Page 115 of Witchshadow

She lifted her hands and stared at her bandages. Pain dissolved downward as blood drained. “Where are we?” she asked.

“Where we were before. In the Solfatarra.” Gretchya glanced toward the tent’s lone flap. No light pilfered in. “Some of the Nomatsis got away. Most did not.”

Iseult supposed she should blame herself for that. She didn’t.

“Alma?”

A headshake. “She is imprisoned with the others. But she is a good leader. She will keep them calm and give them guidance.”

Of course she would. Even now, Alma was the perfect apprentice. Even now, with a confession the size of the Sleeping Giant to scowl between them, Gretchya couldn’t help but compliment the other girl.

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, Iseultwasdressed. 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.