It was one more question to add to the thousands of others dragging Iseult down.
Soon Alma had reached a taller hut at the camp’s center with a woolen blanket over the entrance—black, the color of all Threads combined, and sewn into the edges were the marks of a Threadwitch. A straight magenta line for the Threads that bind. Swirling sage green for the Threads that build. And a dashed gray line for the Threads that break.
Iseult’s footsteps slowed. The heat in her chest had crawled down her legs, making them leaden and stiff. Stasis, Iseult. Stasis in your fingers and in your toes. She hated that she needed those words. Hated that they surfaced right now. But the truth was that she couldn’t face her mother without them. Gretchya would never accept who Iseult had become.
Alma swept aside the blanket and waited for Iseult to enter. Iseult wished the other girl would look away. For that matter, Iseult wished Alma were anywhere in the Witchlands but here. If only, if only, if only.
Iseult thrust into the darkness. She saw nothing but lanterns flickering at the edges of her vision. Firewitched. Recognizable by the absence of smoke. Then she heard a voice. The voice that sometimes whispered in her dreams or scolded in her nightmares.
“Iseult,” said Gretchya det Midenzi, no surprise in her tone. No surprise on the pallid face slowly emerging from the shadows. Beside her, at the heart of the tent, were the customary fire, a communal bowl of stew, and four low stools.
“Why have you come?” Gretchya asked. Her gaze traveled the length of Iseult, and it took all of Iseult’s self-control not to curl in on herself.
Stasis. She notched her chin higher.
“Why have you come?” Gretchya repeated. Not, Are you hurt, my only daughter? Or, How is this possible that you are here? or even, Who is this injured child with you?
Instead, Gretchya asked a question that somehow, despite the lack of inflection, still held enough accusation to fill a galleon. Why have you come? Gone was the woman beside the willow tree, who had seemed, if only for a few moments, to have real emotions.
“I did not come here by choice,” Iseult responded, her own tone just as flat. Her own expression just as cool. Her tongue was not fattening behind her teeth. Her throat was not clenching shut at the sight of her mother’s emotionless eyes. “We were … hunted. By a Carawen monk.”
She had to speak slowly, but she was proud when no stutter marked her words. Control your tongue. Control your mind. A Threadwitch never stammers.
“And this child”—Iseult pulled Owl gently in front of her—“needs a healer. Her wrist is hurt. Sprained, I believe.”
Gretchya blinked as if only just noticing Owl. It was the closest thing to emotion that crossed her face; Iseult didn’t know what it meant. “What is your name?” Gretchya asked.
To Iseult’s shock and to her … her something else—something hot that wrinkled down her spine—Owl answered: “Dirdra det Allaeli.”
Now it was Iseult’s turn to blink. A month and a half she had been with this child, and only now was she learning her true name. Only now was Iseult’s mother so deftly plucking it out of her.
Iseult had no time to dwell on this information, nor time to assess what this new heat might mean, for now her mother was sharing a look with Alma, as if that name meant something. And Iseult felt as if she were falling in the river from two days ago, but instead of ice to dunk her, it was flames. Because Iseult knew the look that passed between Gretchya and Alma. Gods curse her, she knew it well because she’d spent years watching them make it. But only to each other. Never to her.
Her fingers flexed taut at her side, her breaths grew shallow. And there, in the pit of her belly, was the anger again. Yes, she coaxed it. Grow. Expand. She had no trouble keeping her expression immobile when kindling burned inside. Even her nose, which usually twitched and gave her away, was as still as the stones surrounding the firepit.
“Iseult told us others hunt her.” Alma folded her hands behind her back—perfect, perfect—and Gretchya’s attention sharpened onto Iseult once more. “Who?”
“Corlant,” Iseult replied.
At once, all Threads in the tent flashed with slate fear. All bodies stiffened, even Alma, even Gretchya.
And Iseult couldn’t help but delight in those reactions. “There are Hell-Bards too,” she said. “Because of Owl … Dirdra’s collar. They have hunted us for days.” To prove her point, she withdrew the map. “This shows where they are. None are near for now.”
At Gretchya’s nod, Alma took the map and unfolded it toward the nearest lantern. “This is valuable.” She glanced up. “How did you get it?”
Iseult didn’t answer, and fortunately, she was saved from having to by Gretchya. “It does not matter if the Hell-Bards are far away. Corlant approaches, and so we must leave.” She snapped her fingers at the hunters. “Alert the tribe. We must move immediately.” She waited until the women were out of the tent before squaring her body to Iseult. Like before, her gaze roamed up and down.
And like before, Iseult’s parasite reemerged. “Three weeks we have lived here safely, Iseult. Then you shred our careful weave in a single morning.”
The heat spindled wider, mixed with a new heat: a Puppeteer’s heat. With outrage. After all, it wasn’t as if Iseult had come here on purpose. It wasn’t as if she’d known her mother and these Nomatsis were living in the middle of an acid lake.
But she got no chance to respond before her mother turned away. “Alma,” she said, “take Iseult and Dirdra to the healer. If you need me, I will be dealing with the prisoner.” Then without another word or even another glance for Iseult, Gretchya left the tent.
The reunion was complete. Iseult was dismissed.
Fourteen Days After the Earth Well Healed
Safi watches the dancers. Rich gemstone colors stream and streak, thin silks and satins intended only for dancing. Worn once, never worn again. A waste that Merik Nihar would have scowled at.
But Safi cannot scowl—not when so many might see. She sits on this new throne and watches, a tiny smile to grace her lips. A genuine smile for she has a secret, and tonight that secret will come thundering outward.
Her newly sewn pocket scratches against her right breast, where the square-cut bodice dips low. Poorly added, but sufficient.
“You look disgusted,” Henrick says. He shifts in his throne, the wood protesting.
And Safi realizes that perhaps her expression isn’t as poised as she thinks, but she has always been good at quickly conjured lies. She is the right hand after all, always there to distract. To display.
“There is a war on,” she replies, dipping her head toward the dancers. “Yet to look at them, you wouldn’t know that Azmir burns or raiders come this way.”
Henrick grunts, and several seconds drum past with only strings and footsteps to fill them. “You must understand, my Empress, that there is no war here. To these people, it is a distant thing fought by others—and I work hard to keep it that way.”
“So you lie to them?”
“No.” His forehead pinches, the skin reddened by the tightness of his crown. “The nobility are not stupid, and the common folk even less so. But as you will quickly learn, people take emotional cues from their leaders. If we are calm, then they are too.”