Time passed; Safi’s determination strengthened and at last Mathew’s magic relinquished its hold. In frantic, jerky movements, Safi shimmied to the edge of the cart to lift up the blanket …

Fresh air washed over her—as did moonlight. She gulped it in, blinking and squinting and so grateful to be moving again. Thatch-roofed inns and taverns bounced by. Stable yards too.

This was the edge of Veñaza City, where inns clustered and empty roads began. If Safi traveled much farther, she’d have no chance of finding a steed—of bounding farther north to the lighthouse. Plus, Safi needed a weapon. A girl dressed in fine silk and traveling alone was clearly asking for trouble.

As Safi’s eyes ran over a stable yard, she glimpsed a tired stable boy leading a mottled gray gelding, the horse’s head upright. He was alert and ready to ride.

Even better, there was a pitchfork beside the entrance to the yard. It wasn’t a sword and it was certainly heavier than Safi usually wielded, but she had no doubt she could use it against anyone who got in her way.

She peeled back the blanket a few more inches and peeked at the peasant driving the cart. He didn’t look back, so with a swing of her legs and a thrust of her arms, she rolled off the cart. She froze on the dried mud, while her body reoriented. There was no sound of the ocean, though the rhythm in the wind suggested the coast was near—as did the faint stench of fish.

Though she didn’t recognize the suburb, Safi could guess that the lighthouse was near—a few miles north at most.

She darted toward the inn’s yard as fast as her feet could carry her. A glance at the cart showed it ambling onward, and then a glance at the gray gelding showed it almost to the stable door.

Safi slowed only once, beneath the inn’s arched gate, to heft up the pitchfork. It was definitely heavier than her sword, but the iron wasn’t rusted and the fork points were sharp.

She raised it high, pleased when the scrawny stable boy caught sight of her charging his way. He blanched, dropped the horse’s reins, and cowered against the stable door.

“Thank you for making that easy,” Safi declared, grabbing the reins. The horse eyed her curiously, but made no move to run.

Yet before Safi could get her foot in the stirrup, her eyes landed on a small leather scabbard on the stable boy’s belt. She stomped her foot back down and heaved the pitchfork back up. “Give me your knife.”

“B-but it was a present,” the boy began.

“Do I look like I care? If you give me that knife, I’ll give you enough silk to buy twenty-five knives just like it.”

He hesitated, clearly trying to figure out how that deal would work, and Safi bared her teeth. He fumbled the knife from his belt.

She took it, stabbed the pitchfork in the mud, and snatched up her skirts. But the knife was dull and the silk strong. It took too many heartbeats to rip the blade through …

A cry of alarm went up in the inn. Whoever this gray belonged to had decided he wanted to keep him.

Safi threw the layers of silk in the boy’s face. Then with a great deal less grace than she normally exhibited when mounting a horse, she clambered into the gelding’s saddle, gripped her new knife tight, laid the pitchfork over the pommel, and kicked into a canter.

The horse’s owner reached the doorway just in time to see Safi wave good-bye—and to hear her shout “Thank you!” She gave the man one of her very brightest smiles. Then she veered the horse south and away from the northbound cart. She would circle around to a different street ahead.

But she didn’t get far. In fact, the gray had barely galloped to the next inn when she realized something was wrong.

There were five men in the street before her. They jogged in a perfect row, their white cloaks streaming behind them and their scabbards and weapons clanking.

Carawen monks, and the one in the middle was covered in blood. He even had arrow shafts poking out from his chest, his legs, his arms.

Bloodwitch.

Safi’s stomach punched into her lungs. Eron had tried—and failed—to stop the monk. With movements that felt impossibly slow, Safi yanked at the reins and wrenched the gelding north. Thank the gods, the horse was well trained. His hooves kicked up dried mud and he galloped in this new direction.

Safi didn’t look back; she knew the monks would follow. The last inn blurred past and a world of marshy coastline spread before her. Far in the distance the road inclined into cliffsides and limestone.

In moments, the cart and driver she’d just escaped came into view—and there was no missing the man’s Witchmark. Its shape was familiar enough to recognize, even with her speed. The man was not a peasant at all, but a Voicewitch.

Safi had just enough time to scream at him, “The Bloodwitch hunts me! Tell my uncle!” before barreling past him down the empty, moonlit road.

THIRTEEN

Iseult and Alma caught up to Gretchya in moments.

Shouts pursued for a time—as did the writhing gray Threads of the violent—but only two more arrows thunked into Alma’s shield. And somehow, though Alma did not follow the Nomatsi trails, her mare’s footing was sure.

After what felt like an hour, Alma directed the horses to a wide willow on a lazy brook. Gretchya hopped down first, a firepot in hand and Scruffs at her side. She circled the tree before motioning that all was clear.

Iseult slid off the horse—and almost toppled into her mother. Her legs were rubber and her arm …

“You’ve lost too much blood,” Gretchya said. “Come.” She took Iseult’s hand and guided her into a world of drooping branches and whispering leaves. The bay mare followed willingly, as if she knew this place. The stolen brindle, however, took some convincing from Alma.