But it was no use. Aeduan now held her bloodied sword at her throat. “Stop.”
Iseult wanted to weep at the sound of his voice. Once so familiar, now utterly unknown. Wanted to weep at the way her neck shrieked with pain and her whole body was cold, cold, cold. Most of all, though, she wanted to weep because she had failed. She had been captured by a man who was not Aeduan, while Owl and the weasel waited unsuspecting at camp.
The weasel, she thought. She could send her a message, and maybe the weasel could make Owl understand they had to flee.
Iseult’s dream was short-lived. Shattered as quickly as it had formed, for as she lay there with Aeduan’s boot digging into her breasts, a voice split over the river’s churn: “I have the girl!”
Iseult squinted through wet lashes to where another Carawen monk hunched over a tiny figure, bound and gagged upon the shore.
Iseult had been too late, too slow, too foolish. Evrane had captured Owl, and there was nothing, nothing Iseult could do. She had failed one more person. She had cleft one more life in two.
This time, Iseult did not fight her tears.
Twelve Days After the Earth Well Healed
They are in the imperial Tailorwitches’ room, Iseult, Safi, and Lev, surrounded by cloth and thread and scissors and needles and more light than any other room in the palace—natural and Firewitched. The three have ejected the witches and tailors who had only just been there. Their Threads drift impatiently in the hallway outside.
Safi glares at herself in a looking glass. “The hips are too loose.” She picks at the Hasstrel blue rippling below her waist. The complex gold pattern stitched into the bodice—geometric suns and moons—must have taken days to embroider.
Lev twirls her noose lazily nearby, leaning against a table covered in bolts of silk imported from Dalmotti. For once, the Hell-Bard is not in full armor but in a new dress uniform.
And Iseult is dressed in new clothes too. The gown is far finer than anything she has ever worn before—and more ostentatious. She cannot blend into the shadows with silk the color of sea-foam, and she cannot hide weapons beneath gauzy skirts. She does like the pattern, though, matching Safi’s but in silver instead of gold.
The Emperor has given Iseult and Safi every item they could desire. More than everything. They are lavished upon, the Cahr Awen.
“No, this absolutely will not do.” Safi’s Threads, calm and focused, clash with a fake frustration as she flexes and fists her fingers. She and Iseult are under constant watch. Right now, two sets of Threads hover within the walls, one set in the ceilings, and another four on the balconies across the garden.
The endless observation has made studying the diary impossible for Iseult, and meeting with Esme even more so.
“I will tighten this,” Safi declares, twirling away from the mirror.
“You mean the tailors will.” Lev points toward the hall.
“No.” Safi bobs her head imperiously. “I mean I will.”
Lev’s Threads flutter with tan confusion. A hint of suspicion too. “Why?”
“Because I’m tired of being poked,” Safi snaps. “I’m tired of having people parade me wherever they want me to go. I’m tired of being prodded and nudged and seated on stiff thrones. I’m tired of being watched”—she glares toward the ceiling—“and being told constantly that other people will do things for me. What if I want to do something myself?”
As Safi rants, she flings up her hands and paces. Like before, her behavior doesn’t match the easy calm of her Threads. It never does when she’s performing.
“Fine, fine,” Lev interrupts. She drops advances on Safi. “Hell-flames, I didn’t need the lecture.”
Safi has the grace to blush. A real one.
“I’ll have sewing materials sent to your room,” the Hell-Bard adds. “I have to admit, though…” She bounces her eyebrows conspiratorially at Iseult. “I’m surprised you know how to sew.”
Safi sniffs. Iseult attempts a grin. Then, with a nonchalance she has never been very good at, Iseult says, “Tell me about being a Hell-Bard.” She shuffles toward Lev. “Your gold chain looks so like the one that Purists wear.”
While she asks this question, Safi leans against a different table. One covered in scraps of silk, and asks: “Don’t Purists claim to have made the Hell-Bards or something?” She is much better at this than Iseult is.
Lev rolls her eyes, and in the ceiling and walls, Threads shift to green curiosity. The spies are briefly focused on Lev instead of Safi.
“Yes, yes,” Lev answers. “The Purists claim they made us because they think Midne could erase magic. But they have it backwards.”
“Midne?” Iseult presses, and she locks eyes with Safi. Now is their moment, and with a quick swipe of Safi’s hand, a silk scrap vanishes from the table. It will make a very good pocket later on. Just the right size for holding a delicate golden chain.
“The first Hell-Bard,” Lev explains. Then she cracks her knuckles, her Threads twisting with discomfort. She doesn’t like talking about this. “But Midne didn’t steal magic. She had it stolen from her. Just like…” She swallows and doesn’t finish the sentence.
Not that she needs to. Just like I did is clearly what she’d been about to say. And Iseult can’t help but pity the Bard—pity all of them for what their lives have become. It will be better, she wants to assure Lev. Once Safi and I finish our plan, she’ll make sure no ruler ever abuses you again.
“I wonder,” says a new voice. Drawling, bored, and accentuated by meteor-bright Threads. Leopold slinks into the room, and Lev drops a low bow. “If Midne did not erase people’s magic, then who did? Who made Midne?”
“Your Imperial Highness,” Lev murmurs, eyes dropping to the floor.
Leopold ignores her and runs a finger along the nearest table of cloth. A pink velvet ripples beneath his touch, almost a perfect match for his playful Threads. “There is so much of the past lost to time. So many stories that depend entirely on who is telling them.” He glances at Iseult, then Safi. His Threads shiver into cobalt regret.
And Iseult’s gut sinks. She knows what’s coming next.
“I fear I am here to summon you,” Leopold says, and the regret darkens.
But it isn’t his fault that Iseult and Safi must face the Witchery Examination Board. They agreed to this when they met Henrick at the Hasstrel castle. Still, doing it feels vastly different from simply imagining.
Safi’s fingers settle on Iseult’s biceps, her Threads a tender peach. “You can change your mind,” she offers.
But Iseult shakes her head. If Safi can wear her magic openly, then so can she. She is half the Cahr Awen; her magic is nothing to be ashamed of.
“Lead the way,” she tells Leopold. “We are ready to receive our Witchmarks.”
FOURTEEN
Heat billowed against Stix. Wet heat, sticky with sea salt and mosquitos. It would become a dry heat any moment now, when the flame hawk broke its restraints and the battle began. Thank Noden there were no other people here, no prisoners Stix would have to fight. It was just her and that flame hawk.
Of course, at the edges of her mind, she supposed the flame hawk was a prisoner too.