No blade. No glass. Not her problem.
* * *
Stix had found the items inside the Sightwitch mountain. They had called to her, much like the voices did. Death, death, the final end. That was what the blade had seemed to sing, while the glass had crooned at her with promises. Just look through me, and you will get all the answers you need.
A lie. All Stix had seen when she’d peered through was her own death, borne on rook wings and gleaming beneath a silver crown. It had felt real because it had been real. That death had happened to one of these screaming voices inside Stix’s head, and now, whenever she closed her eyes too long, whenever she let her mind drift, whenever she slept, the memory was all that she could see.
She had wanted to leave the blighted items behind; Ryber had insisted otherwise. “They are too dangerous,” she’d said, and then she had explained to Stix what they were.
The glass allowed a person to find Paladins, to see which humans carried more than a single soul inside them.
And the blade could kill a Paladin, ending their reincarnation—silencing their multiple souls—forever.
As far as Stix was concerned, though, that didn’t matter because as far as she was concerned, the tools didn’t exist. If Ryber cared about them, then they were Ryber’s problem. Which was why, for weeks, Ryber had kept them close, wrapped in a brown salamander cloth she was careful to never let Stix see.
But clearly she was done playing that game, for she raised the subject three more times on their carriage ride back to the inn. Stix ignored her every time.
Death, death, the final end. Death on flapping wings.
FIFTEEN
Once, the monk named Evrane had been gentle with Iseult. She had saved her life on multiple occasions and had even been Iseult’s hero—and been the reason Iseult wanted to see the Carawen Monastery and become a monk.
Now, Evrane was a monster, possessed by shadowy Threads shaped like birds. And now, her fingers were rough, her eyes cruel.
“What do we have here?” Evrane pulled the stolen noose from Iseult’s pocket. She’d already claimed Iseult’s thigh knife, a small canteen at Iseult’s hip, and the Hell-Bard map from her pocket.
Iseult couldn’t answer. Her mouth was stuffed with pieces of her own wet cloak that Aeduan had shoved in after dragging her over the stepping-stones and binding her wrists with leather cord. All the while, Owl had watched from beside Evrane, eyes huge with silent tears.
The weasel was nowhere to be seen.
Evrane lifted the chain toward Aeduan. “This looks like his, no?”
Aeduan glanced over, Threads and expression bored. He’d already finished searching Owl and now he was preparing the horses by tossing away most of Iseult’s carefully chosen supplies.
“Yes,” he said without interest. “It’s what Portia’s cursed wear. The ones they call the Hell-Bards.”
“So why do you have it, I wonder?” Evrane stared at Iseult, her Threads keen with interest. “This Witchmark upon your hand is new too.”
Evrane dropped the noose into her pocket, seemingly unconcerned that Iseult could not answer her interrogation, and resumed her search, probing, groping, scrutinizing, until at last she reached Iseult’s neck and pulled back Iseult’s collar. A strange gleeful hunger widened in her eyes, smearing her Threads to purple. She expected to find something—was ready for it, even.
But when she stared into Iseult’s shirt, surprise brightened her Threads. “She does not have it.” She yanked Iseult closer, peering deeper into her tunic. Please don’t see the diary pages, Iseult prayed.
Somehow, Evrane did not. She released Iseult’s collar, and Iseult listed back. “Where is it, girl? Where is the stone?”
Of course, Iseult couldn’t answer—and now Evrane’s Threads were blood red with frustration. She yanked the wool from Iseult’s mouth. Iseult coughed.
“Where is it?” This time when Iseult did not answer, Evrane slapped her. A crack of flesh that sent Iseult’s head snapping sideways.
“Enough.” Aeduan pushed Evrane aside.
“She is no use without the stone.” Evrane tried to grab for Iseult again, but Aeduan deftly blocked her. His Threads, like Evrane’s, burned with frustration. His impatience, however, was not directed at Iseult.
“You forget our orders. We are to leave her unharmed.”
Evrane laughed, a shrill sound. “Oh?” she mocked. “You bow to one of the betrayers now, do you? You always were the weakest of us.”
“It is not weakness,” Aeduan clipped back, “but self-preservation. This”—he motioned to Iseult—“is to be my body. You will leave her untouched.”
Iseult didn’t like the sound of that, This is to be my body. But she also dared not ask about it. Not while the two monks stared at each other like dogs in an alley, hackles high. Threads twined between them, clotted and confusing. There was hate, there was love. Trust and mistrust and a hundred other contradictions she could not understand.
For the moment, at least, they weren’t looking at her. “Owl,” she whispered, canting toward the child. Her mouth was silty from the rag; any moment now, they’d stuff it back in. “Don’t be afraid. I will take care of you, all right?”
Owl didn’t acknowledge Iseult. Her Threads did not change. And now Evrane was scowling and spinning away. “Fine. You find out where the stone is.” She stalked toward the horses, her stride all wrong. Stiff and jerky, as if her clothes did not fit.
Iseult’s eyes itched. Stasis, she told herself. A useless word that she had given up weeks ago, but sometimes training ran deeper than truth. Especially now that Aeduan was studying her with an ice-blue stare.
Iseult met his gaze. She wasn’t sure what she hoped to see, what she hoped would happen, but she found herself speaking in Nomatsi anyway. Saying: “If it’s my Threadstone you seek, it is in Praga.”
There was no recognition on Aeduan’s face. Only whispers of tan confusion and clay frustration in his Threads.
So she repeated in Arithuanian, “If it is my Threadstone you seek, it is in Praga.” She didn’t know why she changed languages for him. She didn’t know why she was making it easier. It was as if her heart wanted to help him—had to help him—even as her brain warned her away. “Emperor Henrick took the stone from me,” she went on. “I can only assume he destroyed it.”
“Hmmm.” Aeduan’s lips twitched with an unnatural smile. “Such items, Dark-Giver, are not so easily destroyed.”
Dark-Giver. Her skin crawled. Her spine shriveled. Stasis, Iseult. Stasis in your fingers and in your toes. “Why do you want it?”
Aeduan ignored her. “Get up.” When she made no move to obey, his Threads flashed crimson. He dug his hands into her armpits and lifted her savagely to her feet.
Iseult saw no reason to resist. Her legs had gone numb, and a glacier now leaked through her veins. Nothing made sense. Nothing felt real.
Aeduan turned to Owl next. “Get up.” He shifted as if to grab her.
But Iseult touched his sleeve. “She doesn’t speak Arithuanian.”
A twinge of surprise crossed his face and Threads. He peered down at Owl again, but this time with cold assessment. “That collar blocks her, I suppose. Perhaps a good thing. For us and for her.” His gaze returned to Iseult. “Get her up, and get her on a horse. We have far to go before the sun sets.”