Vivia sucked in a breath, ready to laugh. Ready to sneer at the Empress for such absurdity. Except as the cannons echoed in time to her heart, her mother’s voice whispered at the back of her brain: This is the source of our power, Little Fox. The reason our family rules Nubrevna and others do not. Her mother had always believed in the Void Well beneath Lovats, and that ancient lake had always welcomed Vivia, had always loved her. It had been a mother’s embrace long after Jana had been taken by the Hagfishes.
“You are like me,” Vaness said, and she laced her fingers within Vivia’s. Her hands were warm, her grip firm. “We have spent years serving our people because we are the only ones willing to give them everything. And we still can. If you want to help the people of Noden’s Gift—if you want to help all of Nubrevna—then you have to stay alive. You have to stay free.”
Vivia didn’t answer. Her mask had fallen and there could be no reclaiming it. Not now, not with Vaness so near and a guilt the size of the Jadansi growing inside her. She would do anything to protect the people of Nubrevna. Even give herself up to a Doge.
But Vaness was right, no matter how sour it tasted: she could help more people alive and free than she could imprisoned by an empire.
“Cam,” she said on a sigh, her gaze drifting past Vaness’s head, toward an invisible battle waged against a village unprepared. “And Sotar and Ginna and all those people.”
“We will come back for them.”
“You can’t know that.”
“I can because I know you.” Vaness placed her second hand on Vivia’s jaw. Her brown eyes glowed in the sun. “I will not fail Marstok, and you will not fail Nubrevna. Trust me, my Queen. Trust me. We are Well Chosen because we choose to be.”
Vivia swallowed. The waves still sang to her, but with a different cadence now. A hot, confused one, scalded by an empress’s gentle touch. She had nurtured a hatred for Vaness her whole life, and all her instincts screamed at her to travel north. Yet despite that, she found that she did trust the Empress of Marstok. She did trust Vaness, her friend.
“Hye,” she breathed after several dragging moments. “We will not fail.” Then she pulled away from Vaness and they set off again southeast.
THIRTY-SIX
In her panic-fueled rush back to the tribe, Iseult had forgotten one thing: this was no ordinary tribe. When she broke from the forest to the remainders of camp, Aeduan just behind, heat gusted against her—a dry heat off a fire now raging across the barren earth and stony ruins. Four witches held their arms high as they guided flames toward …
She couldn’t see, not with the fire. Nor could she hear anything beyond shouts and footsteps as people gathered. As witches gathered.
Windwitches, Tidewitches, Firewitches, and an Icewitch. Plantwitches and Herdwitches and Stonewitches too. At least thirty people, their Threads alight with power, were connected by a single goal: stop the monster with silver Threads.
But even bound as they were, they lacked coordination. These were not soldiers trained to fight, and with no leadership to guide them, they fumbled and flailed. Where was Gretchya?
“Where is my mother?” she asked Aeduan, knowing he could sniff her out. But he only shook his head as if he couldn’t hear.
The creature’s screams ripped louder, its Threads so bright they hurt Iseult’s eyes. Briefly seared them shut, hiding the chaos of flames and revealing more Threads. Familiar Threads, muted though they were.
Corlant and his Purists had arrived.
My fault, my fault. Iseult forced her eyes open again. My fault, my fault. She had done this; she had to fix it. If she were Safi, she would run right into the flames, no plan, and somehow the world would right again.
But Iseult wasn’t Safi. She wasn’t light and sunshine and instinct and ideas. Iseult needed someone to lead her, somewhere to aim.
Safi initiated, Iseult completed.
Ruins ahead. Single stone wall, curved at the edge. Flames engulfing it, and keeping the monster on one side. It also keeps the Nomatsis trapped with the monster—and with Corlant and his Purists too.
Iseult’s first priority had to be getting those people to safety. To do so, she would need to distract the silver-Threaded monster, then distract Corlant. Fortunately, they had come here for her. She was the Cahr Awen, the dark-giver, and if she could be the distracting right hand, then maybe all of these witches could cut the purse.
But first she turned to Aeduan. “If you try to stop me, I will cleave you.” She launched into a run.
Initiate.
Her feet picked up speed, her footfalls hammering in time to a single thought: My fault, my fault. Her mother had been more than right, and now her mother—and others—were paying the price. My fault, my fault.
Distantly, she sensed Aeduan following her, a host of shadow birds in her periphery. Then she reached the stone wall where the flames billowed highest and the stones dipped lowest. She vaulted upward. The fire parted. She tumbled onto the other side, and a new scene met her eyes: Threads. They were terror-ridden and woven with violence, while keening over them all were the monster’s burning silver.
And there was the beast itself. A shadow wyrm, unlike anything Iseult had imagined, made of pure shadow. Her eyes couldn’t land on it. Each glance made the creature waver and morph, as if it had no solid shape. As if it were all a trick that would vanish on the next blink.
Its Threads shone too brightly, and only when she let it move in her periphery did it finally seem to gain a solid shape with hundreds of centipedal legs off a body serpentine and glassy. Wherever it moved, hoarfrost crackled.
And right now, it scuttled Iseult’s way. It had spotted her. It was screaming, and unlike all those hours it had lurked out of sight in the forest, now it was ready to come for her. Now it was ready to claim.
“Move,” Aeduan roared beside her, and she did, pumping instantly back into a run. There were no tents now, no campfires to block her way. It was a straight shot aiming for the fighting, frantic Threads clumped fifty paces away. Too far for Iseult to make out Gretchya’s or Alma’s faces within the mass.
She charged the Purists closing in around the Nomatsis—not with her body, but with her magic. With her fangs.
At the nearest man, Iseult grabbed his Threads. Yank and bite. He cleaved in an instant. So easily, his Threads already weakened by a Cursewitch’s control. But just as she’d done with the Cartorran soldiers, Iseult didn’t release him. She simply wound his Threads, electric and alive, around her hand and commanded.
He attacked another Purist, giving the Nomatsis the moment they needed. Hunters charged against their captors while the untrained ran. Blades clashed and bows loosed. Fletching of all shades ripped atop Threads of violence and pain.
No time to watch, no time to celebrate. Iseult latched on to a second Purist. Then a third, yanking and biting, yanking and biting. Where she commanded them, they moved, and all while more Nomatsis escaped for the trees.
But not her mother, not Alma. They were nowhere to be seen, and already Iseult was losing her poise. So many Threads were leashed to her, but she had no staff or tree to lean against.
Worse, the silver Threads cycloned toward her. Pummeling and cold. She released all the Cleaved Purists. Her body swayed. She was going to fall before it even reached her.