A line of blood marked Cormac’s cheek, and the scent of iron and blood formed a foul patina on my tongue.
“Her claws are iron!” I shouted, scrambling to my feet. I clutched the Dadga’s staff in my hands—no more than a foot in length, formed of burnt and twisted wood.
It felt lifeless in my hands. As if it were just a twig I had picked up in the forest. There was no water, only blood. I had only ever controlled blood that was inside a body. Every drip from the innards hanging from the trees was too old, too viscous to grab hold of. My magic scarpered in the presence of fear.
The Hag slashed at Cormac again, her nails scoring his wrist as the blow sent the sharp flint tumbling across the forest floor.
She reached out, her hand forming a necklace around his throat, lifting him from his feet, though she was a head shorter than he was.
I saw the fabric of her body. Skin. Different shades and textures.
I saw red.
My feet moved before my brain caught up. My hand tangled in the snarls of the Hag’s hair, and her sharp teeth missed my arm by a hair. I wrenched her head back, but her grip on Cormac’s throat did not break.
The staff grew warm in my hands. Too hot to hold.
A familiar voice entered my skull.
Filling me with dread.
The voice of the High Throne.
Blood... Kill... Mine?
The staff was asking permission.
“Yours,” I said through gritted teeth. It took more strength to keep hold of the staff than it did to wrangle the snapping hag.
My body flew backward, pushed by a warm wave of liquid.
Rotting flesh. Blood and iron.
I opened my eyes and wiped the iccor from my face. The hag was gone. The staff was cold again.
Cormac was covered in blood from head to toe. His eyes and mouth were the only features I could see, as slashes of white that broke up the unending red.
I searched for a sign of the hag, but all that was left were the iron-tipped fingers on the forest floor.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Elsbeth Shadowhock
Elsbeth stood on the balcony of her room and watched her brother disappear through the Reeds.
A deep pain radiated from her chest. Something inside told her that it would be the last time she saw her brother in their home. Though she hoped it was her paranoia, getting the better of her.
She held her hands together and whispered a quick prayer to Belisama—praying Tormalugh would return home safely.
Tempers were fraught. The water had grown warmer, and Kelpies returning from fishing the reef reported the coral bleached in several places. Fish were dying in droves.
Then the missive had arrived.
Tarsainn had been attacked.
Her brother rushed off as he always did, stalwartly taking the mantle of soldier and hero. The king who always seemed to forget he was king.
Elsbeth leaned on the balcony, feeling the rough stone against her elbows as she watched the courtyard below. Shesighed as she heard a knock on the door. Her brother had not been gone more than a minute, but she wouldn’t get any rest.
