“My uncle,” Renwick confirmed. “I spent winters in Murreneir. My father sent me here to work for Balorn.” Rua swallowed, her chest constricting. “Work for him how?” “I suspect you already know.” Renwick’s eyes flitted back to her. “You tortured witches for your uncle.” It wasn’t a question. “I did what I had to in order to survive.” Renwick’s voice was sharper than a knife. “I have more blood on my hands than I can ever wash away.”
