Page 122 of Bloodwitch
The sounds of the insurgent battle faded the deeper they went, and Iseult took this as a good sign. The rock formations smoothed out too, and the air turned colder. A sharp bite that she hoped meant winds ahead.
Then she felt actual wind against her face, crisp and frozen, and gradually, light began to suffuse the stone. Iseult’s gait quickened. Even drained as she was, she had done it. She had gotten away. Whatever Evrane had become, whatever the Abbot had wanted, and whatever the Rook King truly was—none of that mattered.
She had escaped, and now she and Leopold would find Owl. Then they would find Safi.
The tunnel’s end gaped before them, gray and frozen. A Threadwitching night, the light bright enough to send spots skating across Iseult’s vision as she approached.
She was running now, Leopold’s footsteps pumping behind her. Marshy shoreline waited just ahead. So close.
They reached the exit. They hurried through.
And that was when Iseult sensed the Threads. That was when she saw the people fifty paces away. Twenty figures in heavy furs crouching amidst the frozen reeds, all bound by faint blue Threads. People with the same magic, working together. They gaped at Iseult and Leopold, their Threads shifting to a uniform glaring surprise.
Except for one man. The only man standing separate from the group, he had not noticed Iseult or Leopold skittering to a halt upon the shore. He held a large curved horn to his lips, and a fraction of a heartbeat later, the horn sounded. A clear, startling call. Three short blasts.
At the fourth long drawl, the twenty others shot to their feet, axes and blades thrust high. Then they roared, Threads blaring to violent steel, and charged right for Leopold and Iseult.
FORTY-EIGHT
The Northman’s blade punched through Esme’s chest. Blood sprayed. He yanked back. She fell, gasping. Shocked. Silent.
Merik lunged forward, unsure why he felt the need to catch the Puppeteer before she hit the ground. His body acted without thought. He pulled her into his arms; her blood gushed across him.
“The Loom,” she choked out. “Bring me closer to the Loom.”
Merik did not bring her closer to the Loom. “You must stay still,” he said, but she fought him then, clawing and coughing:Loom, Loom, Loom.
The Northman lunged, his arm reared back to stab her again.
“No!” Merik dropped Esme roughly to the ground. He snapped tall and raised his hands. “No hurt!”
The Northman frowned. Blood dripped from his knife, brighter than the tassels. “Help,” he said, clearly confused. “Help. Go.” He waved to the trees. “Help.”
On the grass, Esme began to weep. Blood—there was so much blood. “Loom,” she whispered again, clutching at Merik’s leg. “Bring me to my Loom.”
Still, Merik did not bring her to the Loom. He knew, viscerally and logically, that this was his chance to flee. That this was a gift fromNoden not to be tossed away. Yet for some reason, his feet felt rooted to the spot. His eyes rooted on a dying girl beside him.
Blood, blood. There was so much blood, and Merik felt no triumph at the sight of it. No relief at Esme’s face, taut with pain, or at her chest shaking while she tried to breathe.
He felt only pity. There might still be a person inside all that hate. After all, she did not bleed so differently than he did.
Nubrevna. His homeland flickered through the back of his mind, and with it came the memory of crowded streets and soaring bridges where ships sailed home. It was the one place he had always believed in, the one thing that had always made sense.
Letting the Puppeteer destroy it, letting the Raider King or the Fury destroy it—that did not make sense.
Esme might bleed as he did, but so did everyone else around them. All these Cleaved, all these people who had once had lives and families and loved ones of their own. She had destroyed them, just as she would destroy Nubrevna too.
Unless Merik did something to stop it. He would not kill her. Esme had cleaved Kullen; she might end up being the only way toun-cleave him too. Merik also had no idea what might happen to her Loom or to her Cleaved if she died. What if they died with her?
That was a risk he couldn’t take. And with that thought, he finally moved. With gentle hands, he carried Esme to the Well, to her Loom. She gasped, she convulsed, and her blood sank deeper into the grass. He could do nothing to heal her, but maybe her Cleaved could.
Merik turned to the Northman. “Go,” he said. “Now wego.” For of course, if Esme’s Cleaved could save her, they could also hunt down Merik.
The Northman did not argue. He let Merik wrench him around and haul him toward the main path, and when Merik pushed into a run, he also kicked up his knees. Their feet thundered down the hill, over variegated shadows cast by a bright, oblivious moon in a bright, oblivious sky. Trunks streaked in the corners of Merik’s vision. Cleaved, too, immobile without their Puppeteer to guide them.
Merik didn’t know where he was going—away, away. That was the extent of his plan. Away from the Well and Esme, and once his magic felt strong enough, away from Poznin entirely.
They reached the bottom of the hill. Moonlight beamed over them and streets snaked off in different directions. Merik slowed to a stop, already panting. He leaned on his knees while the Northman did the same, and swung his gaze in each direction.
