The hunters’ Threads winked with surprise and revulsion, tropical blue twined with taupe.
“She is only a child,” Iseult continued, “yet you would leave her behind to fend for herself?”
“Many people are under my protection, and Dirdra is a liability—”
“She is a child.” There was the laugh again, bursting free from Iseult’s chest. Shrill and hollow. The Threadwitch tent was only a few paces away, and soon her mother would enter. Soon their exchange would end. So Iseult added, loud enough for the hunters to clearly hear, “Fortunately, Mother, the child has me to protect her. We’ve made it this far without any help. We’ll continue on alone.”
She ground to a halt though her mother moved on. The hunters had heard this exchange; their Threads mashed with disgust and confusion.
This is your hero, Iseult thought at them as they marched past. Do you respect her still?
Gretchya paused at the tent’s black entrance, forcing the hunters to pause too. She was absolute stasis, no shame to trip up her tongue. No guilt to flush on her face.
Goddess, what must it be like, to walk through life unfeeling. A true absence of emotion, no Threads that bind or break or build to ever pull her up or pull Gretchya down. A life without pain … And a life without love. But people were Threads, and every time Gretchya had denied her own, the less human she had become.
“Where will you go?” Gretchya asked without turning.
“Back to Praga. Where I’ve been planning to go all along.”
“You cannot. Hell-Bards block the way. I have seen the map you brought.”
“I have evaded Hell-Bards before.”
Gretchya peered back. “And what is in Praga?”
“Who is in Praga.” Iseult lifted her eyebrows, challenging her mother to press on. “Safi.”
Gretchya didn’t. Instead she said, “In that case, I can be of no help to you.” She swept into her tent. The flap swung with brisk finality.
And a laugh crinkled in Iseult’s lungs again. A laugh fed by flames because her mother had not changed and never would. It was good to know that—and even better to leave with a certainty there was no reason to stay.
With a sharp nod for the hunters now claiming positions before the tent, Iseult turned on her heel and set off to find Owl.
THIRTY-THREE
Iseult’s anger did not last. She wished it would—goddess, she wished it would. It was so much easier with that heat to keep her moving. So much clearer with that burn to sharpen her eyes.
But anger required energy, and Iseult had none left to give. After days on the run, her insides had been scooped out. She was a human-shaped husk. When she finally stumbled into the healer’s tent nestled beside a larger expanse of dark stone wall, familiar Earthwitch Threads awaited within, as did the Threads of an Airwitch healer.
Iseult entered at the tent’s closed flap. Heat rolled over her. Heat and darkness lit by lanterns. Firewitched, of course, just as other magic items filled the tent, clustered on crude shelves: Painstones, jars of Earthwitch healer salve, bottles of Waterwitch healer draughts, and countless tools she did not recognize.
At the opposite corner beside a smokeless brazier, Owl sat upon a low table. On one side was the healer, young and amply curved within her furs. On the other side was Alma, smiling a false smile at Owl—who smiled right back, her Threads rosy with pleasure, her eyes locked on Alma’s face, as if she had never seen anyone more captivating. As if she’d never adored anyone more in her life.
Because of course that was how it would happen. Owl had known the Threadwitch apprentice for less than an hour, but already she was enamored. Alma’s perfection could be denied by no one, not even an injured child. Or especially not by an injured child on whom Alma plied her fake, forced, perfectly performed smile.
Meanwhile Iseult had been with Owl for six weeks, protecting her and feeding her—giving up her own food just so the child could eat—and yet not once had Owl looked at her like that. Not once had she giggled at something Iseult said.
And she certainly had never willingly reached for Iseult’s hand as Owl was doing right now with Alma.
Alma laced her fingers in Owl’s and smiled even more brightly. The healer worked on in silence. And Iseult stayed rooted beside the tent’s flap. She could leave before anyone saw her. She could leave before this thick, oozing heat reawoke.
Leave, came a voice like the weasel. Leave the tent and leave the child. You do not need her. She slows you and attracts Hell-Bards. Think how much faster you could travel without her. We could be back to Praga in days.
Iseult didn’t deny this. She couldn’t. Now that she had the diary, there was nothing to keep her here. She could march right back across Cartorra and face the Hell-Bards, destroy Henrick, finish the plan she and Safi had first set in motion a month ago.
For some reason at that thought—the thought that had sustained Iseult for three weeks—Gretchya’s face filled her mind. The way she’d looked, expressionless though she might have been, when she’d spotted Iseult’s Void mark. The way she’d declared, cold as the Sleeping Lands, Threadwitches do not cause pain.
“No,” Iseult whispered. To herself, to the weasel, to Gretchya’s frozen face. “I won’t leave her.” Then she cleared her throat and walked fully into the lanterns’ glow.
Three heads turned. The healer’s Threads brightened with grassy curiosity. Owl’s sank with pale wariness and her adoring smile for Alma frosted into a scowl.
“Iseult,” Alma said, the same false happiness to lace her features and her voice. So convincing. Much better than Iseult had ever been at pretending to feel. She released Owl to quickly cross the space. The healer nodded a greeting and resumed slathering salve upon Owl’s wrist.
“Dirdra is such a good child,” Alma murmured once she was close enough for Iseult—and only Iseult—to hear. “How did you find her?”
A fresh round of bitter laughter burbled. A good child. She squashed it down and arched a razor-sharp eyebrow. “How do you know her name? I saw the look you and my mother shared.”
“Ah.” Alma’s fake smile smoothed away. “Corlant sought her. He expected her to be delivered, in fact, when we were in the Sirmayans. But someone killed the raiders who’d taken her. You, I suppose?”
It had not been Iseult, but Aeduan. Back in the Contested Lands, where death had razed like wildfire. Yet there was no point in explaining this—it was too complicated, too tiresome. Fortunately, Alma’s attention had already slid back to Owl.
“The child is a witch?” she asked.
“An Earthwitch.”
“What type?”
“No type. She is a full Earthwitch.”
“Oh?” The faintest twitch hit Alma’s eyes. Surprise, Iseult recognized—and the young woman hadn’t managed to hide it. Perhaps she is not so perfect after all.
Iseult’s delight was short-lived, for Alma didn’t seem to care that she had shown emotion. She seemed to relax into it, her melodic voice shifting to almost conversational. “I didn’t know full Earthwitches existed anymore.” She tapped a finger against her thigh. “No wonder Corlant wants her.”
“Or maybe Corlant wants her because of who she used to be.” Iseult scrutinized Alma’s face as she said this, hoping for some reaction. Hoping for some clue that the Threadwitch might know more than she let on. But Alma offered nothing. She only shook her head and glanced Iseult’s way.