Her only relief came from Pin’s Keep. The boisterous bustle of the crowded main room, where the homeless and hungry came for food. Where all that noise could, for a time, drown out the maddening whispers. But only in the under-city did Stix feel truly at home.

There, the whispers shifted from furious to cajoling. Come, they seemed to say in words that had no meaning. Come this way, keep coming.

Every night Stix followed, knowing tomorrow she would regret it. Tomorrow, she would be exhausted with her head pounding and the whispers returned. But the call of the city was always stronger, and every night, she gave in.

Even now, when Stix should have been helping families move in or overseeing dam reconstruction, she wasn’t. It was her father’s birthday too, and she’d promised him a trip to the Cleaved Man. Instead, here she was, standing in front of this door to nowhere. Again. But there were no more answers here than there had been last night or any other night before it. Only the faint hum of Come this way, keep coming.

“I can’t,” Stix told them. Then she rubbed her eyes—by the Twelve, they burned—and turned away.

* * *

Stix was in the Cisterns, tracing the same path Vivia would have taken to reach the surface, when she passed a marking on the limestone wall. It wasn’t new; she’d seen it a hundred times before today.

For some reason, though, today it gave her pause. For some reason, even though water thundered this way through the tunnel, Stix’s feet slowed. Her gaze raked up and down the image.

It was a relief of Lady Baile, patron saint of change, seasons, and crossroads. In one hand, she held a trout, and in the other, wheat. The limestone saint stood as tall as Stix, so worn by time that her fox-shaped mask was missing. Actually, most of the head was missing.

But not the eyes, and it was the eyes that had hooked Stix’s attention. It was the eyes that were causing the voices to rustle and churn.

This time, though, they spoke in a language she knew—and this time, they were telling her where to go. Telling her how to come and keep coming.

“Hye,” she said, the sound lost to the waters rushing this way. “I’ll be there soon.”

Abruptly, the choir in her skull silenced. Then the Cistern tide reached her. Frothy, violent, and bound to the magic singing in Stix’s veins. She let it carry her away, because there was no reason to retrace Vivia’s steps now. No reason to return to Queen’s Hill or travel to the dam.

Stix needed to go south.

Come this way, keep coming.

SEVEN

Aeduan awoke, confused. There had been pain and fire and impossible dreams—dreams he could not quite remember. Iseult had been there, though, while they slept within a pyre beside a spring.

When his eyelids scratched up, soft light seared into them. He was in the cave that Owl had made, where the mountain bat’s stink overpowered all other smells. But not his magic. He sensed Owl nearby, the rosewater-and wool-wrapped lullabies that thrummed inside her veins. And if she was still here, then Iseult must still be here too. Not just in dreams but in waking.

He had no explanation for why Iseult had remained, nor could he deny the relief seeping through him that she had.

Clearing his throat, Aeduan twisted sideways—only to find Owl squatting beside him, her big, teardrop eyes unblinking.

“Breakfast,” she declared, thrusting a wooden bowl at Aeduan’s face. Earthworms wriggled within, and it took all Aeduan’s self-control not to recoil. Instead, he sat up. His blanket fell back; cold air swept against him. For some reason, he was missing his shirt.

“Blueberry’s favorite,” Owl explained, and as if to prove the point, the beast ducked out from the back of the cave, where shadows reigned. The musty bat stench rolled over Aeduan. His breath steamed into Aeduan’s face.

The worms continued to writhe.

Owl shoved the bowl in closer. “Eat.”

Aeduan accepted the bowl, which set Blueberry to snuffing right in his ear. Hot, damp snuffs. He waved Blueberry back and glanced toward the sliver of daylight that marked the entrance. “I … need water first, Owl.”

The girl seemed satisfied with this, and after watching Aeduan stumble to his feet, she snuggled into the still-warm blankets and Blueberry settled down behind her.

