Page 104 of Bloodwitch

If Iseult didn’t know of the rigorous monastery training, she would have thought he’d never worked a day in his life.

He also stank of incense.

“You are the Abbot,” she said. The red trim on his cloak gave it away. Then she recalled something Evrane had said in passing and added, “Natan fon Leid.”

Gray displeasure darted across his Threads, somehow moving in sync with rosy pleasure too. There was red irritation as well, along with sprays of lilac hunger and orange impatience. They flitted past, quick as flies and too many for Iseult to catch.

“Your guardians”—he flung a hand toward the door—“will let no one enter. Not even me, in my own sodding Monastery. But I want to know who has brought us so low. I want toseethe face of the woman destroying my home.”

Iseult stiffened, thrown by his words. Thrown by his venom. “I don’t destroy your home,” she said.

He only laughed. “This insurgency wantsyou,and they will do whatever it takes to get you.”

“Why?”

He did not answer. Instead, he leaned closer, his eyes scraping up and down the length of her. Violence frittering brighter with each heartbeat.

“What is your name?”

“Iseult det Midenzi.”

“You are a ’Matsi.”

An observation, she decided, not a question. So she stayed perfectly still. Never in her life had she felt it more important to keep her expression devoid of emotion. Her stasis unwavering and screwed tight. Natan fon Leid was the viper hiding on the forest floor; his danger lay in how plain and unassuming he appeared on the surface.

Now she understood what Leopold had meant byMen like that are useful to princes.The sixth son of a nobleman, he had likely been overlooked his whole life. Now, as Abbot, he had something to prove.

Iseult had no idea why Monk Evrane would support such a man. Unless, of course, the insurgent monks were even worse.

“Five hundred years,” the Abbot muttered to himself, Threadsjumping, bleeding, unreadable. “Five hundred years with no one, and now two Aetherwitches claim they are the Cahr Awen.”

He lunged, too fast for Iseult to react. No warning inside his Threads, no warning in his body. One moment, he spoke. The next, he had his hands around her throat and was slamming her against the headboard.

Her skull cracked. Instinct took over.

Her fists shot up, ready to punch beneath his arms. Invert his elbows and snap his bones in two.Burn him, burn him.

But Iseult stopped, with her fingers only inches above the velvet cover. He was not strangling her, and there were two other monks in the room—heavily armed. This was not a fight she could win.If a man is better armed or better trained,Habim had taught her,then do as he orders. It is better to live and look for opportunity than to die outmatched.

The Abbot’s face loomed closer, closer. Near enough for Iseult to see the ingrown hairs above his lip. To spot individual bloodlines shooting across his eyes. And this near, his Threads bore down on her like a mudslide.

“Give me one good reason,” he snarled. Spittle hit her cheek. “Give me one good reason I should not give you to the insurgents.”

“Because,” she said smoothly, “I am the Cahr Awen. You just said it yourself—”

It was the wrong answer. He shoved her against the headboard, cracking her skull once more. Sparks flew across her vision.

Then he tightened his grip, cutting off her air. “All I see is ’Matsi filth. You are lucky you have a prince backing you, or I would have gutted you already and hung you from the ramparts for the insurgents to see.”

He released her. As abruptly as he’d grabbed her, he let her go and jerked upward.

Iseult’s hand flew to her neck.Now,she felt pain, in her throat and in her lungs. He had ripped her bandages.Burn him, burn him, burn him.

She could. Sheshould. These monks could do nothing against flames that ate through nightmares.

“Know this, little Threadwitch,” the Abbot said. “If those rebels breach our walls, I will leave you to their blades while the rest of us escape to safety.”

“And if you do,” she responded coolly, “then I will tell them which way you went.”