Page 112 of Witchshadow

Yes, Iseult knows she should walk away now. She knows that if she asks, he willnot 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.