And thirty-five years? This woman and Henrick had been meeting for thirty-five years?
“How are the boys?” Henrick asked. “Did Dietrik get the money?”
“He did.” Paskella laughed, an indulgent sound. A loving sound, and in tones filled with maternal pride, she described how Dietrik had repaired the roof and used leftover funds to make improvements in her kitchen. “He will be a fine builder,” she said. “No witchery needed.”
“He already is,” Henrick replied.
Safi gulped. Almost dropped the belt, for just as maternal pride had thickened the woman’s voice, paternal pride shone in Henrick’s. No falseness in his words—no lies to shudder within her Truth-lens.
As he and Paskella continued their updates and questions, Safi realized three things. First, Paskella was indeed a commoner. Second, she and Henrick were Heart-Threads—true, real Heart-Threads like the children’s rhyme. Robins and magpies on branches above. Money for marriage, and Heart-Threads for love.
And third, Henrick had not one, but three sons. Sons who didn’t know he existed, sons who would never know he existed, yet sons whom he loved all the same. This was the reason he had never married. Here, in this room, was the reason he had consummated nothing with Safi. And the reason he had groomed Leopold so carefully to succeed his throne.
I am not so awful as you think me, he’d told her two days ago. You will come to see that in time. And then in the carriage he had said, We are not all so lucky, you know, in reference to building families with the ones we loved.
No, no, no. It was too much for Safi’s brain to digest. She was not supposed to pity Henrick fon Cartorra. She was not supposed to respect his lifelong devotion to the family he could never have. She was not supposed to appreciate how the woman laughed, throaty and warm, or be impressed that she made no attempts to polish her words or put on airs.
Henrick fon Cartorra was a bad man. He treated his Hell-Bards like cannon fodder. He abused them, he broke them—all in the name of power. He had imprisoned Safi with a golden chain, he had imprisoned her uncle in poison, and he had trampled on smaller nations in the pursuit of dominance and war.
There are degrees of everything, Caden had once told Safi. Which I know doesn’t fit well into your true-or-false view of the world.
No, it didn’t fit, and Safi wished she’d never ever heard this conversation. She was not supposed to feel sympathetic toward her enemy. She was not supposed to feel this tiny niggling of guilt.
Her freedom mattered. Iseult’s safety mattered. And just because Henrick had more sides, more dimensions, more depth, did not erase what he had done or why Safi had to flee.
With a slow, silent breath, she eased the belt—the paste now dried—onto the heap of shadowy clothes. She had what she’d come for.
Fortunately, the sounds of kissing soon filled the room, and when Safi inched her gaze around the chair, she found the curtains were starting to move.
It was definitely time to exit.
After confirming the gold chain and Threadstones were safely in her pocket, she rolled to her feet and tiptoed away. Moments later, Safi was back in the study and returning her noose to her neck. Then, with her breathing and heart only slightly elevated, she settled into the chair before Henrick’s desk to wait for a final good-bye.
* * *
Iseult found her mother outside the prisoner tent, her two hunter escorts near but out of earshot.
“He is not what he seems.” Gretchya uttered this as a statement, her eyes fixed on Iseult’s face. Waiting for some emotion to cross, no doubt, so she could scold. Or perhaps waiting on the inevitable stammer to take hold of Iseult’s tongue.
She would be disappointed, though. Iseult’s mouth felt clear. The parasite had tucked back into its hole; stasis wrapped firmly around her bones. “I know.” She met Gretchya’s gaze, almost half a head below her own. “He is possessed. That is what the shadow birds mean.”
“Shadow birds?” Gretchya’s head cocked sideways, and Iseult realized in an instant that her mother hadn’t seen them. Like the Severed Threads of the Cleaved, those shadows were only for the Void. Yet how had Gretchya known something was wrong with him? What had her Aether-bound Threadwitchery sensed?
“Did you do that to him?” Gretchya asked. “Did you possess him?”
For a fraction of a heartbeat, Iseult had no answer. Then it bubbled up against her will: she laughed. A real laugh with a real smile, and she didn’t care if it wasn’t very Threadwitch of her. She didn’t care if her mother disapproved. “Of course I didn’t possess him.” She shook her head, eyes sweeping around the collapsing camp and the Threads blending and braiding nearby.
She opened her arms toward them all. “Monster though you think I am, Mother, I do not possess people. And I don’t hurt them simply to hurt them. But why argue?” Her arms fell. “You will never believe me?”
Gretchya offered no reply. Arrguing was not something Threadwitches did—and certainly not where everyone could see. The two hunters had perked up at Iseult’s laugh, and though they hid their interest behind stiff masks, they couldn’t hide their curious, listening Threads.
Gretchya noticed the audience too, and with a lift of her chin, she strode away.
Iseult debated following. Part of her itched to keep their conversation going. To force her mother to talk to her—to admit her disgust, her disdain, her disappointment for the first time in her miserable life.
Another part of her wanted to twist around and stalk the other way. Flee while she could, find a quiet corner, and study Eridysi’s diary, still hanging heavy in her pocket. She had fought Corlant to get it, and more importantly, she’d meant what she’d said to the false Aeduan: she would free him soon. Te librahje ma-in.
Leaving would be the proper thing to do. It would be what her mother expected, what everyone expected. Stasis, Iseult, stasis in your … The refrain trickled to a stop. She had abandoned stasis two weeks ago; she couldn’t let herself fall into it now. Besides, after Gretchya sounded so much more enticing than walking away. This fizzy chop in her chest, like a river churned by storm, wanted an outlet. It was accustomed to having an outlet after weeks on the road, weeks as a Voidwitch, weeks as the Puppeteer.
So she gave in, a small smile playing at the edge of her lips as she stalked after Gretchya. This must be how Safi always felt, letting emotions and fire rule.
“The healer’s tent is that one.” Gretchya pointed at one of the few tents still intact; weak smoke coiled from its heart.
“I don’t seek the healer’s tent. I seek you.” Iseult studied her mother’s profile. “How did you know something was wrong with the Bloodwitch?”
“The same way a healer senses rot within a wound. There are some things one simply recognizes as wrong.” She didn’t add, Like you, but the words drifted between them anyway.
And Iseult’s hunger for a fight ratcheted higher. “You may hate my magic, Mother, but you were the one who made me. I am of your blood, whether you like that truth or not.”
Gretchya conveniently did not reply. Instead, she said: “You will travel with us for a time, but because of the heretic’s collar, the child cannot stay.”
“You would abandon her? What a great hero you are.”