“This is not your fault.”

“No. It isn’t. It’s Natan’s, and he will face our justice.” With a clank of steel, she sheathed her sword and turned away. “We will go to the Monastery and tell the others what he has done.”

“Others already know,” Aeduan said. “And others clearly approve.”

“Not everyone. He said there were insurgents. They must be fighting this.”

“Then why have we not heard of it?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head. “Maybe it only just began. Does it matter? This must end. We swore a vow to protect.”

“To protect the Cahr Awen, yes.”

“Is that how you justify this?” Lizl reared back. “You’re not hurting the Cahr Awen, so it’s acceptable?”

“I am not hurting anyone.”

“You’ve spent your whole life hurting others! How many people have you killed or maimed, Bloodwitch? How many people have you taken from simply because an assignment told you to?” Lizl’s voice hit louder with each word. “You said you have honor, but I have seen you use your magic to kill. You said you have honor, yet you fight for the Raider King.”

There it was again. That spark of rage to tense in Aeduan’s wrists and fists. Except now, he had a Painstone. Now, he had his magic.

He could run. He need not even control Lizl’s blood to do it. He could fuel his muscles to a speed she couldn’t follow.

But there would be no outrunning the Fury.

“You,” Aeduan said, his own voice carefully controlled, “do not know me at all.” Then he groped for the Painstone and eased it from his neck. Instantly, his body gave way. Fire filled his chest, his belly, his brain. He doubled over, eyes screwing shut. The stone dropped to the bloodied earth.

He hit the ground mere moments later, landing on all fours, chest heaving. The headless monk was near enough for him to smell without magic.

“What are you doing?” Lizl moved closer.

“I … want you to trust me,” he ground out. “I did not kill these people. My father did not kill these people. Natan and the monks did that. They are your enemy, not me.”

Lizl said nothing, so Aeduan continued: “I found the Cahr Awen. They … healed the Well in Nubrevna. Did Monk Evrane tell you?”

“I heard, but I did not believe.” A hard exhale. Then came a swish of fabric, a clink of metal, and Lizl dropped to a crouch beside Aeduan.

And it occurred to him that he could not smell her blood. So close, but the daisy chains and mother’s kisses were gone.

“It’s true.” Blood dribbled from his mouth. “And … I found half of the Cahr Awen a second time. The shadow-ender. I failed to protect her, though. I sent her to the Monastery. I sent her to the Abbot.”

Lizl inhaled sharply.

“I told her the monks would help her. I told her she would be safe there.” Aeduan tried to shake his head; he failed, and suddenly he was coughing.

Blood splattered Lizl’s cloak, fresh and hot. Rather than recoil, she simply sat there, waiting. And waiting some more, even as Aeduan’s cough sprayed wider.

“You,” he forced out at last, “have to get her away from … him.”

“I,” she said flatly. “Meaning alone.”

Molars clenching, Aeduan dragged his face up and forced his eyes to hold hers. Pain, pain, pain. “I cannot go with you.”

She scoffed. “Of course you can’t. You always run away, Bloodwitch. You have since we were young.”

Aeduan’s eyes dropped back to the ground. The Painstone gleamed inches away. He could take it again. He could end these screams in his muscles and feel his magic thrum once more.

He did not take it.

“The … longer you are with me,” he said, “the greater danger, Monk Lizl. The Fury … The man who came for me in Tirla … He will come again, and he will kill you.”

“Oh?” She gripped Aeduan’s chin, jerked his face toward hers. “And what does this ‘Fury’ want with you?”

“He works for my father. And my father wants me at his side.”

“Is that where you want to go?”

“No,” he said, and it was true. Even knowing that his father had not killed these people, even knowing that a man like Corlant had defended the Purists and Nomatsis—he still did not want to return.

Lady Fate’s knife had fallen, though, and for him, there could only be one path.

