Page 120 of Bloodwitch

His mouth bobbed open. “Iseult—”

“Now.” With her command came fire. Full force, no reining it in. Small sparks ignited in the air.Pop-pop-pop.Bursts of light and sound.

Leopold recoiled, his Threads shocked clean, all the way to their stormy core.

“I will burn you,” she repeated. “Unless you lead me to the Archives. Now.”

He nodded, gliding to his feet with surprising grace. Astonished he might be, but he did not seem unsettled—and he neither argued nor even questioned how Iseult had commanded flames. He had been unflinching in Tirla; he was unflinching now.

“If you want to see the Archives, then to the Archives we will go—but first you need shoes.” He moved toward the wardrobe. With his good hand, he swung it open, revealing a pair of boots and his own beige wool cloak.

A second cloak waited too, fur-lined and white as the moon outside. Shining and ready. The uniform of a Carawen monk. All her life Iseult had wanted to wear one. All her life, she had wanted to be part of this shining order that accepted new members without prejudice.

Lies, lies, all of it lies. Aeduan had warned her in the Contested Lands, but she hadn’t wanted to believe him. Now, though, she saw this cloak and wished it washis. Broken and bloodied. Safe and familiar. She wanted that over this fake piousness and false purity.

This was her only option, though, so Iseult slipped into it.

“Why… the Archives?” Leopold asked between grunts as he fought to pull on his own cloak with only one arm. “What’s there?”

“A way out of the Monastery.”

A burst of turquoise surprise. “How do you know?”

“Go.” She pointed at the door.

“Iseult, I don’t understand—”

“Let a woman have her secrets, Leopold.Go.” She spoke that word with all the force of the Rook King behind her, and without another word of protest, Leopold nodded.

And Leopold went.

The hall outside Iseult’s room was empty, the windows boarded and sconces unlit. The stones shook every twenty paces, and the impact of catapults thundered louder and louder. Leopold led her down stairs, across intersections, and past countless doorways.

Four times Iseult sensed Threads approaching, and four times, all it took was a whispered word of “Monks ahead.” Then Leopold towed her into a small alcove or empty bedroom, where they would wait in silence—Iseult’s heart would jitter against her throat and Leopold’s Threads would turn muted gold with anxious caution. Then the Threads and the monks attached would move out of range, and Leopold would once more lead the way.

By the time they reached the Archives, the ground rumbled beneath their feet, shaking Iseult’s knees and clattering her teeth. The walls under siege must wait just beyond the library’s vast space, and like the halls from before, the windows were boarded and sconces dark. Huge sandbags had been placed in front of the windows too—only visible because a faint streak of light still crept in at the very top.

It revealed high ceilings and rows upon rows of bookcases. Little else, though. Nothing specific.

As if following her thoughts, Leopold hurried to a nearby sconce, fumbled a small candle from within the glass, and whispered, “Ignite.”

A tiny flame awoke.

“Where do we go?” he asked, voice low. Face glittering behind the fire.

“The farthest corner,” Iseult answered, and yet again, the prince took the lead. No questions. Only obedience, his green Threads focused on escape.

Down aisles, around shelves, they moved ever closer to the corner.

They were halfway there when the door to the Archives heaved open. A scream of hinges, a groan of wood. Then Evrane’s voice coasted across the space. “Iseult! Where are you?”

No, no, no. Iseult grabbed Leopold’s cloak. “Run.”

Unflinching, unquestioning, Leopold ran. The Firewitched flameguttered and flared, but it did not wink out. Their footsteps pounded on flagstones, an easy sound for Evrane to follow—and not just Evrane. There were other Threads too. Other monks, merciless and hunting.

And the Abbot, bleeding, blending, slithering this way. “We had an agreement!” he shouted. “You promised me an army, Prince!”

An army?Iseult had no idea what that meant, and she had no time to dwell on it either. They were almost to the farthest corner, almost to the Rook King’s secret door.