Stasis, she thought out of habit, even if she’d stopped believing in that word. Stasis in your fingers and in your toes.
Iseult pushed into the hut alone. The weasel followed; Owl did not. Iseult wished the child would, though. Just as she wished she could be a better guardian, better protector.
When at last she had managed to feed Owl with porridge and fresh leeks, she left the girl dozing before a small stove in the shepherd’s hut and turned to searching supply crates in the woods nearby. She wanted food that would travel well, and to her heavy relief, she found it: a cheese wheel, smoked meats, crab apples, and water bags. She also found the horses’ gear: black leather saddles, faded scarlet pads, and saddlebags stamped with the Cartorran double-headed eagle. Inside one of those bags was a map.
Iseult’s heart surged. After two weeks traveling by the stars and a weasel’s vague impressions, a map and horses could easily triple how much ground she and Owl covered each day.
Once more, she sent her thanks to whichever god had decided to favor her.
After checking on Owl beside the stove, Iseult stretched the map across the hut’s table. While she lit a lantern with cold fingers, the weasel explored the calfskin vellum. She sniffed, she chirped, and she stared at the black ink.
Iseult stared too, her mouth gradually opening in a way her mother would never have allowed. She couldn’t help it, for this was no ordinary map. Not only did it show roads and passes and villages of the Ohrins, each meticulously drawn, but it showed the location of the Emperor’s troops: his Hell-Bards, his soldiers, his guards. All were noted upon the map.
And all were moving.
Iseult had heard of Aetherwitched miniatures used in warfare upon a battle map. Small imitations bound by magic to their life-size counterpart. Where the ship or battalion moved, the miniature moved as well. Iseult had also heard of Wordwitched documents—had seen ones crafted by her mentor Mathew. Such pages allowed communication over long distances and contracts bound by deed. Yet she had never heard of a map where the ink symbols moved.
The weasel dug her dark nose into a red X nestled on the eastern side of the Ohrins. Look, she seemed to say in Iseult’s mind.
So Iseult looked … and then found the X on the legend. Heretic Target, it read, referring to witches who’d been caught hiding their magic.
Her stomach bottomed out. While there were other Xs on the map, this X was near a small road. And here is the stream we crossed this morning. There were the falls they’d passed after that. And here was their little shepherd’s hut.
No wonder the Emperor’s soldiers had always seemed to be waiting for Iseult. They knew exactly where she was at all times.
“But how?” she asked, more breath than sound. “How do they know we’re here?”
Owl’s collar. The answer hit her right as the weasel shot her gaze to the child and hissed. The collars must not merely block magic but also allow Hell-Bards to track them, so it was only a matter of time before more soldiers found Owl and Iseult again.
Fortunately, Iseult could see exactly where and when that would happen, thanks to the map. A battalion of Hell-Bards followed from the west—they’d been following since Praga, and they lagged a full day behind. It was more people than she’d realized, though. Tens of them, some on horseback, most on foot. If they caught up to her, she would not be able to fight them.
The weasel twined against Iseult, her fur soft and posture seductive. You could leave the girl, she seemed to say. Then no one could follow us.
Iseult swallowed. Scratched her nose. She hated that temptation even billowed inside her. She hated that her mind instantly raced ahead to how much easier everything would be. She traced her fingers over Praga, so far west now. She’d left Safi there. Abandoned her to save her own neck and Owl’s. If she weren’t slowed by the child, she could return so much sooner.
No. She shook her head, almost frantic. Certainly ashamed. Owl was the only Thread-family she had left. She would never leave her behind.
The weasel seemed to understand, and she gave an almost human shrug—Suit yourself—before moving to the map’s edge, where she sprawled out and began to groom. Somehow, she made each lick across her paws seem thoroughly disdainful, thoroughly bored.
In moments like this, it was easy to see she had once been human. Ancient things made new again.
With a sigh, Iseult dragged her attention east, toward Arithuania. East toward safety. The most direct route would take her and Owl down this mountain and to a long lake, crescent shaped and vast. Once Iseult and Owl crossed that, they would be on the Windswept Plains.
At the northern tip of the lake, an imperial hunting lodge stood filled with the unmistakable symbol for Cartorran soldiers and Hell-Bards. And at the lake’s southern tip was a sprawling imperial sulfur mine. Neither route was ideal.
The weasel offered an impatient squeak, and the image of Owl’s collar filled Iseult’s mind. Because, of course, as long as Owl wore it, the Hell-Bards would keep hunting. All the way to the fallen republic of Arithuania. All the way to its fallen capital of Poznin.
Iseult glared anyway. “You know I can’t remove it.” The collar could not be sawed, it could not be hammered, it could not be picked, and it could not be magicked. Iseult had tried everything. And unlike Hell-Bard protection wards, where Iseult could see the very Threads of protection at work, she could sense no magic upon the collar.
In fact, if not for the faded appearance of Owl’s Threads and the invisible wall they hit whenever she tried to use her Earthwitchery, Iseult would never have even known the device was magical. She would have thought it nothing more than a simple piece of wood.
Iseult spread her fingers between the red X that symbolized Owl to the ridge above the crescent lake. “Twenty leagues,” she estimated.
That was two days on horseback to figure out the collar and remove it. Or two days to come up with a better plan.
The weasel chittered, a wickedly gleeful sound. She wanted to travel now and wanted to be the one to wake Owl. Iseult shook her head. “Let her sleep. We have time.”
And you? the weasel seemed to ask. Will you sleep?
“Yes,” Iseult lied, though she knew the weasel didn’t believe her. Yet the slithery creature had never had any solutions to offer—the nightmares had never plagued her, after all. She had killed for pleasure as a human; she killed for pleasure as an animal. And after a few moments of watching Iseult map the next day’s route, the creature slunk outside to enjoy the night.
FOUR
Never had Vivia Nihar seen such extravagance. The Floating Palace of Azmir was a lesson in minimalism compared to the Doge’s mansion on the edge of Veñaza City. The glass walls alone must have taken a hundred witch artisans to create, and the gardens—so lush were they that even with Plantwitches to tend and coax, they must have required decades for the assembly.
“Do not look so horrified,” Vaness murmured beside Vivia. “The Doge is very proud of his gardens.”
Vivia’s face twitched. When you are with others, the Little Fox must become a bear. Now, is your mask on, Vivia? She patted the edges of her face, but no amount of grasping for her mask had seemed to work today. Or yesterday. Or any day since reaching Veñaza City a week ago.
Out of her depth was a vast understatement. Everything in Dalmotti had been foreign, exhausting, and terrifying. She was the klutz to everyone’s grace. The barbarian to everyone’s flawless manners. The hardened sailor to everyone’s soft wealth.