Sever, sever, twist and sever.
“What if,” Iseult proposed, turning nonchalantly away from the blankets, “I tell a story while we travel. Will you rise for that?”
Owl’s Threads perked with interest. She peeled back her blankets to reveal a single eye. “Five stories.”
“Two.”
“Three, and one has to be the little hedgehog.”
“Deal.” Iseult’s nostrils flared with triumph as Owl threw back her blankets to reveal a triumphant smile of her own—and Iseult realized she had, in fact, lost Owl’s game.
“Where is the weasel-girl?” Owl asked, flinging a suspicious glower around the hut.
“Scouting ahead. She will find the safest path for us.”
“I don’t like her.”
“I know.” Iseult aimed for the hut’s exit, and Owl shuffled behind.
“She is worse than Wicked Cousin.”
“Yes. I know that too.” Unlike Trickster, who caused trouble because he was bored, the goddess Wicked Cousin caused trouble because she enjoyed pain. Yet it was not Wicked Cousin who betrayed the gods in the end.
“‘Evil is not the enemy,’” Iseult quoted as she stepped into the cold dawn. “‘For without it, there can be no good. Chaos, however, is unstoppable.’”
“Hmph” was all Owl said in response to that, and she kept silent while Iseult made porridge and saddled the horses (whom Owl had named Lady Sea Fox and Lord Storm Hound). On Lady Sea Fox, she loaded sacks filled with dried meats, a cooking pan, a snare, three blankets, and several water bags. On Lord Storm Hound, she placed herself and Owl. Then they set off into a sunrise still hidden behind winter clouds.
It had been the same every day since they had fled Praga: gray, gray, dreary gray. Sometimes there had been rain. Sometimes snow. But never sunshine, never blue skies.
As bargained, Iseult told Owl the required three stories, including the little hedgehog, and eventually, Owl dozed off. Iseult had to fight the urge to do the same. Lord Storm Hound’s gait was soothing and sure, and she’d spent most of the night mapping a route to the large lake. A route without Hell-Bards and Cartorran soldiers along the way.
You’ll just kill them anyway.
No. Iseult snapped her head sideways. She could not change who she was. She’d tried for eighteen years, and it had only led to pain and death. It had only failed Safi in the end. At least now she chose who felt that pain. At least now she chose whose life came to an end.
Threads that break, Threads that die.
Yes, Esme sang, and Iseult almost smiled. One creature in this world understood her. Where are you? she asked, and a moment later, the image of a river filled Iseult’s mind. No people, no signs of travel. A good place for rest.
Wait for us, she ordered, and the weasel agreed.
Time ambled by. The landscape shifted from muddy evergreen to muddy deciduous, branches bare, before Iseult and Owl caught up to the weasel by a wide river. Beyond the main flow lay tens of old oxbows, forgotten by the waters’ changing tread. Pools glittered; the trees whispered. And for the first time in two weeks, as Iseult made a small camp, the clouds parted overhead. Sunshine and blue skies peered down.
Today is good, she thought while handing Owl a crab apple. Then she blinked because she couldn’t remember the last time she’d thought such a thing. The last time she’d felt it. Yet here she was, pleased by their pace down the mountain, pleased by the absence of Cartorran soldiers nearby, and pleased by a soothing landscape on a cold but sunny winter’s day.
Most of all, she was pleased that she and Owl could enjoy a snack of crab apples and salted deer instead of foraged nuts gone rancid. That they could, for a time, relax without fear of ambush.
The only problem was the lack of a clear path across the river. The horses could not take the stepping-stones, and there was no obvious passage that Iseult could see to the east or west. Esme, when Iseult asked about it, had nothing to offer. She had scouted no farther.
“Then you stay with Owl,” Iseult replied. She felt calmer than she had in days. Stronger too. “I’ll be the one to scout ahead this time.”
For once, the weasel did not argue. She’d been walking all day; she was hungry and tired and deeply annoyed that Iseult had not let her bite Owl’s nose. (Owl had, after all, stepped on her tail first.) For once, she seemed content to rest while Owl dozed in a sunbeam.
After grabbing her staff, Iseult set off across the river. The stones, though slick and worn by waves, were spaced far enough apart that she could reach them with easy leaps. Only one required a full running jump, and even that movement felt good.
She couldn’t explain it. After last night’s foray into the Loom, after encountering Corlant and being pummeled by ghosts, Iseult had expected exhaustion.
Instead, she felt alert, alive, and powerful. Perhaps it was the sunshine, perhaps it was the food, or perhaps it was simply knowing that the end of the Ohrins was only a day and a half away.
On the river’s opposite shore, sand stretched flat until the pools began. Scrub grew in patches, some trees too. Mostly it was a low, tickling grass that Iseult found easy to tromp over. Around the pools she went, some no larger than the shepherd’s hut from last night, but most as long as a galleon and wide as the river they had once been. Minnows skated within, vanishing each time a wind danced over the waters.
Iseult was in no rush to circle the pools, and it took her some time before she finally reached an area where pine trees once more speared the sky. She paused there, at the forest’s edge, to glance back toward their temporary camp. Owl’s Threads were still muted with sleep; no other Threads glittered nearby.
Satisfied the child was safe, she strode into the woods. Massive conifers, their trunks large as towers, blocked all sunlight, leaving only a sandy needle carpet to trek across. Some bushes and saplings had taken root, but most of the ground was easy and clear.
Iseult must’ve truly won the favor of her mysterious god. Never had she had so much luck.
Soon, she heard the gentle lapping of the river again. Closer than expected—and welcome. If the river bent this sharply this soon, then the horses could simply carve around with it and continue on. No need for a crossing.
Each step made Iseult’s heart rise a bit higher. Made her pace quicken and bounce. She couldn’t explain how she knew, yet somehow, she knew once she saw the river, she would be happy. It was as if …
As if the Threads that bind were pulling her onward. As if someone she cared about was waiting just ahead.
But that was impossible. Of course it was impossible. Who could be here in the middle of a mountain range? Yet Iseult’s body did not seem to care. She wanted to move faster. She wanted to run.
So she did—a three-beat rhythm of feet and staff upon the sand. The river was so close; she had to see it, she had to know.
When she was almost to the forest’s edge, she glimpsed the water. The sun beat off its surface, glaring and true, while on the river’s opposite side stood a figure in white.
It can’t be, she thought even as she knew it was. He was who her body had been running to. He was who her Threads had reeled her toward.
She cleared the forest, her feet now sprinting, breaths now shallow, and heart caught somewhere in her mouth. Because he was here. The Bloodwitch named Aeduan was here, standing on the other side of the river.