Page 85 of Witchshadow

Iseult thrust into the darkness. She saw nothing but lanterns flickering at the edges of her vision. Firewitched. Recognizable by the absence of smoke. Then she heard a voice.Thevoice that sometimes whispered in her dreams or scolded in her nightmares.

“Iseult,” said Gretchya det Midenzi, no surprise in her tone. No surprise on the pallid face slowly emerging from the shadows. Beside her, at the heart of the tent, were the customary fire, a communal bowl of stew, and four low stools.

“Why have you come?” Gretchya asked. Her gaze traveled the length of Iseult, and it took all of Iseult’s self-control not to curl in on herself.

Stasis.She notched her chin higher.

“Why have you come?” Gretchya repeated. Not,Are you hurt, my only daughter?Or,How is this possible that you are here?or even,Who is this injured child with you?

Instead, Gretchya asked a question that somehow, despite the lack of inflection, still held enough accusation to fill a galleon.Why have you come?Gone was the woman beside the willow tree, who had seemed, if only for a few moments, to have real emotions.

“I did not come here by choice,” Iseult responded, her own tone just as flat. Her own expression just as cool. Her tongue wasnotfattening behind her teeth. Her throat wasnotclenching shut at the sight of her mother’s emotionless eyes. “We were… hunted. By a Carawen monk.”

She had to speak slowly, but she was proud when no stutter markedher words.Control your tongue. Control your mind. A Threadwitch never stammers.

“And this child”—Iseult pulled Owl gently in front of her—“needs a healer. Her wrist is hurt. Sprained, I believe.”

Gretchya blinked as if only just noticing Owl. It was the closest thing to emotion that crossed her face; Iseult didn’t know what it meant. “What is your name?” Gretchya asked.

To Iseult’s shock and to her… her something else—somethinghotthat wrinkled down her spine—Owl answered: “Dirdra det Allaeli.”

Now it was Iseult’s turn to blink. A month and a half she had been with this child, and only now was she learning her true name. Only now was Iseult’smotherso deftly plucking it out of her.

Iseult had no time to dwell on this information, nor time to assess what this new heat might mean, for now her mother was sharing a look with Alma, as if that name meant something. And Iseult felt as if she were falling in the river from two days ago, but instead of ice to dunk her, it was flames. Because Iseult knew the look that passed between Gretchya and Alma. Gods curse her, she knew it well because she’d spent years watching them make it. But only to each other. Never to her.

Her fingers flexed taut at her side, her breaths grew shallow. And there, in the pit of her belly, was the anger again.Yes,she coaxed it.Grow. Expand.She had no trouble keeping her expression immobile when kindling burned inside. Even her nose, which usually twitched and gave her away, was as still as the stones surrounding the firepit.

“Iseult told us others hunt her.” Alma folded her hands behind her back—perfect, perfect—and Gretchya’s attention sharpened onto Iseult once more. “Who?”

“Corlant,” Iseult replied.

At once, all Threads in the tent flashed with slate fear. All bodies stiffened, even Alma, even Gretchya.

And Iseult couldn’t help but delight in those reactions. “There are Hell-Bards too,” she said. “Because of Owl…Dirdra’scollar. They have hunted us for days.” To prove her point, she withdrew the map. “This shows where they are. None are near for now.”

At Gretchya’s nod, Alma took the map and unfolded it toward the nearest lantern. “This is valuable.” She glanced up. “How did you get it?”

Iseult didn’t answer, and fortunately, she was saved from having to by Gretchya. “It does not matter if the Hell-Bards are far away. Corlant approaches, and so we must leave.” She snapped her fingers at thehunters. “Alert the tribe. We must move immediately.” She waited until the women were out of the tent before squaring her body to Iseult. Like before, her gaze roamed up and down.

And like before, Iseult’s parasite reemerged. “Three weeks we have lived here safely, Iseult. Then you shred our careful weave in a single morning.”

The heat spindled wider, mixed with a new heat: a Puppeteer’s heat. Withoutrage.After all, it wasn’t as if Iseult had come here on purpose. It wasn’t as if she’d known her mother and these Nomatsis were living in the middle of an acid lake.

But she got no chance to respond before her mother turned away. “Alma,” she said, “take Iseult and Dirdra to the healer. If you need me, I will be dealing with the prisoner.” Then without another word or even another glance for Iseult, Gretchya left the tent.

The reunion was complete. Iseult was dismissed.

Fourteen Days After the Earth Well Healed

Safi watches the dancers. Rich gemstone colors stream and streak, thin silks and satins intended only for dancing. Worn once, never worn again. A waste that Merik Nihar would have scowled at.

But Safi cannot scowl—not when so many might see. She sits on this new throne and watches, a tiny smile to grace her lips. A genuine smile for she has a secret, and tonight that secret will come thundering outward.

Her newly sewn pocket scratches against her right breast, where the square-cut bodice dips low. Poorly added, but sufficient.

“You look disgusted,” Henrick says. He shifts in his throne, the wood protesting.

And Safi realizes that perhaps her expression isn’t as poised as she thinks, but she has always been good at quickly conjured lies. She is the right hand after all, always there to distract. To display.