Rock scraped Aeduan’s chest as he slid outside. Gooseflesh prickled down his exposed skin. The air here was much colder, even with sunlight to warm the midmorning fog. He shivered and forced his feet to move away from the cave and to the edge of evergreens. Once there, where undergrowth and moss clotted thick, he dumped the bowl of worms. Three days since Owl had started speaking again, and already she’d become a wealth of trouble.

Aeduan placed the empty bowl atop a stone for later retrieval, yet as he stood there crouched over, an ache stung at his chest—like a dagger between the ribs. Without warning, he coughed. And coughed. And coughed. The onslaught would not subside, until eventually, a soft hand came to his back. Cautious. Concerned. Startling enough to give him pause. Then the Threadwitch’s inscrutable face swung down to peer into his. “Are you all right?”

Aeduan did not try to straighten. Shadows crossed his vision. Frustration throbbed in his chest. What was this weakness? What was this ailment? His magic should have healed him by now. “What … happened?” he asked from a throat made of acid.

“I was going to ask you the same.” She helped him rise. Her hands were warm against his skin. “Do you not remember returning?”

“No,” he admitted. Iseult was near enough for him to spot streaks of green in her eyes. To spot how cold had colored her nose to pink. It reminded him of his dream with gentle flames and serenity on her face. She had uttered his name, her eyes never opening, and her fingers had gripped at his hips and stolen his breath.

She stole his breath now, and he had no breath to spare.

He jerked away from her. The conifers dipped and bled. “Where is my shirt?”

A flush swept up her cheeks. She motioned vaguely up the hill. “It’s drying. I-I … washed it.”

“Oh.” He forced himself to straighten fully. It made everything hurt. “I will get it then.” He shifted as if to stride away, but either the movement was too quick, or his body was truly too weak, for the black rushed in once more. With it came coughing. Then the Threadwitch’s fingers were upon him once more, and when she guided him toward a low campfire and helped him to sit, he did not protest.

He could not protest.

A pot sat beside the dying fire, a damp cloth dangling from one side. Iseult scooped water into a cup. “Drink.”

He complied, and though the warm liquid felt like broken glass against his throat, he welcomed the pain. It sent the black scampering away. The coughing too.

“If you had let me come with you,” Iseult said while he drank, “then I could have helped you navigate the path.” It was an argument they’d had three times before: should Iseult join him or should she stay with Owl? If she came, then she could read the Nomatsi road and help Aeduan reach the slaughter sites uninjured. If she remained, she could prevent Owl and Blueberry from generating inevitable trouble.

“The traps were mostly triggered when I arrived,” he said. A lie. Although there had been several corpses, dressed in what he now realized was Purist gray, the bulk of the road had been navigated without triggering any protections.

Aeduan could only assume that the men who attacked knew what they were doing. The Nomatsi tribe had been killed without warning, just as the previous two had been.

He finished the water before saying: “It was the largest tribe yet. All dead.”

“Oh.” A mere sigh of sound, of resignation, even as Iseult’s face stayed impassive. “But if the traps were triggered, how did you get hit with so many arrows?”

“I found someone still alive. A monk. But he was not trained to fight. I … had to deal with him.”

Iseult’s eyes widened. A fraction of a movement, yet enough for Aeduan to catch. Enough for him to add, “I did not kill him,” even if he did not know why he wanted to clarify. “He was wounded when I found him, and after he died, I stayed to bury him. That was when I triggered the traps.”

Another soft sigh. Then she sank into a cross-legged position beside him. “Did he see who attacked them?”

Aeduan nodded, though instantly wished he hadn’t. The world spun. “The monk,” he forced out, eyes wincing shut, “said it was the Purists.”

“Not raiders then?”

“I do not know.” Again, a lie, but he saw no reason to tell Iseult that he knew of Purists working with the Raider King. That he knew of one Purist in particular, working with his father.

“Corlant,” she said, filling in one of the gaps on her own. “He was there, wasn’t he?” Without waiting for a reply, she tugged something from her coat pockets, then opened her hands for Aeduan to see.

Two arrowheads shone black against her pale palms. Both bits of iron were bloodstained, but only one gave off any blood-scent—Aeduan’s own.