Overwhelming too. She couldn’t conceive how her Threadsister had gone through life seeing such shades and movement all the time. No relief, no escape. It explained why Iseult had detached herself simply to exist.
Safi pored over the Loom, so many souls, so many colors, so many lives. She wondered if she could find herself. She wondered if she could find …
“Uncle,” she whispered, her voice a thousand miles away. “Where are you?” The Loom gave her no answer; the souls within kept dancing. “Help me … get closer,” she told Zander, already reaching for the drop-off into the Loom. He did as ordered, even though he too must be overcome by cold and shadow.
Each step brought more colors, more movement. Safi almost thought she could hear whispers, though they did not reach her ears. Instead, they vibrated inside her.
“Empress,” Zander said—his voice even more distant than her own. “We must hurry. The shadows are worsening.”
She knew it was true. She could feel herself unraveling and her soul reaching for the freedom of the Loom—although it was not really freedom at all.
“Uncle,” she repeated, louder. More forceful. “Where are you, Uncle?” Then again, “Uncle, show yourself to me.” Nothing happened. The ghosts of Hell-Bard souls did not acknowledge her, did not slow.
And gods, she was cold. It submerged her. Drowned her. She really did not have much time remaining.
“Please, Uncle. Wherever you are, I’ve come to save you. It’s me, Safiya. Please.” Still nothing, and now she sensed—as if beneath layers upon layers of snow—that Zander was tugging her away.
“We have to go,” he said, and suddenly, Safi was rising up, her feet vanishing beneath her. He is lifting me, she realized, though she could not wrap her arms around him or even grip his collar to hold on. Her muscles were no longer her own. She was dissolving into the Loom.
The Loom streaked sideways. The Threads within glittered away … But not before Safi saw it. Saw him.
“Wait,” she said, still holding the Truth-lens to her eye. A cluster of Threads raced toward her. Zooming larger and larger by the heartbeat. Until they were right in front of her. Shimmery white. Uncle Eron, Safi knew. And ah, he was an Aetherwitch healer. All these years and she’d never realized it. She’d never known that he—like her—had had his magic cleaved away. And that he—like her—had been bound to the Aether Well.
Whispers drilled into her skull. They were not true words, yet somehow, she understood. The impressions, the feelings, the images all showed her exactly where Eron currently was. Somewhere with fog and heat and waters that boiled on banks of yellow. Where sulfur tainted the air, and dampness soaked through everything.
He was sick. Very sick.
I’m coming, she told him in that same nonlanguage his soul had used with hers. Then she lowered her Truth-lens and forced out the command, “Go.”
TWENTY-ONE
They had Cam.
It was the only reason Vivia did not fight: they had Cam, and there was a knife at his throat.
“You would hurt a boy to get to me,” she said, voice surprisingly steady, as if she’d pulled on Vaness’s iron mask. “That is a new depth of craven, Yoris.”
The Master Huntsman gave a croaking laugh. “I would use anyone if they’re a traitor to the throne. Even you.” He ran his tongue over his teeth, gaze roving up and down Vivia. “Well, ‘traitor’ is the nicest word they’re calling you these days.”
Vivia smiled, a cold thing that did not bare teeth and did not reach her eyes. She had never liked the Nihar family’s Master Huntsman. He hated anyone who was not Nubrevnan, anyone who was not male. “Hoping to get that reward?” she asked. “I heard it was up to two thousand martens now, though I promise he’ll never pay.”
Another croaking laugh and Yoris limped her way. He’d always claimed his scars came from a fight with a sea fox, but Vivia had always found the idea laughable. People did not survive fights with sea foxes.
They also did not survive fights with her, and her magic itched to be set free. She ached to use the waves battering against the cliff, but with that knife against Cam’s throat—she couldn’t risk it.
“Rewards are trivial,” Yoris said once he’d stopped before her. “What I’m hoping for is to please my king. Now if you’d be so kind as to give me your hands.”
Vivia’s mouth twitched, but she obeyed. Not that the ropes Yoris bound around her wrists would stop her magic—which he seemed to realize, for once they were knotted with painful tightness, he said, “Now here’s how this will go, Princess. You are gonna walk in the middle of our line. Your boy here will be just behind, a knife at his back and crossbows aimed at both of you. If there’s any sign of trouble, we’ll drug you. I’ve got a nice sleeping dart ready. Do you understand?”
“You can try that.” Her eyes locked on his. “But I have a ship filled with a loyal crew and loyal witches. You won’t get far.”
“You mean had a ship.” Yoris winked. His scar gleamed. “They’ve been dealt with, just like we’re dealing with you, and no one will be coming to your aid.”
Vivia did not react. Somehow, though the water shouted at her to be used and though her stomach had fallen all the way to her toes, she let nothing reach her face. “Did you kill them?”
Yoris grinned. “Only the ones who wouldn’t bend. Now walk.” He pointed toward the forest with his three-fingered hand. “And remember that crossbow aimed at your head.”
Vivia walked. Not because she wanted to but because she saw no other choice. Every escape she imagined ended in bloodshed. Every attack she plotted ended with Cam dead upon the bone earth. So she did as she’d been ordered, and she walked. All through the night, with Cam just behind her. Mile after mile, with her blood simmering into rage. No regrets, keep moving, she told herself, but the usual refrain did nothing. She was furious in a way that made her eyes cross and her heart thud against her ribs. Yoris would pay for this. Dalmotti would pay.
They hiked for hours, the world silent save for the sea’s breeze and rhythmic waves, until they were too far inland to hear even that. Yoris was the first to finally speak, his voice rough despite a guzzle of water from a flask at his hip—water he did not share. “You aren’t going to offer me anything, Highness? Try to top your father’s reward or convince me that he’s the traitor?”
“No.” Vivia’s voice was rough too, and hell-waters, she would have killed for a drink. “We both know it would only be a waste of my breath. You’ve made up your mind about me, and well … everything I thought about you has been proven true.”
“He is the traitor, though,” Cam said, softly at first. Then a bit louder. “Serafin is the traitor. The crown belongs to Vivia, not the King Regent.”
“Is that so?” Yoris slowed to a stop, forcing everyone to halt as well. They were beside a low ditch through which water once ran. Now it was only a scar upon the yellow earth. “Forgive me if I don’t believe the boy whose loyalty changes like the tide—oh yes, did you think I wouldn’t remember you? I recognize you from Merik’s crew, even if you had ship’s-boy braids then.”