Aeduan and Iseult each carried a pack, while Owl clutched Aeduan’s hand. Every shift of their belongings, every groan of a floorboard, every pause in the arguments below, sent Aeduan’s pulse spiking higher. Before they even reached the back stairwell, his fingers were numb from Owl’s squeezing.

Worse, she had started to cry. It was just a soft sniffle for now, broken up by muted whimpers every few seconds, but Aeduan knew a full storm might break loose at any moment. Iseult knew too, and she took the lead, whispering, “There are no Threads ahead.”

They reached the first floor just in time to hear Leopold bellow, “Your superiors will hear about this!” and then Iseult was guiding them for a low door. Boot steps echoed out from the hall as the soldiers stomped up the main stairs.

Aeduan reached for the door’s latch. This was a side entrance to the stable. It had to be, for he sensed horses beyond—the wild blood of freedom and open roads. But Iseult grabbed his wrist. “People. Three of them.”

He flinched. Owl whimpered. How had he missed those people? How had his magic missed them? For Iseult was right: when he drew in a lungful of air, he could smell the faintest flicker of human blood. Weak, though, as if his Painstone were failing him already. As if his witchery were fading, carried away by a curse.

Anger rippled through him. Anger that those arrows could do this to him. Anger that the Painstone had not lasted longer. Anger that Lady Fate had struck so decisively and so fast.

“I will deal with them,” Aeduan said, the words a snarl beneath his breath. He opened the latch.

Again, Iseult grabbed him. Wariness flickered in her eyes. “Aeduan.”

His anger flashed hotter. “I will not hurt them.”

“It’s not them I’m worried about.” Her fingers tightened on his forearm. Five pressure points he wished would let go.

And that he also wished would stay.

Then Iseult did release him. “Owl, come to me.”

For once, the child obeyed, and after easing his pack to the floor, Aeduan crept into the stable. Pine shavings and horse filled his nostrils. A comforting smell, were it not laced with human blood. Three distinctive scents that grew sharper with each of his cautious breaths. Wind-flags and winter. That came from the nearest stall, and with it the sound of water dripping down. “Damned storm,” a girl muttered. Two stalls later, where the stable bent left, waited another scent. Cinnamon and horsehair.

But the third scent, the third—no amount of inhales was pulling the third scent to Aeduan. Perhaps the stable hand had left.

“May I help you, sir?”

Instincts laid claim to Aeduan’s muscles. He spun, he kicked, his boot heel connected with a jaw. A crunch sounded, and before Aeduan could lower his foot, the stable hand crashed to the hay-strewn floor.

Blood filled Aeduan’s nose. No missing it now, fresh and free. Cut grass and birdsong. Warm blankets and bedtime stories.

A boy. The person Aeduan had felled was only a boy, and now his jaw was broken. Pain watered in his eyes—dark eyes that held Aeduan’s while his dangling mouth tried to form shouts of alarm. Betrayal. Horror.

Heat coiled into Aeduan’s fists. Demon, monster. He couldn’t escape what he truly was. “Stay down,” he ordered before whipping away.

The boy did stay down, but distorted cries left his throat. The horses stamped and snuffed. The remaining hands hurried to their stall doors. As one, they saw Aeduan. As one, they saw their friend. And as one, their lips parted.

Aeduan stilled their blood. It was not a graceful move, nor even a powerful one. He fumbled to even find the folds of winter and sprays of cinnamon that made these stable hands who they were. But it was enough, and he held fast. Long enough for unconsciousness to seep in. Long enough for their bodies to crumple to the floor, one by one.

Abrupt silence, then the door clicked, and Iseult and Owl were there. Iseult stalked forward, both packs bouncing on her back as she peered into each stall. She made no move to claim a steed, though, and she made no comment on the boy with the broken jaw.

Owl meanwhile flung herself against Aeduan’s leg, and almost instantly, panic took hold throughout the stable. The nearest horses started trumpeting, and some even bucked against stall doors.

