Page 70 of Witchshadow

His cold palm touched Iseult’s skin. Her body screamed, but she didn’t pull away. She didn’t move at all. As long as he thought her hands still bound, she had the advantage.

His free hand reached for her chin.

She kneed him in the groin. With all her strength, all her rage. Then her fingers launched for his eyes.In at the edges, out toward the ears.

Corlant had no time to scream or even double over before she had her thumbs behind his eyeballs. Hot, squishy—a move she’d learned but never used.In at the edges, out toward the ears.She yanked. Corlant screamed.But it was too late for him to stop Iseult. She had dug deep into the blood vessels and pulled with all her might.

The right eye came loose, popping free with a squelch Iseult felt more than heard over Corlant’s rising roars. The left eye resisted—so she left it there. Now was the time to run. Before Aeduan or Evrane could fully understand what was happening. Before the Purists outside, now rushing in, could reach her. And before, most dangerous of all, Corlant could try to use his magic.

As Corlant toppled toward the bunk, Owl scrabbled to the floor. “Follow the weasel,” Iseult ordered while she grabbed for Corlant’s pocket and the diary within. He could not fight back. His Threads seared with anger-tinged pain, and his hands clutched at his face.

His dangling eye glistened in the pale light.

Iseult found the diary, tore it out, and dove toward the door after Owl. The Purists barely registered her, for the Hell-Bards had arrived. Shouts and clashing weapons tore out. Threads churned and violence darkened each set. Nobody noticed Iseult or Owl hurrying by in the shadows.

Horses,the weasel seemed to say, sharing an image of Lord Storm Hound with his bindings already chewed free. He was by the well, a mere twenty paces away and cast in moonlight.

With her free hand, Iseult gripped Owl and sprinted toward that moonlight. Once to the shaggy steed, she hefted Owl onto the saddle, shoved the diary into her small arms, and finally hauled herself up behind. The weasel was already halfway up Iseult’s body, already looped around Iseult’s neck by the time she dug her heels into Lord Storm Hound’s body.

Corlant’s screams blistered around her, amplified by shouts from Purists and Hell-Bards. He would hunt Iseult, as would Aeduan and Evrane. In fact, she sensed the Bloodwitch approaching, his muscles fueled by magic. But he was too late. Iseult and Owl were already pressed flat against Lord Storm Hound, and the horse was already cantering wildly toward the trees.

TWENTY-FIVE

White terror had reclaimed Owl’s Threads. All-consuming, and Iseult had no doubt that if she could see her own Threads, they would look the same. They were lambs hunted by a wolf; only fear drove them now.

At least they had the weasel to help, and with each crashing fall of Lord Storm Hound’s sturdy hooves, she sent images of where to go.

At the hornbeam, go under.

At the linden, go left.

A game trail between two oaks: follow until the patch of mud.

Iseult lost all sense of time as they rode. Only Owl’s Threads, bright as the moon above, wavered against her. But Aeduan—or the soul that now wore his body—was faster with his Bloodwitchery to propel his muscles and guide the hunt. He might not be able to smell Iseult, but he could certainly smell Owl. Soon he had caught up. Soon Iseult sensed him in her periphery, Threads green and hunting and tainted by shadow birds.

A dried-out streambed ahead. Abandon the horse at the pine.

Iseult spotted the pine. “Must we leave the horse?” She felt safer elevated and carried on legs faster than her own. But then she spotted the stream: its drop-off was far too steep for the horse. Iseult yanked in his reins and in seconds, she was on the forest floor and tugging Owl down.

“I’m sorry,” she told Lord Storm Hound. Then she smacked his rump. He pounded off into the trees—where hopefully Aeduan would follow the horse, however briefly, instead of his witchery.

As Iseult hurried Owl toward the empty stream, another set of Threads skated into her awareness: silvery, muted, prowling this way.

She panicked. Her footing faltered. She fell; Owl fell, and unlike Iseult, Owl did not know how to land to prevent damage. She caught herself with her hands, and a sickening snap hit Iseult’s ears. Pain lanced up Owl’s Threads, an iron heart surrounded by white. She did not cry out, though. Did not react at all, and Iseult had no choice but to pull her to her feet and into a limping run once more.

Distantly, Iseult sensed Aeduan’s corrupted Threads reach the stream’s drop-off. Distantly, she heard his boots land gracefully upon the softer soil, but she dared not look back or slow. She simply kicked her legs higher and yanked at Owl all the more. The silver Threads were not yet near—and they seemed in no rush to approach—but whatever wore them was far more dangerous than Aeduan.

Of that, Iseult was certain.

Only when Aeduan was right behind her, only when his bruise-purple anticipation filled her awareness, did she finally react. Iseult shoved Owl in front of her and screamed, “Run!”

Aeduan’s hand clamped onto Iseult’s right shoulder, a grip to break stones. But she was ready for him. With her left hand, she clasped his fingers so he could not release her. Then she turned sharply. Her right fist connected with his ribs. Her right knee connected with his groin. He doubled over, and she used this brief weakness to wedge her elbow on top of his.

Iseult kept turning. So fast and so hard, his arm abandoned its socket. A tearing crack filled the woods. Aeduan had no choice but to drop to his knees. Steel pain and crimson fury claimed his Threads. Brightest of all, though, was the turquoise surprise.

He had not expected this, and unlike the real Aeduan, he did not know how to get out of it.

Iseult moved until she was directly behind him and grabbed his head. One hand she placed on his crown, one hand she placed on his jaw. She snapped his neck.