Page 116 of Witchshadow

“I do not know.” Gretchya tugged the other boot onto Iseult’s foot. Outside the tent, Corlant’s Threads hovered and waited, impatience to mingle with the endless hunger.

“It is something to do with the Threadstones. You must not do as he asks, Iseult. You must not give in to him.”

“And how do you propose I do that, Mother? You were not a good teacher.”

A quick upward glance, almost ashamed, almost scolding, then Gretchya’s attention was on the boot once more. She laced it too tightly; leather creaked. “I did not give in to him. I fought him every day by enduring.” She tied off a knot with far too much force. “By being what he wanted so he would never look your way. There is no greater fight than that, and one day—when you have a daughter of your own—maybe you will understand.”

She shoved to her feet, a panic in her movements Iseult also recognized from two months ago. The failure of stasis. The punching through of emotions Gretchya was not supposed to have.

But it was too late. Iseult felt nothing; she was nothing. If Gretchya had thought her story would evoke pity, she had been wrong. Iseult had no pity left for anyone nor emotions left at all.

“Thank you,” she said, and though it made her muscles scream, she pushed to her feet unaided. The tent wavered; a roar filled her ears.

“I’m dressed,” she called. “You can come in now.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

Safi had never performed more in her life. If she’d thought the last two days of foul submission to Henrick had been a challenge, they paled in comparison to a day of pretending she was not about to leave.

An eternity passed before the day finally ended, and another eternity passed before the evening’s festivities—dancing and smiling and feasting—ended too. Leopold secured Safi’s hand for two dances, smiling the entire way. He looked as carefree as he always did. Which meant he must not know about her earlier excursions. Thank the gods.

“Come to my quarters,” he told her at the end of their second dance. “Bring only yourself.”

So Safi did. She went dressed in the midnight-blue gown she’d worn that night to the dancing celebrations, with only herself, her Truth-lens, the stolen golden chain, and her Threadstones. She still wore her noose too.

Leopold greeted her with his usual kiss, and they followed the same steps they had each night. Only when the lights were low and the wall revealed did he finally speak. “Remove your noose.”

Safi obeyed. Then their silence resumed. A chilly silence, for it would seem that Leopold had abandoned his usual masks. Safi was glad. She and Leopold had days alone ahead of them, and she didn’t want to wade through every smirk or casual shrug, fretting over what they might mean. Cold and lethal as his true self might be, it was at least easier to understand.

They traced the same path they’d taken before. Leopold’s stride was long, and Safi moved to match it. When they reached the chest and stone wall, two large packs and two piles of traveling clothes awaited.

“Change,” Leopold commanded, so Safi did—with her back to him and his back to her. The garments were well made, but simple enough to avoid drawing attention on the road. The dark browns and darker grays would blend easily into shadows, forests, or fields.

Once the packs were upon their backs, heavy but not unstable, Leopold asked, “How do you feel?”

“Like last night,” Safi answered honestly. “I feel that half of me is gone, but as long as I have this”—she patted her Truth-lens—“the cold and the pain are easy to ignore.”

A nod. “I will trust you to tell me if it worsens.” He twisted toward the wall, knocked three times, and the outside world rushed in.

Safi smiled. A small, private thing. The Loom might pull at her, the Emperor might discover what she’d done, and this whole plan might be thoroughly stupid, but she was moving. She was initiating. She was free.

Besides, as she’d always told Iseult,Stupid as it might seem, stupid is also something they never see coming.

Leopold tromped into the water and Safi followed. The door disappeared, stones returned, and Safi spotted something she hadn’t seen the night before: a rook and an owl carved at eye level.

Thank you,Safi thought to those lovers long dead. She owed them so much. Then she splashed after Leopold, through the reeds and into the night.

Safi and Leopold walked for hours. Through Praga and out the same gate they’d approached the night before, then through city after suburb after village. Cold ramped higher in Safi’s bones the farther they traveled. A tightening, a thinning, as if her skeleton might snap if she wasn’t gentle.

But she ignored it. Just as she ignored the faint lines forming across her hands. Leopold never noticed, and he made no comment when she pulled on gloves. The night was frigid; she had an excuse.

It was at a crossroads outside a farming village that three figures on horseback trotted Safi’s and Leopold’s way. There were no other people on the road, and no lamps burned here. These were laborers’ homes; at night, they slept. And in winter, only silence and snow reigned.

Leopold’s breath snagged audibly when it was clear the horses approached. He grabbed Safi’s arm, ready to tow her into a run. But she yanked him back.

“They’re here to help.”

His eyes widened. Then understanding settled, hard and furious, across his face. “What have you done?”