“Here!” Iseult called from a corner stall, already yanking gear off the wall. “This must be the gelding. I’ll tack him up—” She broke off as the black horse reared.

“Owl.” Aeduan knelt beside her. Tears streamed down her pale cheeks, while great hiccups shuddered in her chest. And there was no denying that the horses kicked in time to each of her building sobs. “Remember the two fish from the story I told you?” He had to lift his voice to be heard over the growing roars from the horses. “Owl, remember how they stayed strong and escaped Queen Crab? We have to do the same now. You must be strong and stop crying. Owl, can you do that?”

She wagged her head as if saying no, but her sobs did settle—and the horses did briefly calm. Long enough for Iseult and Aeduan to tack up the gelding together. Long enough for him to lift Owl, so light, so fragile in his demon arms, and drop her on the prince’s fine saddle. Aeduan offered a hand to Iseult.

She did not take it. “You haven’t gotten a horse.” Her eyes darted side to side. She was putting it all together. “In the room, you said that I had to leave. That I had to go to the Monastery. I, not we.”

On the saddle, Owl’s crying resumed.

“I have business elsewhere,” he said.

“Business,” she repeated, words getting more strained by the second. “You have business elsewhere? Does that mean you will find us after your … your business is concluded?”

“No.” He turned away from her. The soldiers were almost to the stable, a surge of blood-scents he could not ignore, and though he could bar the door, hold it closed with his own strength, that was only a temporary solution—

Iseult’s hand clamped on his shoulder. “What about Owl? What about her family?”

“I cannot help them.”

A shocked laugh. Then a disbelieving, “Are you serious right now?”

“Yes.”

“No.” She pushed in front of him. “You cannot just walk away. Not after everything.”

Shouts approached: “Check the stables!” It was now or never if Iseult and Owl were going to escape safely.

Which left Aeduan with only one option. If the choice was slaughter or the lamb, then slaughter it would have to be. Better that than the soldiers reaching Iseult and Owl. Better that than the Fury finding them.

“I can walk away,” he said coolly. “And I will walk away. We are not friends, we are not allies.”

“We are—” she began.

“Nothing.” He leaned closer. Their noses almost touched. “There is no we, there is no us. Do you understand? You were a means to an end, and I have found a better means.”

Time seemed to slow, and during the strange lull that stretched between one heartbeat and the next, it struck Aeduan that until this moment, he had never appreciated how much feeling Iseult showed. Not until right now, when she showed none at all. The subtle movements, the tics and tightenings—how had he missed the extent of them?

And her eyes. All this time, they had held such depth of emotion, yet he had never noticed.

Until now, when the emotion had faded to nothing at all. Her face was as empty as the moon and far less reachable.

“You might lie to yourself,” she said at last, voice smooth as a scythe and twice as sharp. “But you cannot lie to me.”

Then she turned away, and the soldiers arrived. They burst in from the back entrance, bellowing and drawing swords, pistols. Owl screamed, and Iseult swept onto the gelding.

Aeduan charged the soldiers. Eight of them. No time for magic, no time for anything but brute force and speed. He unsheathed his sword. He would hold the men off long enough for Iseult and Owl to—

The stable exploded. Wood crunched, the floor lurched. Dust and splinters rained down. The roof above was torn apart. Then fangs and fury crashed inside. Aeduan barely had time to dive away before Blueberry slammed to the earth. His wings spread wide.

Aeduan did not think, he simply ran. Wood fell around him. Horses plowed from their stalls, the latches rising one by one—as if an Earthwitch pulled the iron from afar. He passed four soldiers, men who had come in from the front. Men who now wanted to leave.

One by one, though, claws grabbed and screams ripped out.

Then Aeduan was to the stable yard, the cool air rushing over him. Horses and humans crowded for the exit. And there, galloping past the tree, its bark stark against the night sky, were Iseult and Owl.

Aeduan did not watch them go. Instead, he flipped his cloak inside out, since soldiers would now be looking for a monk, and he set off in the opposite direction. Away from the inn, away from Tirla, and away from the lamb he had never wanted to kill.

TWENTY-THREE