Page 39 of Bloodwitch
He grabbed them—and other items too. Anything that looked like a rock, anything small or round or within grabbing distance, he stuffed into his pockets. He could scarcely see. He certainly couldn’t think, and every nerve inside him was aflame.
Good boy,she crooned once his pockets were full. Now walk.
Merik walked.
SIXTEEN
The walk through Tirla was a tedious hike. Though Iseult’s salves and tinctures had eased some of Aeduan’s pain, they were slow to act—and most would need several days of application to have any effect. At least, that was what Aeduan assumed according to how normal people healed.
How strange. He never thought he would be lumped with normal people. When he was young, it had been all he’d wanted. Now, he hated it.
Winds hastened around him, driving him faster. Clouds scudded in. A storm would break before he could complete this errand if he didn’t hurry.
When at last the lake’s front came into view, waves choppy, Aeduan steeled his spine. Inhaled, exhaled.Not my mind, not my body.Then he rounded onto the main quay, crowded even at sunset, and approached the outpost with as sure-footed a stride as he could manage.
The tall building wedged between a public stable and a mapmaker’s shop had changed little in the last two years. It bore the same weather-stained limestone front, the same rook-and-tree sigil over the entrance, smoothed away to a featureless oval form, and the same heavy oaken door with no latch on the outside.
He knocked once. An eye-level slat hissed wide. Dark eyes peered through, flicking first to Aeduan’s face, then to the opal in Aeduan’s left ear.
“Good enough,” came a muffled voice from the other side, and in a squeal of hinges—also unchanged—the door swung open to reveal the monk on the other side. Unfamiliar but typically wizened. Outpost guard assignments were comfortable, well paid, and perfect for mercenary monks well past their prime.
“You look like shit,” the man said.
“I feel like shit,” Aeduan replied, earning a bark of laughter as he limped into the cloister beyond. Acolytes, their white cowls turned to gray beneath the gathering storm, tended neat rows of cabbage, beets, and carrots. Lucky bastards. Aeduan had applied six times for a remote training position. Anything to get away from the Monastery.
He had never been approved, and in hindsight, he supposed it was to be expected. No one trusted a Bloodwitch. No one trusted a demon.
Aiming right, he circled the garden until he reached the requisitions shop. The beet and carrot leaves thrashed on the wind. Thunder hummed in the distance.
“You,” came a surprised voice as Aeduan stepped inside the store—also unchanged, with its low counter at the back and a wall filled with cubbyholes. The Marstoki woman on the other side who ran this outpost, however,hadchanged: a few more gray hairs around the crown, a few more wrinkles around the eyes.
“It has been a while, Monk,” she said. “And you looked much better back then.”
“Two years.” Aeduan approached the counter. Pain dogged each step, but he could not show it. This woman might have been one of the only monks to ever tolerate him, yet he had no illusions she liked him. He had brought in a great deal of coin for her outpost; monsters were useful like that.
“I was in Dalmotti,” he explained. “On a tier seven. Only just returned.”
“A tier seven. That would explain all the blood, then.” At Aeduan’s confused expression, her thick eyebrows notched up. “Or do you mean it was anoldtier seven?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Incredulity sent her brows even higher. “Have you not heard of the new Abbot’s changes? Assignments are rated by coin now, not length of contract.”
New Abbot. This was the first Aeduan had heard of that.
A startled laugh split the woman’s lips. Aeduan must be doing a poor job of controlling his expressions.
“When was the last time you visited an outpost, Monk?” She leaned onto the counter. “The Elders chose Natan fon Leid as the old man’s replacement over a month ago.”
Aeduan’s head tipped sideways as he chewed on these words. He had not visited an outpost in over two months. The monks in Veñaza City had not been as welcoming as this woman here.
Logical, then, that he had heard nothing of a new Abbot or rating system—and part of him wished he had not learned it now. Natan fon Leid had always been egocentric, even for a Cartorran, and his lust for power had been insatiable growing up. Qualities perfectly suited to the role of Carawen Abbot, but not qualities Aeduan particularly appreciated.
Another laugh from the woman, and she straightened. “Not an admirer, I see?”
“Hmm,” he offered in reply, annoyed his face seemed beyond control. It was taking all his effort to simply remain standing. Managing expressions too… He had no idea how the Threadwitch did it.
“Do you have Painstones?” he asked.
