Iseult’s breath hiccuped ever so slightly. His words sounded like what Leopold had said only two weeks ago: How often do people make choices based on truth? Based on facts or what their logic tells them? Leopold had been right—the Purists alone were proof of that. But Iseult had no feeling; logic and facts had always been her guide.
Which was why she had to keep pressing him for information. “Tell me about Midne. How can you be a woman who lived a thousand years ago?”
“You already know the answer to that.” Corlant slowed his steps as they turned down a new stretch of tents. “You have seen parts of the diary. You know that I and the other Twelve are born and reborn for all of time. Well, only six of us now.” He smiled. A stretched, unnatural thing.
Yes, Iseult thought. I do have his nose. And she had that smile too.
“But I was blessed.” He patted the gold draped around his neck, longer than what the Hell-Bards wore but otherwise identical. “One of my fellow Paladins purged me of the unclean power of Sirmaya.”
Sirmaya. That name had been in the diary. A goddess whom Eridysi had worshipped.
Ahead, a long tent leaned against a half-fallen wall. “The prisoners’ tent,” Corlant explained, and sure enough, subdued, grief-swallowed Threads shivered into Iseult’s senses.
Purist guards nodded reverently at Corlant’s approach, their Threads grassy with curiosity and peach with respect. “Blessed are the pure,” they mumbled in unison, while one swept open the tent’s flap.
Corlant’s spine crooked. He slithered inside.
Iseult slithered in too.
“You will begin training today.” Corlant paused just beyond the entrance, and Iseult paused beside him while heartbeat by heartbeat, her eyes adjusted and the prisoners came into view, enclosed in crude cages too low for standing. Their bodies and faces were as subdued as their Threads.
“Your reward.” Corlant opened his arms and moved to the nearest cage, where he rapped a knobby knuckle against the wood. The Threads within shook with fear. Against her will, Iseult’s stasis faltered. Gooseflesh raked down her arms.
“I will take her now,” he ordered a Purist guard. “The Threadwitch.”
The Threadwitch. There was only one person it could be, and sure enough, Alma moved to the front of the cage. Her arms were bound, but her chin was high. Her eyes drilled into Iseult’s. Do something, she seemed to say. Do it now.
Iseult turned away.
“Bring her into the moonlight,” Corlant commanded, and before Iseult could scuttle away from his touch, he had his fingers on her shoulder. Five icicles digging deep. He pushed her toward the exit and back into the cold.
Alma and the Purist shambled just behind, joining Iseult and Corlant fifteen paces from the tent, beside a pile of old stones. Snow began to fall.
“Place her on the rocks.”
The Purist obeyed, shoving Alma chest-first onto the remnants of a wall. Her back and neck were exposed as if execution loomed, and Purists gathered to watch. Some were soldiers, some were guards; most were simply fanatics who smelled blood in the water.
“Now cleave her,” Corlant commanded.
Iseult blinked, while all around, Purists sucked in their breaths. Their Threads melted into pink delight. Maybe they’d always enjoyed dominance and pain, or maybe Corlant had brought that out in them. Either way, Iseult was again struck by their willingness to overlook the truth. She was a witch. Corlant was a witch. But these people didn’t care so long as others with magic suffered.
“She has no Threads,” Iseult said eventually. She watched Alma’s back. Watched the steady movement of the girl’s ribs. Alma offered no cries. No begging.
“Of course she has Threads,” Corlant countered. “All life has Threads. You simply cannot see them.” His Threads simmered with purple. He was a lion eyeing its next meal. “In the Dreaming, though, you can see them. So much more is visible there.”
Iseult brushed snow off her lashes and frozen cheeks. “I cannot enter the Dreaming.”
Corlant’s Threads glistened a deeper purple. “If you are in the right place, then the wall between worlds disappears.”
Iseult perked up slightly at that. Esme had once spoken of such a thing: You must be in one of the old places. Somewhere like my tower, where the wall between this world and the Old Ones’ is thinner.
“So these ruins?” She opened her arms. “Are they an old place? Can I enter here?”
Corlant didn’t answer. Instead, he shook his head. “Relying on the Dreaming is an inconvenience. You are unprotected while there, your body exposed. As such, you must learn to find Threads even when you cannot see them.” He pointed at Alma with a single spindly finger. “Now find her Threads and cleave her.”
Iseult wet her lips and did nothing. Alma still showed no fear. Snow gathered in a white film across her back.
“Feel for her Threads as I do, Iseult. Then take her power for yours.”
Iseult wet her lips again. Something wiggled in her chest—something she didn’t like. And with a twist of her nose, she stamped it into oblivion. Stasis through and through. As cold as the snow building around her feet. “How can I feel for Threads when my hands are like this?” She lifted her bandages.
“Her Threads will not hurt you. Not as badly as mine did, at least.” He grinned. His own bandages oozed.
“In that case, I want someone with more power.”
Now his smile stiffened. A flicker of annoyance reached his Threads. “She is all that remains, Iseult.” He swiped a hand toward the tent. “I could not allow those traitors to use their magic on me, so I had to purify them. Besides, Iseult, Threadwitches have more power than you can possibly imagine. They—and you—see what people feel. What is more powerful than that?”
Again, his words were like Leopold’s. The wiggling returned to that spot beneath her lung. You see emotions. You are far more powerful than she. Iseult squashed the memory. “What good is her magic to me, though?” She cocked her head sideways. “I can already see emotions. I want something different. Find me someone different.”
Now Corlant’s smile fell entirely. “This is your last chance.” He grabbed Alma by her hair and yanked up her head. Alma didn’t resist.
And she still didn’t speak.
The Purists did, though, murmuring excitement while their Threads shivered with anticipation for her pain.
“Take her Threads, Iseult. Now.”
Iseult didn’t. She wanted to. Of course she wanted to. She was a monster. And it wasn’t as if she liked Alma. The girl had always been there, perfect yet untouchable. Everything Iseult could never be.
Alma never failed; Alma always won; Alma was beautiful and talented and stasis through and through.
Corlant snarled. His Threads burned brighter. “Take her magic now or I will.”
Iseult’s lips widened. She lifted her maimed hands. Yank and snap. It was all she had to do. Yank and snap. Then she would be the untouchable one. She would be the girl to always win …
“Too slow,” Corlant snapped, and he slammed his palm against Alma’s forehead. “May you become as clean as Midne, as pure as the world when it was born.” Alma screamed. Her body arched, her head flew back, eyes huge. A pose to pierce Iseult’s skull and jam into her heart.