseult snapped open her eyes, fighting the river’s pound against her face. She saw nothing, but she felt hands. Arms.

Him. It had to be. No one else was Threadless.

No one else was this strong.

The Amonra was stronger yet. Always stronger. It yanked the Bloodwitch—and Iseult with him—onward. Lifted them to the surface … and smashed them back down.

Air, Iseult thought. It was the only thought she could manage. Stars flashed, stars burst. A booming to fill her skull.

But something else was wriggling into her pinpointed awareness. Something rumbling, something violent.

Something she and the Bloodwitch absolutely could not survive: the Amonra Falls.

When her numbed toes hit gravel sediment, Iseult dug in. The river heaved at her, but she pressed deeper. Behind her the Bloodwitch realized what she did and imitated, heels shoveling down.

He blocked her from the current’s teeth, and Iseult reached with ice-block hands for anything to grab on to. Frantic now. Air, air. Her knuckles grazed stone. Distantly, she felt the skin tear open—and she also felt the Bloodwitch lose his grip. The river would reclaim them soon.

Air, air.

Whatever had cut her knuckles was a protrusion on a tall column of stone. She grabbed hold with frozen fingers. Just in time. Aeduan’s hold on the sediment gave way; the river snapped him onward.

He held tight to Iseult, though, and Iseult held tight to the rock. Her muscles screamed, her sockets popped.

Aeduan clambered around Iseult. One hand, large and rough, closed over hers—locking her grip in place, and anchoring him too, as he grabbed at the same stone.

Air, air.

He found another handhold. He pulled; Iseult pushed; and up they moved, inch by inch. Iseult anchoring. Aeduan grappling. The river towing.

Until at last the Amonra released them both. Until at last they broke the surface, and air, air, air coursed over them.

Iseult had just enough time to glance around—craggy outcropping, waterfall below, coughing Bloodwitch beside her—before she collapsed to the wet granite and the world went blessedly quiet.

*

For what had felt like hours, Aeduan simply lay on the granite, breathing, while the river churned past and the Amonra’s icy bite faded from his bones. The Amonra’s roar, however, never died.

Eventually, the Threadwitch sat up, so Aeduan sat up too. The Red Sails who’d hunted them were gone. No scents lurked nearby—theirs or anyone else’s.

“Wait here,” Aeduan said, his voice waterlogged. “I’ll be back soon.”

At the girl’s silent nod, Aeduan stretched his magic to its maximum reach, and then he scouted the area for a safe place to hide. For a spot where no human blood hit his nose, where no man had walked for ages.

What he found were ancient ruins. Built into the cliffside, more forest than fortress, whoever had left these granite walls and columns, they were lost to time now. Old carvings had eroded to inscrutable grooves. Floors and roofs had been replaced by roots and branches, tiles and mosaics had been replaced by lichen and fungus.

But it was defensible, hugging the cliff as it did, and it was hidden. A thorough sniff around the place yielded nothing but animal scents. The rook had passed this way, but not men. Not slavers.

When Aeduan returned to the slick granite, he uttered only the words, “This way,” but she understood. She followed. Away from the waterfall, away from the river, away from any blood-scent belonging to men.

Descending the steep hillside was slow. A constant back-and-forth in the only way the terrain would allow. Finally, the first monoliths crooked up from the earth, and the ground flattened into narrow, overgrown steppes. Here, men had carved the cliff to their liking. Here, enormous cypresses had taken root unimpeded.

The Threadwitch never spoke on the hike. Her breath came in curt gulps. She clearly needed rest; she clearly needed food. So though Aeduan’s muscles sang with the urge to move faster, he kept his pace slow. Manageable.

Until they finally reached the heart of the ruins. It was the only space with four walls still standing. Admittedly, vines and mushrooms had laid claim to the granite and there was no roof to top it off, but walls were walls. Most people liked them.

Then again, the Threadwitch wasn’t most people.

She sank to the stone and mud-earth and hugged her knees to her chest. Despite the heat sweltering here, she shivered.

“Why does he hunt you?” Aeduan’s hoarse words split the living silence of the place.

“Who?” the Threadwitch asked, her voice haggard and muffled by her knees. She lifted her head. There was a cut on her brow that Aeduan hadn’t seen before.

“The Purist priest,” Aeduan answered. “Corlant.”

To his surprise, her breath hitched. She clutched at her right biceps, and something like fear flashed across her face.

It was the most expressive he’d ever seen the Threadwitch. A sign her careful control had crumbled beneath exhaustion. Aeduan hadn’t known it was possible.

This girl had fought Aeduan—tricked him and broken his spine. She had battled city guards and faced cleaved Poisonwitches head-on, yet never had Aeduan seen her show fear.