She had just enough time to widen her eyes in horror before her breath choked off. Before she too went limp and hit the floor.
Aeduan smiled. Oh, what power indeed. No one could stop him, no one could contain him. Not even the Old One named Evrane. Not even Corlant with his Purists always around. There was only one person he could not control. A young woman with no blood-scent—a young woman with a power from the Void.
And a young woman who knew exactly what Aeduan could do, yet she’d said nothing and warned no one. Instead, she had taken the silver taler stained in his own blood so he could follow her. So he would follow her. Why? As long as she lived, she was a risk to him. She had to know he could not leave her free.
The reason didn’t matter, he decided as he reached the tent’s flap. He was coming for her, and neither she nor the first Aeduan, still wrestling within, could stop him.
* * *
If Iseult was lucky, she would never see Alma or Gretchya again.
It wasn’t as if she’d wanted to stop in the Solfatarra, no matter what accusations her mother might have flung at her. Gretchya and this tribe had been an interruption in her path, an inconvenience blocking her way. They had neutralized Aeduan for her; now Iseult didn’t need them; she could dismiss them as easily as Gretchya always dismissed her.
Each step away from the healer’s tent brought clarity to Iseult’s veins. Men had died at her fingertips, and people had whispered her name in fear. For once, on the road, she had been the one making the choices and the one making change.
But Gretchya and Alma didn’t see that—and they wouldn’t care if they did. They would only hate her more because it would be the final proof that Iseult was bound to the Void. That she would never fit into the tribe’s weave and never follow in Gretchya’s perfectly placed footsteps.
Iseult half ran, half skipped due west, back the way they’d come. Back toward Praga and Safi. She was exhausted, she was drained, but anger had gotten her this far. It would get her the rest of the way. Owl kept silent and obedient beside her. Dark clouds scudded across the sun as they moved; snow began to fall. A light, fluffy snow that Iseult would have thought beautiful several weeks ago.
Now she knew such snow made tracks easier to follow. Now she knew such snow killed, gentle as a mother’s embrace.
Soon conifers and old-growth forests swallowed them, muting the snow, and Iseult sensed hunters approaching. Three sets of hostile Threads—while countless more waited beyond. Then the first hunter reached them: a gray-haired woman, broad shouldered, with a carving knife drawn. “You are not allowed to leave.”
“On whose orders?”
“Our Threadwitch. No one leaves without her approval.”
“And I have it.” Iseult pumped authority into those words and copied her mother’s stiff posture. “Is there a trail leading through the fog?”
The woman hesitated. Then shook her head. “No.” Fresh aggression crystallized in the hunter’s Threads. “You’re not allowed to leave anyway. Come with me.”
Before Iseult could argue—or fight back—footsteps pounded close. Footsteps without Threads. Then Alma appeared, her face beautifully flushed. Owl’s face lit up. Her Threads too.
“They have Gretchya’s permission,” Alma declared, only slightly breathless. “Leave us.”
The hunter frowned. Alma’s eyes thinned. And finally the hunter cowed, slinking away into the trees. Alma didn’t wait for her Threads to disappear before rounding on Iseult. “Thank Moon Mother you aren’t gone yet.” Nothing in her face showed relief. “I ran as fast as I could.” In one hand she held a small traveling satchel. “Take this. It isn’t much, but it will last a few days.”
She thrust the satchel at Iseult, without waiting to see if Iseult wanted it. “And these.” Alma held up her other hand, revealing wind-spectacles. “They’ll let you see without damage to your eyes. Oh, and this.” She fumbled something from her pocket. Vellum and worn.
It was the Hell-Bard map.
A sensation Iseult didn’t know wrestled to life in her chest. Both heavy and light at the same time. Both cold and warm. Confusing.
“Take it.” Gripping Iseult’s hand, Alma opened the fingers and placed the rolled page upon her palm. “You need it more than we do.” Alma released her, but Iseult didn’t lower her hand, didn’t close her fist around the map.
“Why?” she asked. “Why are you helping me?”
“Because,” she said, her gaze dropping to Owl. Kind eyes, thoughtful eyes. “Moon Mother always protects her own.”
But I am not one of her own.
“Thank you,” Iseult said, and she meant it. After shoving the map into her pocket and slinging the satchel onto her back, she repeated: “Thank you.” Then she did something she’d never done to anyone but Safi—and certainly never to Alma. She grabbed her in a quick embrace. Too fast for Alma to pull away. Too fast for Iseult to reconsider.
Then she released the other woman’s shoulders, grabbed Owl’s hand, and led her toward the Solfatarra. Owl’s Threads drooped with disappointment, blue melting off the sage Threads that build. But the child would forget Alma soon enough, just as she’d forgotten Zander and Leopold and even her precious Blueberry. At least this time she had the Painstone to numb her heart to any pain.
Strangely, Iseult wished she had one too.
They did not travel far before Iseult pulled Owl beneath a broad spruce tree, its branches a skeletal frame insulated with sharp, freshly scented needles. Iseult unpacked the satchel from Alma while Owl watched on curiously. With much drama—as if she were Safi opening a birthday present—Iseult withdrew item after item for Owl to see.
First, she found a roll of fresh linens and a small jar, which turned out to be a willow-bark salve. “This will help your wrist,” she told Owl in what she hoped was a cheerful voice.
Next, she withdrew a wheel of cheese (goat, judging by the smell) and bundle of smoked meat strips (also goat). She gave one to Owl for gnawing, even as the girl made a face and her Threads fluttered with disappointment. Two weeks ago, Iseult had discovered the child hated goat. One week ago, Owl had realized that sometimes it was all she got.
Next came a water bag, empty but still useful. And last, Iseult withdrew a wool blanket, thin and cream-colored. She draped it over Owl. “Tell me a story,” Iseult whispered while she opened the jar of healing salve and set to carefully slathering it on her neck, her hands, her collarbone. All the places the Solfatarra had bitten.
Owl obeyed, her words muffled by tough goat meat. “Long ago, when the gods walked among us, Trickster took pity on a little witch and her pet hedgehog.”
When she’d finished the tale and was singing the final refrain once more—Save the bones, save the bones!—she seemed to have forgotten the cold. Her little breaths still fogged, but the rich gray of discomfort was gone from her Threads.
So Iseult took her chance to steal away and fill their water bag. There’d been a small stream nearby, frozen over and possibly acidic, but worth examining. She reached it in minutes, the icy surface covered in fresh snow, and after crouching on the shore, she tapped gently at the ice. It reminded her of the Aether Well. Threads that break, Threads that die.