The hardest part, though, was the steep climb to the double-ridged peak on which the Origin Well stood. With Safi’s and Evrane’s help, though, Iseult finally reached the top of the black-rocked hill, and promptly gasped.
For she was at an Origin Well. The Water Well of the Witchlands. There had been an illustration of it in her Carawen book, yet this, the reality …
It was so much more in person. No painting could ever capture all the angles and shades and movement of the place.
The narrow basin, with its six cypress trees (albeit skeletal and leafless) spaced evenly around the sides, held water clear enough to reval a sharp, rocky bottom. The flagstone path circling the Well had always looked gray in the book, but now Iseult saw it was actually a million shades of ancient white. Beyond the Well’s ridge of stone was the Jadansi, blue and endless—yet strangely calm. Only the lightest salty breeze swirled up to ripple tenderly at the Well’s surface.
“It looks nothing like the Earth Well,” Safi said, her expression and Threads as reverent as Iseult knew hers must be.
Evrane hummed an acknowledgment. “Each Well is different. The one at the Carawen Monastery is on a high peak in the Sirmayans and covered permanently in snow. We have pine trees, not dead cypresses.” She raised questioning eyebrows at Safi. “What did the Earth Well look like?”
“It was beneath an overhang.” Safi’s gaze turned distant as she rummaged through her past. “There were six beech trees, and there was a waterfall that fed into the Well. But it only flowed when it rained.”
Evrane nodded knowingly. “The same happens here.” She pointed to a stone dam splitting the eastern ridge in half. “That used to feed into the river, but now it only flows during a storm.”
“Can we look?” Iseult asked, curious as to what the canyon looked like. There’d been no mention of that in the book.
“Don’t you want to rest first?” Safi asked, brow furrowing and Threads concerned. “Or try to heal?”
“Yes,” Evrane chimed. She swooped an arm behind Iseult and led her to a ramp descending beneath the water. “Let’s get you undressed and into the Well.”
“Undressed?” Iseult felt the heat drain from her face. She braced her heels against the flagstones.
“You need to clean more than just your wound,” Evrane insisted, heaving Iseult onward. “Plus, if there is any magic to be had in this Well, you need as much skin exposed as possible.” Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “You can keep on your underclothes, if that will help.”
“I’ll strip with you,” Safi offered, grabbing for her shirttails. “If anyone shows up”—the shirt slid over her face, muffled her words—“I’ll dance around and distract them.”
Iseult forced a shrill chuckle. “Fine. You win—as always.”
By the time Safi had flung her shirt to the flagstones, Iseult started undoing her own buttons. Soon, both girls were stripped to their small clothes, their Threadstones glittering at their necks. As Safi helped Iseult sit on the ramp—oh, it was shockingly cold water—Evrane also undressed.
The monk glided into the Well, barely a wave around her chill-bumped skin. “Give me your arm, Iseult. I will dull your pain so you can swim.”
“Swim?” Safi squeaked. “Why does Iseult need to swim?”
“The healing properties are strongest at the center of the Well. If she can touch the spring’s source, it could heal her completely.”
Safi took Iseult’s left hand. “I’ll help you reach the bottom. I didn’t fight sea foxes just to have a simple swim stop me.”
Even though Iseult wasn’t particularly excited at the prospect of swimming, she offered her arm to Evrane. Soon, the familiar warmth rushed through Iseult’s biceps, shoulders, fingers, and she felt the lines of her face smooth away. Felt her lungs inhale fuller than they had in hours.
Iseult rolled her shoulder. Straightened her arm. Then she heaved an overly forlorn sigh. “If only they made stones that could dull pain this easily.”
Evrane’s forehead puckered. “They do. You used one on the … oh. Oh. That was a joke.”
Iseult’s lips tugged up—Evrane was starting to understand her humor—and Safi laughed. Then she shoved out into the well, lugging Iseult with her.
Together, they awkwardly frog-legged toward the center, spraying up a storm. “Just hold on,” Safi called, “and I’ll pull you down to the bottom.”
“I can manage alone.”
“And I don’t care. Just because you don’t feel pain doesn’t mean it isn’t there. Now hold your breath.”
Iseult sucked in, chest expanding …
Safi ducked under, hauling Iseult in a roar of exhaled bubbles. Iseult’s eyes snapped open. Then she heaved a clumsy kick and aimed down.
Iseult wasn’t sure how she or Safi knew where the spring’s source was. The world of the Well was rock, rock, and more rock. Yet something stirred inside her. A string winding tighter and tighter—but only as long as she swam in this one, true direction.
Pressure built in Iseult’s ears, pounded behind her eyes. Each stroke brushed colder and colder water against her flesh, making it harder to hold fast to Safi. Before they were halfway down, Iseult’s lungs started to burn.
Then they were to the bottom, and Safi was reaching for the rocks. Iseult reached too …
Her fingers hit something. Something she couldn’t see but that sent power—static—rushing over her body.