Though Iseult supposed it was only fair. After all, Alma’s father wasn’t a monster.
“Hundreds of Purists gather outside,” Gretchya went on. “And more come from across the Witchlands. There are settlements everywhere, tucked away where no one else wants to reside. And there are always new converts too. Corlant has always been … persuasive.”
“Persuasive” was not the word Iseult would have chosen, but if it made her mother hate herself less, then she could have it. Iseult truly did not care.
She looked again at her bound hands. They ached. She’d left the diary with Owl. Her salvation. Her right as the new Puppeteer.
As if reading her mind, Gretchya said, “Do not go to Praga.”
“Why? The soldiers cannot hurt me.”
“I know why you go there. What you intend to do. But you will regret it.”
Iseult’s lips pursed. “Regret saving my Threadsister?”
“Regret the lives you take to do so.”
Iseult snorted, a harsh un-Threadwitch sound. If her mother truly cared for her soul, then she should never have joined with Corlant. Should never have had a child by him.
She sucked in a long breath and let her eyes shutter. Blessed darkness took hold. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. She sent her mind outward, searching for Owl. She sensed nothing and opened her eyes. “Have you seen Owl? Or Dirdra, as you know her?”
“Corlant just sent the Bloodwitch to find her.”
Iseult’s eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. If Aeduan had agreed to search for Owl, then that meant he had not admitted to already seeing the child. It also meant Corlant hadn’t noticed Aeduan helping Iseult in the fight. He was truly her ally now, and that made her smile. Inwardly, though, only inwardly. Outside, she was stasis forever.
Purple Threads skittered into Iseult’s awareness. Corlant approached, new magic writhing within his Threads. Yellow for a Windwitch, orange for Fire. He swept inside the tent, no warning—and no more stiff, blinded movements either. Only one eye was covered now. The one Iseult had removed.
“What a beautiful family.” He crossed the small tent in two long strides and stared down at Iseult. His remaining eye was a mess, the iris almost invisible in all the bloodshot red. The bruising around it was as dark as his Threads. He could clearly see, though, for the eye roved across Iseult.
Then it leaped to Gretchya. “Your mother has done well, standing guard.”
Gretchya bowed her head. “Thank you, Priest Corlant.”
“Leave us.” He flipped a hand toward the exit. “I wish to speak to my daughter alone.”
Daughter, my daughter.
“She is not dressed,” Gretchya replied. “If you would give us a moment of privacy, I will help her.”
The lines on Corlant’s forehead sliced inward; mild surprise washed in turquoise. But he strode back outside, leaving winter air to kick in behind him. The flap shut, and as Gretchya scooted in close to Iseult, it was all so familiar. A different lie in a different settlement—It’s my moon cycle. I need new blood wrappings—told to keep Corlant away. For, of course, Iseult was dressed. All she lacked were her boots and acid-eaten cloak.
“You must not do as he says,” Gretchya whispered, dropping to a kneel beside Iseult. She towed out boots from under the cot and without waiting for Iseult to acknowledge, she tore off Iseult’s covers and grabbed Iseult’s ankle. “He needs you. Whatever this … this magic you can do is, he needs it.”
“For what?” Iseult watched her mother lace up the boots just as she had watched her mother chop off all her hair two months ago. Back then, Gretchya had warned her that people might mistake her for the Puppeteer.
Now she warned her not to be one.
“I do not know.” Gretchya tugged the other boot onto Iseult’s foot. Outside the tent, Corlant’s Threads hovered and waited, impatience to mingle with the endless hunger.
“It is something to do with the Threadstones. You must not do as he asks, Iseult. You must not give in to him.”
“And how do you propose I do that, Mother? You were not a good teacher.”
A quick upward glance, almost ashamed, almost scolding, then Gretchya’s attention was on the boot once more. She laced it too tightly; leather creaked. “I did not give in to him. I fought him every day by enduring.” She tied off a knot with far too much force. “By being what he wanted so he would never look your way. There is no greater fight than that, and one day—when you have a daughter of your own—maybe you will understand.”
She shoved to her feet, a panic in her movements Iseult also recognized from two months ago. The failure of stasis. The punching through of emotions Gretchya was not supposed to have.
But it was too late. Iseult felt nothing; she was nothing. If Gretchya had thought her story would evoke pity, she had been wrong. Iseult had no pity left for anyone nor emotions left at all.
“Thank you,” she said, and though it made her muscles scream, she pushed to her feet unaided. The tent wavered; a roar filled her ears.
“I’m dressed,” she called. “You can come in now.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Safi had never performed more in her life. If she’d thought the last two days of foul submission to Henrick had been a challenge, they paled in comparison to a day of pretending she was not about to leave.
An eternity passed before the day finally ended, and another eternity passed before the evening’s festivities—dancing and smiling and feasting—ended too. Leopold secured Safi’s hand for two dances, smiling the entire way. He looked as carefree as he always did. Which meant he must not know about her earlier excursions. Thank the gods.
“Come to my quarters,” he told her at the end of their second dance. “Bring only yourself.”
So Safi did. She went dressed in the midnight-blue gown she’d worn that night to the dancing celebrations, with only herself, her Truth-lens, the stolen golden chain, and her Threadstones. She still wore her noose too.
Leopold greeted her with his usual kiss, and they followed the same steps they had each night. Only when the lights were low and the wall revealed did he finally speak. “Remove your noose.”
Safi obeyed. Then their silence resumed. A chilly silence, for it would seem that Leopold had abandoned his usual masks. Safi was glad. She and Leopold had days alone ahead of them, and she didn’t want to wade through every smirk or casual shrug, fretting over what they might mean. Cold and lethal as his true self might be, it was at least easier to understand.
They traced the same path they’d taken before. Leopold’s stride was long, and Safi moved to match it. When they reached the chest and stone wall, two large packs and two piles of traveling clothes awaited.
“Change,” Leopold commanded, so Safi did—with her back to him and his back to her. The garments were well made, but simple enough to avoid drawing attention on the road. The dark browns and darker grays would blend easily into shadows, forests, or fields.
Once the packs were upon their backs, heavy but not unstable, Leopold asked, “How do you feel?”
“Like last night,” Safi answered honestly. “I feel that half of me is gone, but as long as I have this”—she patted her Truth-lens—“the cold and the pain are easy to ignore.”