Page 81 of Bloodwitch
“That tall spire there,” Iseult said, pointing to a black tower twice as high as everything else, “was built a thousand years ago. And there, do you see that lower wall circling the Monastery? It’s wide enough for twenty men to move side by side.On horseback.Oh, and look—that slope-roofed building over there. That’s the great hall, where they have glass stained in every color you can imagine.
“And, oh look!” Iseult’s voice came out breathy and thick with emotion—a shame to every Threadwitch in the Witchlands. “Thatisland,” she said reverently, “is where the Origin Well stands.” She pointed to a wide silver streak bisecting the valley, and to a long, crescent-shaped island at its heart.
She knew from her book that the Well itself stood nestled at the southern edge, and that six downy birches stood sentry, their leaves green even in winter. The Well, meanwhile, stayed frozen year round. In the summer, when the Nomatsi caravans arrived on pilgrimage, it would take them a full day of cutting through the ice to retrieve the Well’s healing waters. It was only a few inches thick, but hard as granite.
“What are you telling her?” Leopold queried, moving to join them. The breeze pulled at his curls. The sun turned his eyes a sharp, clover green.
“I’m showing her the Origin Well,” Iseult explained, eyes narrowing at the sight of his Threads. The serenity on his face no longer matched his feelings. His earlier calm was gone, replaced by a rich, yellow worry.
“What’s wrong?” she asked quietly, tone intentionally light for Owl’s sake.
Leopold blinked. Then grimaced. “I can hide nothing from you, can I?”
“We had an agreement.”
“That disproportionately favorsyou.”
“If you would simply show me your true feelings, then it would not be a problem.”
“But Iseult,” he countered, spreading his hands, “true feelings are dangerous. Did you not know?”
“So is trying to run from them.”
“Ah.” Again, he blinked, Threads doused beneath a rich, almost icy blue. As if her words had surprised him like cold water dashed against the face.
And when he looked at her again, there was something akin to respect in his expression.
“To answer your question,” he drawled, cocking his head casually toward a craggy slope coming into view. It stood opposite the Monastery, and above the river snaking between. “That army of raiders has me… onedge.”
Iseult followed his gaze, about to ask,What raiders?But then she saw, and her breath hitched. Clustered amidst the forest were hundreds of tents with a hundred more smoke spirals whipping away on the breeze—and that was only the start. Countless more spirals lifted up from the snow-covered trees, suggesting countless more tents waiting unseen.
“Why are they here?” Her voice came out shrill with surprise, prompting Owl to glance up—and prompting worry to sparkle in her Threads. Iseult forced a tight smile.
“You pose an excellent question,” Leopold murmured. “For which there is no excellent answer. As far as anyone can guess, the Raider King is waiting for the river to freeze. Then he will march his forces south. Andwewill be very glad we are inside the Monastery and not down there beside them.” He flashed a warm grin for Owl, much smoother than Iseult’s had been.
“Can they see us?” Iseult asked.
A curt head shake. “The sky-ferry is glamoured. The monks, however, can most certainly see us, and…” He trailed off. Then as one, his body and Threads stiffened. “Move.” He flung his arms around Iseult, yanked her from the rail, and thrust her toward the pulley.
She fell to her knees beside the gears. Owl screamed. Iseult turned…
And she saw what Leopold had seen: a trebuchet winding back, a great ball of flame clutched in its sling. It was aimed for the sky-ferry.
Leopold pushed Owl toward Iseult, and Iseult pulled the girl close.
Crack!The massive arm snapped. Fire launched their way.
“Hold on!” Leopold bellowed. He dove for the pulley, swooped his arm around Iseult—who swooped an arm around Owl—and then all three held tight.
The fire roared past them. Large as the ferry, hot as the sun. Sparks sprayed onto the wood. Wind scalded against them.
The ferry whooshed sideways, pushed by displaced air. Gravityclawed at Iseult. At Leopold and Owl, but their grips held true.Mountains, canyon, snow, death.
The ferry swung back the other way.
And more fire ignited on the trebuchet. The ferry was closer to the Monastery now; an easier target getting easier by the second.
“Why are they attacking us?” Iseult had to shout over Owl’s howls and the ferry’s shrieking wood.
