Page 75 of Witchshadow

Iseult stands on a private balcony, high above the crowded room as the first night of festivities begins below. It is a private place, meant for servants to observe their masters without interference. Invisible creatures that provide for every whim—or did, when that was the fashion centuries ago. Now it is a sign of status to have one’s servants in plain sight.

Which has left this balcony empty and perfect for the claiming.

Safi and Henrick will soon parade through the great hall. So dramatic, so public. Nothing like the braiding ceremony for Nomatsis. Then again, Cartorrans do not marry for love. There’s even a song about it. Something with robins and magpies.

When Iseult left the wedding earlier, surrounded by her usual escort of Hell-Bards, her last glimpse had been of the Emperor in pond-scum green. He had kept his face carefully neutral, carefully bored, throughout the ritual…

But his Threads had given him away, just as his Threads betray him now while he strides into the room with Safi at his side. She has changed into stunning gold, pure sunlight that makes her skin glow and smile radiant.

He still wears pond-scum green, and he moves with all the grace of the toad he seems to mimic. His Threads are alert, anxious, as if he waits for something. Safi’s are the same, though hers twine with brighter anxiety, and brief twinges of terror too.

“It will be all right,” Iseult whispers, her hand on her Threadstone. She knows Safi cannot hear—one of her hands is in Henrick’s, the other occupied by waving. Without her fingers also on the stone, Iseult’s words will fall on no one.

Still, Iseult likes to think the sentiment crosses their rubies. That some burst of strength now shivers into Safi’s bones.

Safi and the Emperor reach the dais. Safi curtsies, and the nobility clap—some with delight and enthusiasm, most with confused politeness. It is a churning pool of contradictory Threads. They know she is a Truthwitch; they know she is half of the Cahr Awen; they know she was betrothed to Henrick two months ago in Veñaza City.

What they don’t know is why Safi has returned. Why, after fleeing, she is still allowed to marry their emperor instead of living in chains.

Threads tickle Iseult’s senses, stronger by the heartbeat. Brilliant Threads with a crackling core. She turns as Leopold steps onto her balcony. He has changed into dancing slippers and fitted silver velvet. Silver always suits him best, and he knows it.

“Dark-Giver,” he says with a bow.

And Iseult frowns. A real frown she does not have to fake. Perhaps, given a few more weeks of practice, she will wear emotions easily. Then again, if all goes according to plan, after tonight it will no longer matter if she is expressive or not.

“You mock me.”

“No.” Leopold lifts his face, eyes and Threads twinkling. “I revere you.”

“Empty words.” She turns back to the crowd. Back to the dais where Safi and Henrick now sit upon their thrones.

“What makes you think they are empty?” Leopold leans on the balustrade beside her.

“You are a prince.”

“And?”

“You have been trained since birth to tell people what they want to hear.”

He chuckles. His Threads flare pink. “I would think that you, of all people, would sense my sincerity.”

Iseult’s lips sink deeper. “I am not a Truthwitch.”

“No.” He taps his lips, gaze sliding to meet hers. In this warm, Firewitched light, his eyes are the same shade as her gown: seafoam green. “You are much more dangerous, Iseult. You see emotions.”

“And Safi sees truth.”

Leopold twirls his hands, conceding. “But how often do people make choices based on truth? Based on facts or what their logic tells them?” His mouth twists with a smile. “Not nearly as often as they should. People start wars based on what they feel.”

Iseult holds her silence. Leopold is in one of his trickier moods—they come more and more often these days. He prods her with words, testing just how much he can say before she rises. It is her least favorite version of him.

Stasis,she tells herself.Do not react.

But he is not done yet. “You are far more powerful than she.” He motions vaguely toward the thrones. “Yet she is the one they all desire.”

Stasis, stasis, stasis.“Do you say this to hurt me? Is your intent to cause me pain?”

“No.” He frowns. Red frustration shimmers across his Threads. “I simply… You must realize you are more powerful. Yet you have been relegated to a servants’ balcony while she—”