“I will not go easily,” she told him honestly.
“And,” began a new voice, cutting through the snow as sharp as a north wind, “she will not go alone.” Then Iseult moved into position beside Safi. No more smoke around her, no more ice. Awake and glowing in this tower surrounded by storm.
Initiate, complete.
* * *
The Old One had never fought in a storm before—had never fought without sight to guide him. The first Bloodwitch, however, knew exactly what to do as Purists closed in on Gretchya.
There was memory in his muscles if he was willing to listen and let them move free.
A woman with sallow skin loose upon her bones charged Gretchya with a hatchet. A young man with a black beard lunged in with two blades. Behind them, more bodies—mindless husks—coalesced within the snow. Aeduan knew not why they attacked their master’s Heart-Thread. It was as if they were cleaved, no longer in control of their minds. He could only guess that the storm and Sirmaya’s sapped power had driven them to this chaotic thirst for blood.
Aeduan dealt with all of them. He ducked, he spun, he grabbed arms and levered bodies. He kicked at any knees near enough to reach and hammer-fisted at noses or throats or ears. Duck, spin, lever, kick. Elbows, feet, knees, and flat-palmed hands. His body moved in a blur of magic-fueled speed through an unnatural storm that chomped with ice teeth.
One by one the Purists fell, yet not a one of them died.
Distantly, as bodies poured in with the snow and sleet and winds, and as Aeduan’s muscles moved with a forgotten harmony, he noticed that each defense the first Bloodwitch called on was only meant to disable. Each attack was only meant to gain time.
The first Bloodwitch was merciful. He had a power to dominate men, yet he’d never used it that way.
What a waste, Aeduan thought as he flipped a man to the cold earth. These Purists would all rise again, driven by Corlant’s command. Their deaths would be so much better for the dark-giver’s safety—and so much better for Aeduan’s own. Already, he smelled that the first woman had risen again. Already she’d resumed her steady hunt for Gretchya. But Aeduan could not go after her. There were too many. Purists of every age, every gender, every race.
He should be angry at the first Aeduan. He should hate this weakness and curse these muscles that betrayed. There was no order in mercy; only chaos in an already turbulent storm. And yet, with each twirl and kick, each grab and bend, Aeduan let the muscles’ memories rise higher. A strange warmth had settled over him. A foreign certainty that cemented around his bones and pumped his magic harder, faster.
More and more bodies fell. More and more bodies got up again. Until eventually he realized the storm had fallen away. He was no longer in the camp, but back at the spruce tree where he’d found Iseult and the child. There was the icy stream, snow vanishing into its dark waters, and on the bank Gretchya had dropped the young Threadwitch’s corpse.
She held her knife aloft again, except it was not aimed at Aeduan but at a figure in white stalking from the trees on the stream’s other side.
And it was only then that Aeduan caught the new scent against his magic. Crisp spring water and salt-lined cliffs. He did not think but simply moved, sprinting with heightened muscles past Gretchya, past the corpse stiff as stone, and then over the stream in a bounding leap.
He sank to the snow on the other side, catching himself on one knee, and pinned his gaze on the woman who had once been his mentor but was now as tormented as he.
Evrane smiled. A foreign thing that clashed with her blood-scent and grated against the memories pumping in Aeduan’s limbs. “I see you have changed sides.”
“I see you have not.”
Evrane sniffed and lifted her sword slightly. She had paused ten paces away, but now she advanced again, circling left. Aiming for a fallen tree that would give her higher ground.
Aeduan let her have it and did not rise.
She frowned, almost disappointed. “You will not fight me?”
“I do not need to.” It was true: he could control her blood. Choke off her heart, her brain. But just as the first Aeduan had let his mentor remain untouched, months ago on a Nubrevnan cliff, this Aeduan let the Old One be.
And though he told himself it was because the first Aeduan pushed through, whispering to him of mercy, he knew it was not true. Not entirely, at least, for there was only silence in his brain, save for a conscience newly grown.
Evrane’s frown deepened to a sneer. “Still you are the weakest.” She stomped her boots. Two blades sliced free at the toes. Then she leaped at Aeduan.
He swept sideways. Her blade sang past his ears—fast enough to carve him in two. But not fast enough to beat his Bloodwitchery. He shot up the log in a single leap, legs scissoring as he passed her. His foot hit her spine. She stumbled forward, hitting the snow on one knee, toe blade dragging.
He could have ended her then. But he didn’t, and that truth made her scream as she thrust back to her feet. “Fight me.” She brandished her blade. “Quit being a coward and fight me.” She charged, sword swiping.
Aeduan skipped backward again. Once, twice. Each attack he avoided, and each moment for retaliation he let slip by. “We are not enemies.”
“We are since you betrayed us.”
“Portia is the enemy.”
“He is not Portia.”
“Of course he is.”
A strangled snarl. More arcs of silver steel. More snow to settle on her hair and shining cloak. Aeduan had thought Evrane Moon Mother when she had saved him as a boy. The first Aeduan, that was.
Ah, the Old One thought. There you are to join me.
I never left, Aeduan replied, and the Old One found himself smiling.
“Stop that,” Evrane barked, following Aeduan over roots and into the trees. “Stop smiling and fight me.”
“Why?” He bounded around a hemlock and opened his empty hands, briefly whirling about to face her.
She lashed out with her sword, aiming for his calves. But he easily slipped behind her and grabbed her in a choke hold.
“You can still change your mind, Evrane. Now that you know he is not truly Midne.”
“It changes … nothing,” she forced out. “So what if Corlant is an Exalted One? We are too, in case you have forgotten.”
“I have not.” He squeezed his forearm against her throat. “And I no longer like what I remember.”
She dropped her sword. It thumped, a sound muffled by snow.
“Why do you want to die?” he asked. She was so sturdy against him, her browned Nubrevnan skin a sharp contrast to his half-Nomatsi pallor. “You know that if I truly fight you, you will not win.”
She did not answer right away, though she could have. Blood might drain from her brain, but her lungs and throat, tongue and mouth still functioned. He felt them shivering like she had words she wanted to say. Then at last: “I see … why everyone loves the dark-giver.” Her neck wobbled against his forearm. “She looks like Her when She came out of the Sleeping Lands. I never loved Her, though. Not like everyone else did, so I do not want to bring Her back. I do not want our power to end or to be weak like you.”
“Mercy,” Aeduan said, “is not a weakness. You taught me that, Monk Evrane. And now I will teach it to you.” He squeezed more tightly with the forearm against her throat, waiting for her blood to stop its ascent. A careful, patient choke, for the careful, patient soul that he hoped still lived within.