Iseult nods. Water doesn’t bother her. It is the thought of leaving Safi that bothers her.
That, and the gaping question that has nagged ever since she saw Leopold tap three times at a stone wall. Ever since they fled a Monastery together in the Sirmayans. Ever since she saw him and thought he was the dappled god she called Trickster.
And ever since Esme asked her, Are they owls or are they rooks?
Yes, Iseult knows she should walk away now. She knows that if she asks, he will not give her a straight answer. Honesty defies the Trickster heart of who he is. But she cannot resist. She must know before she leaves forever.
“Leopold,” she murmurs.
His head lifts.
“What happened to your silver crown?”
A beat of tan confusion. Then understanding flushes it away, followed by turquoise surprise—none of which reaches his carefully controlled face.
His eyes bore into hers, green against gold, and heartbeats thump past. Three. Six. Then at last: “How did you know?”
“I suspected at the Monastery,” she answers honestly. “But only here could I finally believe it true. How?”
He laughs, a familiar sound with no amusement. A self-loathing laugh that says, I am a fool for letting you catch me. Then comes the languid shrug Iseult knows so well. “I truly can hide nothing from you, can I?”
“How?” she repeats, and this time, her voice is sharp. Owl waits several paces away, and time is running out if she wishes to flee. He knows that; he is hoping to use it against her.
But she is tired of being played, tired of his games. “Leopold, explain how.”
Another shrug, this time with a bored twirl of his wrists. “It is the nature of our spirits. We are destined to die and be reborn for all eternity, watching the follies of humanity yet unable to prevent them.”
“And she is like you?” Iseult dips her head toward Owl.
Leopold nods. “She is like me, though the collar seems to dampen that part of her. A good thing, I think. It is hard to adjust when the past lives come, and the younger one is when it happens … well…” His cheeks twitch. “The harder it is.”
Iseult nods. She has always known Owl is different, though a Paladin is never something she’d imagined. Never something she’d believed could be real. So she simply repeats “Thank you,” before turning to leave.
She only makes it two steps before Leopold’s Threads flash with lilac, with sapphire and a desperation bordering on panic. “I love you.” His voice cracks.
Her footsteps stop.
“I love you,” he says again, and she curses herself. For she should have seen this coming. His Threads have not been subtle, even if she refused to look at them. He is wrong, though, in his interpretation.
And it is wrong for her to leave him without a reply. So Iseult twists back to face him, dappled once again in shadow and dressed in Trickster’s favorite silvery gray. Three long strides and she closes the distance between them. He stands one step below her, so their faces are the same height.
He swallows. “Please, Iseult—”
“No.” She shakes her head. “You don’t love me.” She cups his face, a gentle gesture. One she is not accustomed to making, but that, in this moment, feels right.
After all, a thousand years is such a long time to be alone.
“You love me no more than I love you.”
“But I do, Iseult—”
“No, Rook King.” She drops her hands. “You’ve simply forgotten what it feels like to be seen.”
Then, before he can protest any further, Iseult turns away, gathers Owl to her, and steps into the cold Pragan night.
PART II
Witch Shadows
THIRTY-SEVEN
The dark-giver lay upon a pallet before Aeduan. A small stove warmed the tent, and Evrane, who had first undressed Iseult and cleaned her various wounds, had not come in hours. She’d had duties elsewhere, duties assigned by Corlant.
None dared disobey him—though it was not fear that compelled them. Quite the opposite. The Purists wanted his approval, his nods of pleasure, his promises that Midne would bless them.
It reminded Aeduan of someone who had died all those centuries ago. And sometimes he wondered if perhaps Corlant was not the one he said he was … Aeduan had no proof, though, and when he had told Evrane, she had only laughed at him. Impossible, she’d declared. Portia was the first of us to go. We saw her die inside that mountain.
Aeduan did not remember, but he also saw no reason to argue—just as there was no reason to pursue his suspicions. Corlant had, at the time, wanted what Aeduan and Evrane had wanted. Now, Aeduan was not so sure that held true. He had helped Iseult, even if Corlant and Evrane had not yet realized.
And even if he himself had not fully accepted it.
No, he could not deny the first Aeduan still lived inside him, prodding and hinting and rising to the surface whenever he let down his guard. That soul was proving stronger than he’d anticipated.
It was not entirely unwelcome, though. There were angles and depths in this body that only the first soul understood. And there were angles and depths in the dark-giver too. Ones he did not hate as he ought to. Ones he found himself drawn to, just as he’d once been drawn to Her.
You always were the weakest of us. Maybe that was true.
Outside the tent, Purists mobilized and organized, gathering to serve their master. At a horse’s whinny, the girl stirred on her pallet. She did not look good, her neck striped with red and faded black. Her face haggard and ashen. Aeduan could not smell her blood—a fact that confused him.
Her golden eyes opened as he watched her. Then, half hooded, those eyes found his. “Aeduan,” she said.
“No,” he replied, though he did not know why. He was this Bloodwitch Aeduan now.
“Ah,” she breathed, and her eyelids sank shut once more. “Who are you, then?”
“I do not know,” he answered, truthful again even as he ought to stay silent. He had scolded Evrane for talking too much. “‘Six turned on six and made themselves kings. One turned on five and stole everything.’”
“‘Eridysi’s Lament,’” she said, surprising him. And surprising herself too, for her eyes popped back open. “What does it mean?”
“It means that long ago, I died. Then one day this body came to me and I took it.”
Her nose twitched slightly. “And Evrane did the same?”
“Yes.”
She nodded, as if this made sense to her—though he knew it made no sense at all. Even he, who’d had centuries to ponder it, could not fully comprehend what had happened on that day a thousand years ago. Or why this body had appeared before him and allowed him to so easily step inside.
“And Corlant? He is like you?”
“No. He is permanent, while we are merely occupants in a house that once belonged to someone else.” And unlike Aeduan and Evrane, Corlant had never felt the blade in his heart. He had never had the Threads that bound him to the goddess sliced away.
“But I am the only one to kill him.” As Iseult said this, something hardened in the backs of her eyes. “And the only one to kill you.”
Aeduan stiffened. He should never have let that piece of information slip. Fortunately, she did not press. “Is Owl safe?” She shifted as if to rise. A grunt fell from her lips, and Aeduan bent forward to help. Instinctive. Foolish.