Page 41 of Bloodwitch
Between one heartbeat and the next, rain and storm and shouts from the outpost battered against him. The world sharpened, a flood of color and light. And the pain—it fled back like rain sucked into sand. Aeduan could breathe. He could see, and it crashed into him so fast, he almost fell against the nearest wall.
By the Wells, he was reborn.
Hands braced on the bricks, Aeduan inhaled until his lungs pressed against his ribs. Only now could he truly comprehend how much pain there had been. How much his spine had furled since last night. How much he had stumbled and slurred and fought to stay conscious.
He exhaled, savoring how free the air felt, how easily his muscles now moved. Then he inhaled once more, and this time, he summoned his magic. It roared to life, no skips or skitters. Monk and acolyte blood-scents clamored against him, each as unique and distinctive as the bodies and minds they belonged to.
Back through the cloister, now empty, he trekked. Rain pelted the crops. Mist clogged the covered walkway, and by the time he entered the crowded common room, where available assignments were nailed to the wall, lightning splintered overhead.
In the back of his mind, it occurred to Aeduan that this was anunseasonable thunderstorm. Particularly since Tirla so rarely saw them.
Inside the common room, the plank walls were divided into ten sections. Directly to Aeduan’s left was tier one, and slips of paper covered every surface—not so different from the old way. Short-term contracts, he supposed, would also pay the least. Tier two and three were almost as heavily papered, yet rather than the typical cluster of monks poring over assignments at these lower levels, every monk in the room was glued to the right side.
Tier ten.
White cloaks, some dripping, some dry, blended together as each person leaned in close, craning to read an assignment staked to the wood. Whatever it was, it must be worth a lot of money. In the past, Aeduan would have marched straight for it, shoving aside the others and pleased when they glared and called himdemon. Today, though, he simply aimed for the left.
Two tier ones, a tier two, and a tier four. As he scanned the scraps of paper, written in all hands and varied languages, he found his wrists had started rolling. Round and round and round again. Standing here, choosing from assignments—reading about overdue debts and missing livestock, about seafire requisitions or short-term guard postings near the border—was exactly why he had taken that position with Guildmaster Yotiluzzi two years ago. He had wanted the coin; he had wanted to leave.
You could leave now,his mind nudged.Take the items and never pay.After all, he had no loyalty to the Monastery. No plans to ever return. But… there were uses to the opal in his ear. To the cloak upon his back. There were uses to these outposts too, and if he did not pay his debts, those uses would be denied.
He plucked two tier ones off the wall. Both were near the city; both could be handled before tomorrow’s dawn even brightened the sky.
“You surprise me, Bloodwitch.”
Aeduan’s jaw ticced. He did not need to turn to know who now stood beside him.Speed and daisy chains, mother’s kisses and sharpened steel.
“Not going for the tier ten?”
Slowly, Aeduan turned to face Lizl. Her amber brown skin glistened with rainwater. Her white cloak dripped to the floor. She was tall, but he refused to lift his chin to meet her eyes. He simply rolled his gaze upward, expression flat, and said, “No.”
“Why not?” She offered a smug grin, arms folding casually. Her posture was misleading in its ease. She was the best mercenary monk out of the hundreds at the Monastery.
Except for Aeduan. He still had her beat.
“Ten thousand talers.” She counted off a single finger. Then a second and a third finger as she added, “Plus twenty thousand piestrasandtwenty-five thousand cleques. That’s enough money to buy a kingdom, and it’s an open assignment, too.”
Open assignments meant anyone could try to complete them, and they remained open until they were done. There had never been one in all of Aeduan’s years of mercenary work. Nor had he ever heard of one with such a high price attached.
It did not change his mind, though.
“I have no interest.”
“Good. Because I intend to do it.”
“I do not care.”
“You should.” She laughed, a sound like breaking glass. “So beware, Bloodwitch, because if you cross my path again, I will destroy you.” With a parting smirk she spun around—cloak spraying Aeduan with rain—and stalked from the common room.
Aeduan did not watch her go. Like everything else around here, she had not changed at all in two years. Never mind that he had not crossed her path on purpose, that he had no interest in the tier ten, and never mind that she could not destroy him even if she wanted to. Lizl hated him; she had always hated him; she always would.
In a flurry of speed, Aeduan grabbed the first assignments he saw on the tier two and tier four walls. Then he left the common room and its huddled monks to finish what he had come here to do: he went to the Shrine of the Fallen.
Underground, as all Carawen shrines were, rain dripped down thesteps leading from the cloister. A puddle splashed at the bottom. Thunder chased behind. Aeduan followed a tunnel deeper into the earth, until at last he reached the stone room, a miniature version of the massive underground catacombs at the Monastery. Low, vaulted ceilings flickered with candlelight, while the black marble hexagon at the heart of the room absorbed all light.
As wide as Aeduan was tall, the marble slab reached his mid-thigh. Four monks knelt around it, each reciting their vows at their own speed. Aeduan had no plans to join them. He had not known the man who had died. He wanted this errand complete.
A fifth monk stepped from the shadows. It was required that all monks serve at a Shrine of the Fallen for a year, and most waited until old age before fulfilling the duty. This monk, though, was young. Perhaps no more than a decade past Aeduan.
