Page 20 of Witchshadow

It was the Dreaming. Iseult knew that right away—only in the Dreaming was there so much gray, so much empty space with nothing inside. But this was different from what Iseult had experienced before, when she’d first communicated with Esme. Or when she’d met the Rook King in her sleep. There was movement in this great expanse. Pulsing and writhing. She saw it, she felt it, like a riptide bearing down, gentle at first. Then rougher, harder, as each frozen breath passed.

The magic was working.

Safi, Safi, Safi. In. Out. In. Out.

Pressure increased around Iseult. Her ears popped. Her breath fogged. She felt brittle and thin, like she was being stretched out, her very soul pulled taut as a bowstring.

Safi, Safi, Safi. In. Out. In. Out.

That was when the voices began and the figures appeared. One moment, nothing spanned before her; the next, a stampede of shadows rammed into her.

They poked, they grabbed, they dug into her flesh and yanked her hair—all while they whispered in tongues she could not understand. She tried to ignore them at first, even as faces began to form, made of Aether and Threads, sparkling, bright, colorful. Yet also tainted by the shadow of Severed Threads.

The deeper she pressed, the more each face looked human, and the more she tried to scan them as they rushed against her. Because even in all this madness, the logical, detached part of Iseult’s brain knew where she was.

This had to be the Hell-Bard Loom. She wasinsidethe Hell-Bard Loom, and somewhere amidst these thousands of souls, thousands of ghosts, her Threadsister waited.

A shadow slammed into Iseult, grinning and hungry. It bellowed wordlessly, frozen fingers scraping into her skin. Then another shadow camefrom behind. From the left, from the right, until she was surrounded. Trapped. She could not move and could not see.

Safi!she screamed, though no sound came out. Only fog that crystallized and disappeared.

The voices filled every piece of her, their hands ripped and shredded. She felt trapped by their anger, and no amount of struggling would let her break free.

This is what drowning feels like,she thought as she was dragged beneath an ocean of forgotten souls who were bound for all eternity to a Hell-Bard Loom. Yet before she could crumble away forever, a figure moved over her. Fully formed, fully alive.

Relief washed through Iseult. This person would help her, just as the Rook King had helped her before. She would not be lost to drowning. She would not crumble yet. But then the person’s face coalesced: a pointed chin and long jaw framed by black hair, graying at the temples. His yellow-hued eyes were small, his lashes short, and on his forehead were deep trenches that made him seem forever mildly surprised.

He looked mildly surprised now, turquoise frothing within his bright Threads—but there was pink pleasure in those Threads too.

“Ah,” he said, a smile sliding over his face. “I had been wondering when you would finally step inside.” Corlant’s hand reached for Iseult’s face, fingers long and spindly. “It will be easier if we meet in the real world, though, Iseult det Midenzi. I will be waiting.”

He shoved. Iseult screamed.

The Dreaming ended.

EIGHT

It was well past midnight before Safi was able to confirm whether the Truth-lens actually rested in her pocket. She had returned to her quarters, her usual Hell-Bards flanking with Lev at the lead. Her muscles burned after hours of endless dancing, her bad ankle ached, and her face had gone stiff from too many smiles.

But those were all distant, cursory sensations. The whole of her being was focused on the Truth-lens.

If the device, which Safi had made in Marstok, was indeed within the folds of her pocket, then she would need to be very careful over the next quarter hour. The Hell-Bards could not see it, for they would know right away what it was—what magic it could do. Her attendants could not find it, for they would certainly tell the spymasters they reported to. And Safi could not openly examine the device in her bedroom, for she was under constant surveillance.

Not the magical kind—her Hell-Bard powers would have sensed that—but rather the human kind with peepholes and listening horns.

Fortunately, although she also loathed him for it, Leopold fon Cartorra was one step ahead. When the Hell-Bards reached Safi’s door, one of her attendants (named Svenja) rushed to open it while another (Nika) hurried forward to greet her. Clasped in Nika’s hands was fine courtly paper with a red ribbon twined around it.

“For you,” Nika said. She spoke with the slightest northern accent, her family hailing from some wealthy estate on the North Sea coast. “It is from His Imperial Highness,” she added, and there was no missing the bright spots of color rising on her pale cheeks. They made her lovely face even lovelier.

Well,Safi thought,she obviously read the message.After accepting the letter while her Hell-Bards fell into their usual positions in the hall, Safi followed Svenja into the bedroom. Svenja was also an attractive woman, though with a more regal bearing. No smiles or blushes from her. Only business.

“I have chosen the blue nightgown,” Svenja began.

But Safi snapped up a staying hand. “I will undress myself.” She flashed the letter at both women. “And I would like to read my letter in privacy. I will see you in the morning, yes?”

“Oh, ofcourse,Your Imperial Majesty.” Nika curtsied buoyantly, her cheeks still aglow. Svenja curtsied more stiffly, with a murmured “Your Imperial Majesty,” before hooking Nika’s arm in hers and practically tugging the younger woman from the room.

Safi hurried to her desk. She’d had no occasion before to use it—who would she have written to? But the desk itself possessed a privacy screen.For writing lover’s letters,Svenja had explained, which had made Nika giggle behind her hand, blushing all the while.