“Reanimation is one thing you and I will never do.” Corlant’s face thrust in, so close. The rotting bandages, the skin sallow and slick. “That was only ever his power, no matter how much Portia tried. The Aether decides where souls rest, Iseult; we simply rule their bodies. But.” He leaned in closer, his breath as fetid as his wound. “Why do you care if this girl dies? Why do you want to bring back the reward that could have been yours?
“I gave you a chance to claim power. I gave you a chance to become the dark-giver at my side, yet still you fight it. Why? You are my daughter, and there is only one way you can ever be.”
“You’re wrong.” Iseult spoke so quietly, he had to dip in all the nearer to hear her. And she smiled at him, a real smile borne on real emotion now flooding out fast. “Because you’ve forgotten one thing, Father.” She thrust up a blade. The blade she’d pulled from Alma’s body and so easily hidden within her bloodied bandages. “I am my mother’s daughter too.”
Iseult shoved the knife into Corlant’s other eye.
Blood sprayed, hot and foul, and Corlant’s Threads tore wide as a cyclone. His screams did too. He didn’t die because he’d stolen too much power from the Nomatsi prisoners to go that easily.
But he hurt—oh, he hurt, his Threads white and frantic. His shrieks beating into her.
Iseult dove for her mother and grabbed Gretchya’s arm with her ruined hands. Together, they sprinted for the nearest copse of trees.
FORTY-FIVE
“I’m going to fix this,” Iseult panted as she and Gretchya raced through a forest doused in snow. They’d left behind bloody tracks—Alma’s blood and so, so much of it. “I swear … Mother. I can fix this.”
These were words Iseult had uttered a thousand times since Praga. Words that had been an empty vow with no true power behind them because she’d lacked a magic vast enough to do what needed doing. She’d lacked the knowledge too.
Now she had clarity. Now she understood.
Gretchya didn’t ask how Iseult would fix everything. Her breaths were labored and already her pace was lagging. Purists had chased them ever since they’d left Corlant, who’d been screeching and bleeding and only temporarily maimed.
Worse, Iseult and Gretchya were closing in on the Solfatarra with no goggles to help them see, no salamander fibers to protect their skin. And no way to cross the lake if they even got there.
Think, Iseult, think. The Nomatsi trail was too far away, as was the spit of land that would lead out of the Solfatarra. They were going to have to run into the fog. They were going to have to ignore the burn and risk the inhalation. And once they reached the lake’s shore …
Iseult would figure it out then. Channel Safi and think with her feet, with her palms. Her aching, bandaged palms. Because her Threadsister was near, and she had to find Safi before Corlant did. She had to get her hands on their Threadstones first.
Those rubies were the key. Everything—her safety, her mother’s life, and Alma’s fading soul—hinged on those stones. If she could only figure out why.
Shouts echoed, layered thick atop hunting Threads. There could be no pauses. Only dragging Gretchya onward. Only stumbling forward, one foot after the next.
They reached the fog, a wall of death that hid the snow, and there, waiting for them upon a pile of ancient stones, was the weasel. Esme darted for Iseult, almost invisible against the snow. As she ran, an image assembled in Iseult’s mind: Heretic’s collar, removed beneath the spruce. Owl in a ruined courtyard, seated on an ancient throne. Aeduan bound in stone.
It made no sense, and before Iseult could try to sort her way through it, shouts clashed against her. Threads too, hungry and hunting. Iseult allowed Esme to curl around her neck before pulling her mother onward toward the wall of fog.
Except Gretchya didn’t move. She jerked her arm free, shooting pain up Iseult’s arm, and when Iseult rounded on her, she found her mother’s eyes fastened on the weasel.
“What,” she began, voice weak from running, “is that?”
“The Puppeteer,” Iseult answered honestly. “Or what’s left of her. But she’s our ally, Mother, and right now, we need all the help we can get.”
Gretchya didn’t move. Her labored breaths stilled, her eyes held fast to Esme. Even the snow seemed to have paused its thick fall.
Which made the approaching Threads that much harder to ignore. An onslaught of fanatics. People willing to hunt Iseult and her mother to the end so long as it meant Corlant would favor them.
“Please, Mother.” Iseult offered her bandaged hand. “We have to move.”
Gretchya didn’t respond, and for a flicker of a heartbeat, the old heat wormed to life in Iseult’s chest. It slid up her spine. Fire to melt the cold around her. Rage, defiance, shame, and a thousand regrets still seeping out from that secret corner.
Her face warmed. Her tongue fattened. She offered her hand again. “M-Mother.” She swallowed. “You told me yesterday that … magic was what we made of it. Esme is not the m-monster she used to be, and…” Another swallow. Then she let the full breadth of her desperation reach her face. Her nose twitched, her brow pinched tight, and the stutter broke completely free. “I-I … I am not either.”
And with those words—with that stammer, embraced and unbound—her mother’s face relaxed. Her eyes abandoned Esme’s and found Iseult’s instead. No sharp words about Threadwitches controlling their tongues nor stony silence with lips compressed in withdrawn disapproval.
Instead, she looked sad. So, so sad that Iseult almost imagined grieving blue Threads wisped over her like a crown.
“Go,” Gretchya said softly. “Do what you must to fix this, Iseult, and I will lead the Purists away.”
Iseult blinked. She was so stunned by the heartbreak on her mother’s face, by the gentleness in her tone, that it took her a moment to actually comprehend Gretchya’s words.
“No, Mother, that isn’t what I meant—”
“Do it.” Gretchya’s nose wrinkled; authority hardened her eyes. “Corlant will not kill me—even now. And I will gain you the time you need.”
“No.” Iseult thrust out her bandaged hand again. Purists were so near, she could see their cloaked shapes within the trees. “I don’t care if he won’t hurt you, Mother. I won’t risk anyone—”
“Go.” Gretchya lunged at Iseult and shoved. Strong enough to launch her back three steps.
Strong enough to push her into the Solfatarra’s grasp. Acid flamed in. No sight, no breath, no touch. Only the sound of her mother whispering, “You were always meant for bigger things than I could give.”
Then Gretchya roared at the top of her lungs and her footsteps stomped away, aiming once more toward camp.
* * *
Gravity and winds punched in. The forest below zoomed to eye level. White fog too, until that was all Safi could see—white, white, endless white.
She was falling. Dangling like a marionette with only desperate muscles keeping her attached to the Eridysi’s railing.
Safi’s muscles shrieked and stretched. Her vision crossed and blurred. Even with the goggles, her eyes streamed. Distantly, she felt acid sear her skin, and distantly, she glimpsed scarlet uniforms streaking through the sky.