“Truthwitch?” Safi called, shrugging innocently. “I think you have the wrong girl!” False, her magic scraped. “I’m only a domna, and not even from a good estate!”

“You can’t trick me,” the woman roared. Her uniform rippled in the wind. Her scarf was unwinding, a black flag that flipped and flew.

For some reason, Safi couldn’t stop staring at that black flap of fabric … and she couldn’t push past her witchery. False, false, false! it shrieked over and over. Wrong, wrong, wrong! It was far too great a reaction for a simple lie.

Then Safi understood. Then she recognized.

Cleaving.

As soon as that word sifted through her consciousness, the sky exploded.

A blast of heat and light erupted from the clouds. It blanketed all sight, swallowed all sound, masked all feeling.

Safi’s knees gave out. She toppled forward, blinking and reaching and straining for some sense of where she was, where the Adder was …

And above all, who was cleaving.

A fuzzy image coalesced—the Adder. On her knees. Staring at her arms in horror—arms that Safi noticed hazily had the sleeves ripped back.

Was this woman cleaving?

Safi pushed all her strength into sitting upright, into fighting the wind and the static so she could search the woman for signs of black or oil …

Then she realized the Adder’s scarf was missing. It had unwound completely and now the woman’s black hair sprayed in all directions, framing a bronze, sharp, beautiful face.

Safi was staring at the Empress of Marstok.

* * *

The Airwitched storm had disrupted Aeduan’s magic—blocked Safiya’s scent from his blood. Or maybe she wore more salamander fibers. Either way, he’d had no choice but to push his power aside and simply follow the Marstoks by sight through Lejna, hoping they led him to Safiya. When he’d realized the sailors were converging in a courtyard, he ascended to the rooftops, for a better view—and hopefully better speed.

Yet by the time Aeduan had reached the courtyard, he’d spotted the sailors sprinting back toward the sea … And the Nomatsi girl with no blood-scent standing beside a statue of the Nubrevnan god. She had duped them all. A decoy.

Aeduan cursed, instantly flinging out his magic to search for the Truthwitch. He would deal with the Nomatsi girl later. But then Aeduan caught the scent of something familiar: Black wounds and broken death. Pain and filth and endless hunger.

Cleaving.

Aeduan’s witchery fell into the background, briefly dulled by surprise. By revulsion as the Marstoks ripped at their uniforms. As black oil bubbled beneath their skin. As the Nomatsi girl squared off to fight them.

Aeduan knew he should leave—now. Yet he didn’t. He waited. He watched … Then he decided.

A snarl broke through his lips. This was the Puppeteer’s doing. Aeduan recognized her work by now. She must have figured out where the Truthwitch was—and now she tried to help Aeduan in her own twisted, cleaving way.

Which meant that if Iseult died here, Aeduan would be to blame—the exact opposite of a life-debt repaid.

So Aeduan ran to the roof’s edge and jumped. He flew three stories toward the fountain. Air rushed into his ears. Loud, fast. His right foot touched down. He pushed the power into a roll and tumbled to his feet—with barely enough time to keep from careening into the Threadwitch.

Who was swinging her cutlass at Aeduan’s head. He dove low and steel whistled through the air.

“No!” was all he could shout before he unsheathed his sword and rounded on the nearest Cleaved. The man was an Adder, his black hood scratched off and his skin oily and writhing. He chomped at the air, searching for someone worth devouring.

Aeduan drove his blade through the Adder’s shoulder … then ripped it back out. Hot acid sprayed harmlessly onto Aeduan’s cloak. Yet a drop landed on his exposed face, searing into his cheek.

So their blood really is poison.

There was no time to dwell on that revelation. The cleaved man was already dragging himself onward. His acid blood eating through his uniform, revealing chest and arms fit to erupt from the roiling pustules.

“The head!” the girl shouted before spinning her blade wide.

Steel bit through flesh. Through nerve and bone. The Adder’s head went flying, his body wobbling uncertainly while acid spurted like a fountain into the courtyard. It splattered the girl’s clothes, eating through the fabric. She stumbled back … then front-kicked the headless body. It collapsed.

The girl gaped at her sleeves, as if shocked by the holes. Fool. Hadn’t she seen the acid at work? It was her fault she’d stepped into it like that. Yet Aeduan still found his mouth opening and the words “Stay behind me” coming out.

Then he angled toward four more Marstoks and set to work. They lurched at Aeduan … and, of course, the stupid Threadwitch did not stay behind him as ordered. Instead, she swooped out, blade arching at neck height.

She missed; the nearest Cleaved hopped back with unnatural speed. Windwitch, Aeduan realized as he lanced out with his own blade. Again, the man leaped backward, skin brewing with black.

Air blasted into Aeduan; he staggered toward the fountain. The Threadwitch listed too, though she held her stance better.

A deafening crack sounded behind Aeduan. He had just enough time to twirl around—to see a rift splintering the fountain—before the Threadwitch grabbed his cloak and yanked.

The fountain exploded in a blur of ancient stone and water—but Aeduan and the girl named Iseult were already soaring for the nearest alley. Clearly one of these Marstoks was a Tidewitch, and now that he had a source, Aeduan would be no match.