Corlant’s screams blistered around her, amplified by shouts from Purists and Hell-Bards. He would hunt Iseult, as would Aeduan and Evrane. In fact, she sensed the Bloodwitch approaching, his muscles fueled by magic. But he was too late. Iseult and Owl were already pressed flat against Lord Storm Hound, and the horse was already cantering wildly toward the trees.
TWENTY-FIVE
White terror had reclaimed Owl’s Threads. All-consuming, and Iseult had no doubt that if she could see her own Threads, they would look the same. They were lambs hunted by a wolf; only fear drove them now.
At least they had the weasel to help, and with each crashing fall of Lord Storm Hound’s sturdy hooves, she sent images of where to go.
At the hornbeam, go under.
At the linden, go left.
A game trail between two oaks: follow until the patch of mud.
Iseult lost all sense of time as they rode. Only Owl’s Threads, bright as the moon above, wavered against her. But Aeduan—or the soul that now wore his body—was faster with his Bloodwitchery to propel his muscles and guide the hunt. He might not be able to smell Iseult, but he could certainly smell Owl. Soon he had caught up. Soon Iseult sensed him in her periphery, Threads green and hunting and tainted by shadow birds.
A dried-out streambed ahead. Abandon the horse at the pine.
Iseult spotted the pine. “Must we leave the horse?” She felt safer elevated and carried on legs faster than her own. But then she spotted the stream: its drop-off was far too steep for the horse. Iseult yanked in his reins and in seconds, she was on the forest floor and tugging Owl down.
“I’m sorry,” she told Lord Storm Hound. Then she smacked his rump. He pounded off into the trees—where hopefully Aeduan would follow the horse, however briefly, instead of his witchery.
As Iseult hurried Owl toward the empty stream, another set of Threads skated into her awareness: silvery, muted, prowling this way.
She panicked. Her footing faltered. She fell; Owl fell, and unlike Iseult, Owl did not know how to land to prevent damage. She caught herself with her hands, and a sickening snap hit Iseult’s ears. Pain lanced up Owl’s Threads, an iron heart surrounded by white. She did not cry out, though. Did not react at all, and Iseult had no choice but to pull her to her feet and into a limping run once more.
Distantly, Iseult sensed Aeduan’s corrupted Threads reach the stream’s drop-off. Distantly, she heard his boots land gracefully upon the softer soil, but she dared not look back or slow. She simply kicked her legs higher and yanked at Owl all the more. The silver Threads were not yet near—and they seemed in no rush to approach—but whatever wore them was far more dangerous than Aeduan.
Of that, Iseult was certain.
Only when Aeduan was right behind her, only when his bruise-purple anticipation filled her awareness, did she finally react. Iseult shoved Owl in front of her and screamed, “Run!”
Aeduan’s hand clamped onto Iseult’s right shoulder, a grip to break stones. But she was ready for him. With her left hand, she clasped his fingers so he could not release her. Then she turned sharply. Her right fist connected with his ribs. Her right knee connected with his groin. He doubled over, and she used this brief weakness to wedge her elbow on top of his.
Iseult kept turning. So fast and so hard, his arm abandoned its socket. A tearing crack filled the woods. Aeduan had no choice but to drop to his knees. Steel pain and crimson fury claimed his Threads. Brightest of all, though, was the turquoise surprise.
He had not expected this, and unlike the real Aeduan, he did not know how to get out of it.
Iseult moved until she was directly behind him and grabbed his head. One hand she placed on his crown, one hand she placed on his jaw. She snapped his neck.
And like the eye gouge, she’d never actually done this move before. She wasn’t prepared for how easily his spine broke. Pain, dark as thunderclouds, laid claim to the entirety of his Threads. He toppled forward and collapsed to the earth.
For several wild, breathless moments, the world was silent. Iseult’s lungs were locked; her booming heart was a distant, forgotten thing. Even the silver Threads vanished from her awareness as she stared at Aeduan. As Owl stared at Aeduan. As the weasel stared at Aeduan, his body facedown on the dried stream and his back shuddering with broken breaths.
Then his Threads began to shrink, and Iseult clapped a hand to her mouth. She’d killed him. Oh goddess, she’d killed him.
“Aeduan.” She sank to his side. With a grunt of strength, she gripped his shoulder and rolled him over. Now his Threads were almost completely gone. Now his chest scarcely moved. Why wasn’t he healing?
“Aeduan, please wake up. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Nothing happened. The last of his Threads scattered away. “No, no, no.” She dug her fingers into his cheeks. “Wake up, wake up. Please, I’m so sorry—”
His eyes opened. Ice blue and clear.
Iseult gasped. Recoiled. Then understood. For of course Aeduan’s Threads were gone. Not from death, but from life. The true Aeduan had returned.
Te varuje.
A laugh curled up from her stomach. Hysterical and overloud. She leaned in. “It’s you. I can’t believe it. You’re here.”
“No.”
Iseult stilled.
“Go.” Aeduan swallowed; his eyes—now swirling with red as he healed—held hers. Steady in the way that only the true Aeduan could ever be. “He … returns.”
“Who?” she asked. “Who returns? Who possesses you and Evrane?”
He did not answer right away. He couldn’t. His face was tightening, his eyes closing. Not with pain but with concentration. “The Old One,” he squeezed out. “From the Well.”
Now Threads were wavering to life. Weak bursts of birds as the one who controlled Aeduan broke through.
Aeduan’s eyes snapped wide again. Such beautiful eyes, Iseult had once thought. The shade of pure understanding.
“Run,” he rasped, holding her gaze. “Iseult, run.”
She did not run. Too many points were connecting in her brain, gumming up her muscles. Slowing her in the way that logic always did. The Aether Well. The Old Ones. Paladins forgotten and gone.
A scream shattered the night. Near and desperate, it broke off in an instant. Not human, but equine. Lord Storm Hound. Iseult pushed to her feet, vision briefly darkening and the moonlit forest briefly wavering. Someone had gotten the horse. Or something had, for there were the silver Threads, muted but closer. Muted but hunting.
With no grace and all brute strength, Iseult grabbed Aeduan’s shoulder and flipped him onto his stomach once more. He did not react. His eyes were closed, his face pinched with focus while someone else’s Threads fought to rip through.
And still he healed. She could hear his body mending itself, new bone growing by the heartbeat. She could also hear a rustling in the trees, as if the wind whispered this way. A cold, killing wind with Threads of immortal hunger.
Iseult tore off Aeduan’s Carawen cloak. Then she unsheathed Aeduan’s sword. In moments she had his salamander cloak slashed in half. The bottom strip, she tied around her own shoulders—dirty, but warm. Then the main cloak, she draped over Owl.
The child did not resist. Wherever her mind currently was, it was not within the stream. She didn’t even sense the approaching creature. She was pain, pain, horror, and loss.