Page 155 of Bloodwitch

“You do realize what my last name means.FitzGrieg?”

A pause. Then: “You bastard!” Safi cried, and a sound like punching filled the forest. “You are literally a bastard! Why the rut didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s implied in the name! I’m sorry if you were too dense and self-absorbed to notice.”

Iseult couldn’t believe it. Her hand shot to her throat, to the Threadstone. Then without a single thought, a single precaution, a single lesson Habim or Mathew had taught her, she broke into a run.

The underbrush thrashed and slapped. She almost tripped on a root. Her elbows cracked against trunks, and ahead, four sets of Threads flashed bright with alarm. Then voices lifted too, and Iseult knew that they heard her—that they were drawing weapons or getting ready for an attack.

But Iseult didn’t care. Her heart was so big, she thought it would pummel through her rib cage. And like before, tears had started to fall—these tears she understood, though. These tears she welcomed.

She reached a clearing. Four shadows glowed in the moonlight, arms high and stances ready. But Iseult had eyes for only one person. How had she not recognized her Threads sooner? So vibrant and alive.

“Safi,” she breathed, a whisper of sound. Then again, “Safi.”

And that was all it took. Her Threadsister’s hands fell. “Iseult?” She gaped. Then without waiting for a reply, she charged forward and tackled, arms grabbing and laugh burbling out. “It can’t be, it can’t be.”

Never had Iseult been squeezed so tightly, and never had she squeezed so tightly back.What if, what if, what if.None of those speculations and daydreams mattered now.

Because now Iseult was back where she belonged. Initiate and complete. Threadsisters to the end.

And together once more while a sky sang with stars and a child whispered, “Finished, finished, finished.”

Stix did not remember picking them up.

In fact, she remembered very clearly doing as Ryber had ordered and leaving the items behind.

Death, death, the final end.

Yet somehow, here they were, resting upon a broken slab of granite. Ice covered the soil, the remnants of a standing stone. Already, it melted, shrouding the dawn in thick, white fog.

Stix walked slowly, each step cautiously placed as she approached the granite. Each inch examined with squinting eyes. She and Ryber might have successfully destroyed most of the standing stones to which the mountain’s magic was bound, but there were still raiders inside that mountain, inside the Crypts leading to it, and inside these woods nearby.

Then Stix reached the two items she knew she had left behind.

A broken sword lay on the right, only its hilt and cross-guard fully intact, while a jagged slash of blade still razored out from above. A hole opened inside her belly at the sight of it.

Death, death, the final end.

Beside the hilt rested a square frame with a handle for grasping. It reminded her of a small mirror her older sister had loved, yet where that glass had been reflective, this glass was clear—and it was shattered, too. Only a few shards still clung to the frame.

Stix reached for the handle. Like the blade, this device sang to her. Though it hummed not with death, but with answers. This plain, broken glass was a way for her to see.Theway, if she was willing to peer inside.

Carefully, she glanced back to see if Ryber watched. To see if Ryber would, once more, warn her to step away.

But the Sightwitch Sister was too absorbed by recording in her diary what they had just done to the stones, had just done to the mountain. She didn’t notice Stix creeping away.

Carefully, Stix picked up the broken glass. Carefully, she looked through.

The world fell away.

Stix was no longer beside the standing stones. She was now surrounded on all sides by thick forest and white-capped peaks. Snow fell, and nearby, a river churned. On a stone bridge spanning its dark waters, a man in black furs strode her way.

On his head shone a silver crown. In his hand gleamed a silver sword.

Then the Rook King fixed his gaze on Stix. “It will all be over soon,” he said before his blade arced out and crashed against her neck.

Only as the sword cracked against stone did she realize she was locked in place. Only when it cut through the rock—three swings it took him—did she realize she was encased in granite.