Page 136 of Witchshadow
And just as it had happened a thousand years ago, stone erupted against him. Bricks from the tower, pebbles from the ground, boulders and rubble and soil filled with worms. They crashed around him, hard and unyielding, until he was fully encased. Until his legs, his arms, even his head could not move.
Not again. His lungs collapsed. His vision crossed. Not again, not again. He had been held like this before, and then the blade had pierced through. Not again,not again.
He wriggled and pried, he shoved and hissed. But his Bloodwitchery—even with the first soul’s help—was no match for Saria’s magic. She strode into view, walking like a queen. A familiar black bird stood on her shoulder. Its beak clacked, and no, no, no. Aeduan remembered that sound too.
But this was not that moment, and Saria held no Paladin blade. It was only her and the bird and the silence of a wintry forest. She raked her ancient gaze up Aeduan’s stone-bound form. “You were never the worst of them, but you still chose wrong in the end.”
“Free… me,” Aeduan gritted out. Stone compressed his throat. Each breath tasted of nightmares.Not again, not again.
“I will.” She nodded. “Eventually. When I feel certain you’ve chosen correctly this time. I think you already have, but I prefer to have a guarantee. So consider this a reminder of what I can do to you.”
Before Aeduan could ask what that meant, the Rook leaped off Saria’s shoulder. Two quick flaps, and the bird thunked onto Aeduan’s head. Vaguely, Aeduan’s magic sensed forest fog atop freedom. Then the Rook squawked, a sound to rattle in his eardrums and shake the stones that chained him.
It was the sound he’d heard just before his death. Before pain and shadow overwhelmed him. Before the waters of a thousand years had dragged him down. Except this time, there was no Rook King to say,It was not supposed to be this way.There was only his bird, gloating and gleeful.
And suddenly understanding notched into place. Why the Rook King had been waiting for Evrane when she’d awoken. Why he had said,It is good to have you back.
The power of the Aether. The power to place souls where he willed—thatwas how Aeduan had come into this world again, into this body. The first Monk Evrane had entered the Water Well to heal, and the Rook King had done his work. Then the first Aeduan had stepped into the Aether Well, and the Rook King had acted again. Old souls placed into new homes.
It was not a permanent solution, though, and as easily as the Rook King had given the old soul a body, he could also take it away.
Which meant Corlant’s promises of new bodies were hollow. He could no more touch the work of the Rook King than the Rook King could touch the wind. But of course Corlant would lie; that had always been Portia’s way.
“So you have figured it out,” Saria said with a sly grin. “I knew you would eventually. Still, one cannot be too careful.” She raised a single hand. Then a second squawk shattered over Aeduan—and with it came the sound of stone against stone. Of gravel rising, ready to choke and claim and crush and end.
Moments later, Aeduan’s mouth was covered. His nose, his eyes. His everything. He could not see, he could not move. And it did not take long before darkness swept in.
She chose me.
She chose me.
Impossible.
Gretchya had entered the fight and chosen to save Iseult. Yet even as Iseult watched her mother fling up her blade, a tiny figure against a monster wreathed in shadow, her mind could not accept it.
She chose me. She chose me. Impossible.
Then her mother bellowed with a voice to shred and to break, “No one touches my daughter!” And a tiny sliver of truth cut into Iseult’s heart.
Not impossible.
The sliver cut deeper. It curved beneath her left lung and latched on.
And the shadow wyrm seemed as surprised as Iseult. As if the same word—“impossible”—sang through its mind too. Cyan speckled over silver Threads, and it paused its attack. Mouth open and shadows near enough for Gretchya to touch.
Even the winter coiling off its body seemed to pause. There was only Iseult and Gretchya and this monster.
Except it didn’t look so monstrous now. Tucked beneath the shadows were two eyes, dark as a new moon and just as fathomless. And tucked within those eyes was understanding. It knew what mothers were; it recognized what Gretchya had dared to do, and perhaps it was even a mother too.
It was all the time Gretchya needed. With hands that had carried Iseult and guided her, had fought for her and endured, she hauled Iseult to her feet. Then she braced an arm behind her daughter’s back and together, they limped away.
The shadow wyrm let them. Though whether by choice or by circumstance, Iseult would never know, for now the concerted efforts of the Nomatsi witches had turned on it. Now it had new targets to keep it busy, new people on which to feed.
“Alma,” Iseult tried to say, but her throat had rusted and the battle was too loud. New winds, new flames, new screams from a shadow wyrm to drown the world in its pain. Gretchya had already aimed them toward the other girl anyway. To the body, now lying upon the snow while Corlant leered.
Blood, blood, great swaths of red stained the white and stained the crumbled stones.
“Her Threads linger,” Corlant said. He turned his bruised eye first on Iseult. Then on Gretchya. Then onto the chaos unraveling around them, as if he’d only just noticed the wind and flame, the stone and ice, the water and fury ripping across the encampment.