“I wish I could believe you,” Lizl said. “But I can’t.” Even as she spoke these words, her face softened. The line between her brows smoothed away. “Your skin is fire,” she murmured, “and you bleed and bleed and bleed. You are dying, Monk Aeduan, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

She released his chin. Aeduan’s head dropped. His arms shook dangerously beneath him. If he did not move, he would fall on his face, and if he fell, he did not think he would get up again.

Lizl sensed this too, for suddenly she was there, grabbing his shoulders and hauling him upright. It took all his remaining strength not to topple backward. And it took all the focus he had just to keep breathing.

“You know,” Lizl said, “I thought that seeing you like this would make me happy. I used to imagine it even, when we were younger. I imagined surpassing you on the training block, or earning more assignments, or just getting more praise from Monk Evrane.

“But I don’t feel happy right now. I feel disgusted. All these years, I thought you were special. I thought you were stronger—better even, because your magic made you unstoppable. It turns out, though, that you die like every other man. And you are a coward like them too.

“So go. Leave me and rejoin your father as you so desperately wish to do. I do not want your weakness at my side.”

In a graceful sweep, she retrieved the Painstone from the bloodied soil. Then she stalked up to Aeduan and stared down. “Just remember, you owe me three life-debts, Bloodwitch. One for the Painstone. One for the Cahr Awen. And one for not killing you right now.” She dropped the stone onto his lap.

It did not touch his skin.

“And I will expect repayment, so don’t die before I can claim it.” Without another word, Lizl left. She stalked into the woods, away from Aeduan, away from the monks she had killed and the innocents she had tried to save.

Aeduan watched her go, waiting until she was out of sight before easing the Painstone around his neck. His hands shook. His lungs shook. Then the stone was on and the agony was tucked away, hidden beneath the lies of numbing magic.

He stood, muscles free and strong once more, and he moved. North toward the highest peaks of the Sirmayans. North toward his father.

Lady Fate’s knife had fallen, and it was time to see how sharp its edge might be.

FORTY-TWO

All Iseult wanted to do was wake up. All she wanted to do was stop these flames and the endless laughing. The Firewitch was there whenever Evrane put her to sleep—and Evrane put her to sleep whenever she woke up.

Iseult would have just enough time to stumble to a washroom, the curtains and ram’s head and four-poster bed spinning with each step. Then she would relieve herself, drink some broth, and … Back to bed. Back to sleep. Back to the Firewitch’s flames.

The silver king did not save her again.

Iseult begged Evrane to let her stay awake, but the words always came out strange. Garbled and small, like she spoke the wrong language from somebody else’s mouth. And each time, Evrane would simply shake her head, confusion on her face and in her Threads.

Sometimes Leopold was there too, the same frown gripping his sunshine face and sunshine Threads. How much time has passed? Iseult tried to ask. How long have I been here? What is outside this room? Is the battle between monks still going on? But like Evrane, all he could do was shake his head and tell her to get some rest.

Finally—she had no concept of when, for the door never opened and the curtains never budged—Iseult opened her eyes. Evrane was not there, and no shadows trounced. No groggy magic held her under.

So she breathed, deep and full. Then she tried swallowing, amazed when she not only succeeded without coughing, but she even felt her tongue scrape the roof of her mouth. Felt her throat moving and chapped lips pressing tight.

She swiveled her head next, pleased when the room stayed mostly intact. Only slight blurring, slight dizziness. In fact, she could just make out Leopold standing at the curtains, peering outside. His Threads twined with golden worry and green contemplation. His left arm still hung in a sling.

“What happened to Owl?” she rasped. Cartorran. The words had come out in Cartorran, thank the goddess.

Leopold’s Threads skittered with sea blue surprise. He rounded toward her, eyebrows bouncing. Relief foaming overtop his other feelings. He strode toward her, a slight limp that Iseult hadn’t noticed before. Hadn’t been able to notice. “How do you feel, Iseult? Should I fetch Monk Evrane?”