“Then we continue on.” Leopold took Safi’s hand into his own before leading her more deeply into darkness. His fingers were warm and deceptively soft. He must keep his calluses filed down, Safi realized, for she had seen Leopold training when they were young. He had been quick with a sword then, and she had no doubt he was quicker now.
I have spent twenty years grooming Leopold to be the perfect leader, Henrick had told Safi earlier. At the time, she’d assumed Henrick meant all the skills needed to run an empire—warfare, diplomacy, bureaucracy, and politics. Now, she wondered if perhaps it also included the art of performance.
Henrick was not the toad he seemed; Leopold was not the dandy.
They traveled several miles before finally approaching one of the city’s outer walls, beyond which were suburbs and settlements that had sprung up over the centuries and continued to spring up today.
“How do you feel?” Leopold asked, peering up at the towering gatehouse. Lights flickered within the slitted windows, and soldiers stood watch at the gaping archway. They paid no mind to Leopold or Safi or anyone else hurrying by. Buoyant voices bounced off stone, suggesting alehouses and brothels on the crooked streets nearby.
Safi had never visited this part of the city. It was not so run-down as the slums, but it had certainly seen better days.
“I feel … good,” Safi said, and to her surprise, the words were true, true, true. Yes, her muscles juddered and her toes were still blocks of ice. And yes, the Loom’s magic called to her, miles upon miles away. But this was her first taste of freedom in a month, her first trip outside the palace without guards or Hell-Bards or a chain around her neck, and her first glimpse of colors, even if nighttime dulled their edges.
“If I did not have unfinished business at the palace,” she continued, “I would leave the city right now.”
A murmur of acknowledgment from Leopold. He still held her hand. “You cannot go alone, though, Safiya.”
Her brows drew together. “But there is no one who can go with me, Polly.”
“Oh, but there is.” He tipped back his head until she could see his face beneath the hood. Skeletal in the shadows, but with bright, otherworldly green eyes. “I will go with you.”
Safi did not react. She simply gazed at him, grasping for any change in the Truth-lens. But it did not frizz with lies.
“How could you join me?” she asked. “I thought you could not risk openly helping me or execution would await you.”
“No,” he admitted, tugging Safi back toward the river. Several blocks later, the second chimes clanged, and Leopold finally continued: “It is a delicate balance. My loyalties to Cartorra are true. My loyalties to the Cahr Awen as well. Until now, I have walked that line as best I could, for I am my uncle’s heir. I do take my future role seriously. More than seriously. It is all I have been raised for, all I have ever wanted.”
He hesitated. His footsteps briefly slowed. Then he resumed his pace, faster now, and his grip on Safi tightened.
“However, circumstances have changed.” He glanced briefly at her, his hood rustling. She could not see his face. “What is at stake has changed.”
Safi’s eyes narrowed. “My uncle? I realize you’re working with him on this scheme to end all wars and heal the Origin Wells, but how does knowing where he is change anything? You didn’t interfere when Henrick took my magic. You didn’t interfere when Iseult was chased away. And you don’t interfere now when Hell-Bards hunt her down.”
“Ah, but that’s just it, you see. Everything is different.” He lifted her hand and gazed down at her fingers for several seconds. Then his second hand grabbed hold too, and Safi knew—before he could speak, before he could fully enclose her hand in both of his—she knew what he was going to say next.
He pulled her to him and held her hands to his chest. “I know where Iseult is, Safiya. She is near the Solfatarra and your uncle. And I fear she is in great danger.”
Fourteen Days After the Earth Well Healed
Iseult never thought she would see her best friend marry.
And she certainly never thought she would see her best friend become an empress. They fled Dalmotti to avoid this; now they run headlong for it. At least this time they are following their own plan. Initiate, complete. A heist only they know of, only they can pull off.
Iseult stands on a private balcony, high above the crowded room as the first night of festivities begins below. It is a private place, meant for servants to observe their masters without interference. Invisible creatures that provide for every whim—or did, when that was the fashion centuries ago. Now it is a sign of status to have one’s servants in plain sight.
Which has left this balcony empty and perfect for the claiming.
Safi and Henrick will soon parade through the great hall. So dramatic, so public. Nothing like the braiding ceremony for Nomatsis. Then again, Cartorrans do not marry for love. There’s even a song about it. Something with robins and magpies.
When Iseult left the wedding earlier, surrounded by her usual escort of Hell-Bards, her last glimpse had been of the Emperor in pond-scum green. He had kept his face carefully neutral, carefully bored, throughout the ritual …
But his Threads had given him away, just as his Threads betray him now while he strides into the room with Safi at his side. She has changed into stunning gold, pure sunlight that makes her skin glow and smile radiant.
He still wears pond-scum green, and he moves with all the grace of the toad he seems to mimic. His Threads are alert, anxious, as if he waits for something. Safi’s are the same, though hers twine with brighter anxiety, and brief twinges of terror too.
“It will be all right,” Iseult whispers, her hand on her Threadstone. She knows Safi cannot hear—one of her hands is in Henrick’s, the other occupied by waving. Without her fingers also on the stone, Iseult’s words will fall on no one.
Still, Iseult likes to think the sentiment crosses their rubies. That some burst of strength now shivers into Safi’s bones.
Safi and the Emperor reach the dais. Safi curtsies, and the nobility clap—some with delight and enthusiasm, most with confused politeness. It is a churning pool of contradictory Threads. They know she is a Truthwitch; they know she is half of the Cahr Awen; they know she was betrothed to Henrick two months ago in Veñaza City.
What they don’t know is why Safi has returned. Why, after fleeing, she is still allowed to marry their emperor instead of living in chains.
Threads tickle Iseult’s senses, stronger by the heartbeat. Brilliant Threads with a crackling core. She turns as Leopold steps onto her balcony. He has changed into dancing slippers and fitted silver velvet. Silver always suits him best, and he knows it.
“Dark-Giver,” he says with a bow.
And Iseult frowns. A real frown she does not have to fake. Perhaps, given a few more weeks of practice, she will wear emotions easily. Then again, if all goes according to plan, after tonight it will no longer matter if she is expressive or not.
“You mock me.”
“No.” Leopold lifts his face, eyes and Threads twinkling. “I revere you.”
“Empty words.” She turns back to the crowd. Back to the dais where Safi and Henrick now sit upon their thrones.
“What makes you think they are empty?” Leopold leans on the balustrade beside her.