He’d never thought this day would actually come—a day when all his training and his future would be given up to the mythical, ancient Cahr Awen.

It was easy for Evrane. She’d spent her entire life a believer. It completed her to have the Cahr Awen return.

But for Aeduan it was a hindrance. He’d been forced into the Monastery by circumstance, and he had stayed there because he’d had nowhere better to go—nowhere else that wouldn’t kill a Bloodwitch on sight. Now, though, he had plans. Plans for himself. Plans for his father.

Aeduan didn’t know to whom he owed his loyalty—his vows or his family—yet he was at least certain of one thing: he was grateful the Well had saved Monk Evrane.

Perhaps that was why Aeduan found his feet carrying him to the nearest cypress tree. Its trunk glowed red in the brilliant dawn sun, its green, vibrant branches rustled on the humid breeze.

More leaves had grown since yesterday.

Aeduan knelt on the flagstones. Water dripped, dripped, dripped—from his clothes, from his hair, and even from his baldric, which he’d forgotten to remove. He barely noticed and simply curled over, flat against his knees and with his palms resting on the cypress trunk. Then he recited the prayer of the Cahr Awen.

Exactly as Evrane had taught him.

I guard the light-bringer,

And protect the dark-giver.

I live for the world-starte,

And die for the shadow-ender.

My blood, I offer freely.

My Threads, I offer wholly.

My eternal soul belongs to no one else.

Claim my Aether.

Guide my blade.

From now until the end.

When he’d finished the memorized words, he was glad to find them as tasteless as they’d always been—and he was also glad to find a mental list already scrolling through his brain. My blades are wet; I’ll need to oil them. I need a new salamander cloak—and a horse too. A fast one.

It was liberating to know he could ignore his Carawen vow so easily, even with the Origin Well right beside him. For the time being, he had a box of silver talers to give his father, and that was all that mattered.

Aeduan gave a final glance to his old mentor, the monk called Evrane. She had color in her cheeks now.

Good. Aeduan had finally repaid one of his life-debts to her.

So with his fingers flexing and wrists rolling, the Bloodwitch named Aeduan set off to join his father, the raider king of Arithuania.

* * *

With great effort and all the strength left inside her, Iseult heaved and rolled and shoved wooden beams off Merik Nihar. Shafts of morning light broke through gray clouds. The first pier and an entire block of buildings had been leveled. Reduced to splintered timbers by Kullen’s storm—a storm that must have claimed the first mate as well. No souls or Threads moved alongside the now gentle waves. No birds winged, no insects sang, no life existed …

Except for a swarm of green, flying into the horizon. At the very center, Iseult sensed the faintest hint of dazzling Threads.

Safi.

She was gone. Gone. Iseult had lost her, and it was just one more mistake to add to her soul.

But she muscled past those thoughts and continued her back-bending fight against the building frame. All the noise and movement roused Merik from unconsciousness, his Threads abruptly raging into life. Iron pain and blue grief.

He lay on his back, hunks of skin gone and glass shards burrowed deep.

“What hurts?” Iseult asked, dropping beside him. No stutter held her tongue. No emotions held sway.

“Everything,” Merik rasped, eyes cracking open.

“I’m going to check you for broken bones,” Iseult said. Or for worse. When Merik didn’t argue, she set to gently kneading his body, from the top of his head to the tips of his boot-clad toes. She had done this a hundred times with Safi over the years—Habim had taught her how—and she sank into the forgiveness of a cold, methodical movement.

Stasis. The breeze skipped through someone else’s wet clothes and kissed someone else’s skin. Merik’s wounds—they all bled on someone else—and Iseult wouldn’t think of the Puppeteer. Of the Cleaved. Of Evrane or Kullen or Safi. Stasis.

Throughout the inspection, Iseult’s eyes darted to Merik’s Threads, checking for any flash of brighter pain. Each plucking out of glass sent them flashing, but only when Iseult hit his ribs did they erupt with agony. A groan rolled off his tongue. His ribs were broken; it could be worse.

Next, Iseult turned her attention to Merik’s skin, checking that none of the removed glass or wood had opened any dangerous cuts. Blood stained the street, and as she wrapped his own torn shirtsleeve around a gash on his forearm, Merik asked, “Where … is Safi?”

“The Marstoks took her.”

“Will you … get her back?”

Iseult loosed a tight breath, surprised by how much her lungs ached with that movement. Would she get Safi back?

In a panicked rush, she finished the makeshift bandage and wrenched out her Threadstone. No light flickered, which meant Safi was safe. Unhurt.

It also meant Iseult had no way to follow her Threadsister. But what had Safi told her? One of Eron’s men would be coming here—to a coffee shop. Iseult could wait—would have to wait—for that person. He would help Iseult reach Safi, whoever he was.

She dropped the Threadstone. It thunked against her breastbone. Then she returned her attention to Merik and said, “You need a healer.” As soon as the words were out, she wished she could swallow them back, for, of course, Merik raggedly asked, “My … aunt?”