The prince bowed his head. A slouch to his posture. A layer of sluggish cold in Leopold’s blood.
Leopold did know what his people had done here, and he was ashamed. More importantly, he felt no need to hide that from Aeduan.
But Aeduan had no time to dwell on that. “Men approach,” he said in a low growl as he yanked up Leopold’s bag. “They smell like soldiers, so stay close and stay quiet.”
For a time, they covered decent ground. The farther they traveled, the more the landscape came alive. Insects hummed, birds called, and small patches of green foliage rustled in the Jadansi breeze. The seaside cliffs grew taller and eventually Safiya’s smell moved inland—toward a dip in the land.
Soldiers patrolled, but Aeduan had no trouble avoiding them. He could sniff them out long before he and Leopold reached them. The detours slowed their progress, though, and the sun was descending into midafternoon before signs of civilization grew frequent.
First came distant smoke and footpaths. Then came voices—women and children mostly. Since Aeduan and Leopold were approaching a river and the path seemed well traveled, it was time for greater stealth. Aeduan would need to scout ahead—alone—and leave the prince briefly behind.
In moments, Aeduan had found a fallen oak that was well hidden from the path and carried no scents of a passing patrol. The tree was recently toppled, so decomposition and undergrowth were almost nonexistent—though Aeduan felt certain that Leopold would still complain.
However, when Aeduan ordered the young man below, Leopold neither complained nor resisted. In fact, he crawled beneath the oak’s trunk with unexpected grace.
Dread scraped down Aeduan’s spine as he watched. The prince had been far too compliant and surprisingly cautious on this inland trek.
But once the prince was invisible, Aeduan thrust aside thoughts of Leopold. Safiya was all that mattered now.
As Aeduan crept toward the thunderous river, his magic latched on to many scents—too many. This place was crowded, and there was no way he or Leopold could sneak by. The river was also a problem. Aeduan could easily cross it on his own, but he couldn’t tow the prince over too.
They would have to find another route and try to regain Safiya’s trail at some later point.
Stealing back to the prince, Aeduan debated the best direction for travel—and also how quickly he could move the prince, even at a willing top speed.
He knelt beside the fallen log, ready to offer a hand to the prince.
Leopold wasn’t there.
Instantly, Aeduan sniffed for the prince’s blood—grappled for the new leather and the smoky hearths.
But it wasn’t there either. There was nothing but the faintest lingering of Leopold’s scent. Aeduan fell to all fours and scrabbled under the fallen oak, just in case a Glamourwitch deceived him or there was some hidden escape below.
Neither was the case; Prince Leopold was gone.
Aeduan crawled back out and rolled to his feet, his pulse ratcheting up and a violent sort of fear winding through him. Should Aeduan search for the prince or should he leave him?
A burst of wind lashed through the trees, breaking Aeduan’s thoughts—and then smashing them completely. There was a second blood-scent here. One that he had smelled before.
Clear lakes and frozen winters.
Aeduan’s hand instantly moved to his sword hilt. He scanned the forest, his witchery racing to pin down that scent. To identify and remember.
When the recognition hit, Aeduan almost rocked back. He’d smelled this blood in Veñaza City at the pier.
Which meant someone had followed him to Nubrevna—and now that someone had kidnapped Prince Leopold fon Cartorra.
THIRTY-THREE
Merik never knew riding a horse could be such a contradicting experience of misery and pleasure.
The afternoon sun cut through dead oak branches and speckled the dusty path in a lace of shadows. Thirty leagues east of Noden’s Gift and life was gone again. A silent graveyard reigned, and the only sound was the crunching hooves of Merik’s chestnut mare, the jingle of her tack, and the clomp of Evrane’s and Iseult’s roan twenty paces behind.
Yoris had given Merik the best steeds he could spare, and he’d outfitted Merik’s party with food, water, bedrolls, and an alert-stone—an Aetherwitched chunk of crystal that would flare to life if danger reached the camp. It would let them sleep that night without the need for watch duties.
Merik welcomed sleep. It had been so long since he’d had any.
The tang of salt filled Merik’s nose—carried on a fresh burst of wind. Though the Jadansi was hidden behind the sun-faded forest, the path never veered too far from its breeze.
Not that the breeze did anything to cool Merik. Not with Safiya fon Hasstrel sharing his saddle.
Though Merik had every excuse to be flush against the curves of her body, to have his arms around her and holding the reins, it also meant his knees rubbed all the more and his legs kept turning to pins and needles. He had a feeling, when they stopped to make camp, he’d be hobbling like Hermin.
Still, his muscles were the furthest thing from his mind as the mare ambled easily down the barren trail. Each of the horse’s steps jostled his thighs, his hips, his abdomen against Safi’s lower back, and though he tried to think of Noden’s Gift—to replay the welcome he’d received and to hold tight to that heady pride—Merik’s brain had other topics in mind.
The shape of Safi’s thighs. The slope where her shoulder met her neck. The way she’d challenged him in the captain’s cabin—a four-step with eyes and words and casual touch.
Since then, the pressure of Merik’s magic—of a rage that might not be rage at all—writhed beneath his skin. Too hot. Too hard.
At least, though, he and Safi were on better terms, and she was easier to talk to now. A thousand questions rolled off her tongue. How many people live in Lovats? Is Noden the god of everything or just water? How many languages do you speak?
Merik answered each question as it came. Around 150,000 people are in Lovats, though that number can quadruple during war; He’s God of everything; I speak bad Cartorran, decent Marstok, and excellent Dalmotti. Eventually, though, he had a question of his own.
“Are the Cartorrans or the Marstoks close? Can your power tell me that?”
She gave a tiny headshake. “I know when people tell the truth or lie. And if I look at a man, I can see his true heart—his intentions. But I can’t verify facts or claims.”
“Hmmm. A man’s true heart?” Merik offered water to Safi. As she sipped carefully, he added, “So what do you see when you look at me?”
She stiffened in his arms, and the slightest hum of static trilled into his chest. Then she relaxed, laughing. “You confuse my witchery.” She handed back the water bag. “It says right now that I can trust you.”
He grunted lightly and tipped back the water. It was hot from the sun. Two gulps and he stopped.
“Can I trust you?” She peered at him over her shoulder.
He smiled. “As long as you follow orders.”
He was pleased—inordinately so—when this earned him a haughty sniff.
“That’s a dangerous power you have,” he said, once she’d turned forward once more. “I see why men might kill for it.”
“It is powerful,” she acknowledged. “But it’s not as powerful as people think—and lately, I’m learning that it’s not as powerful as I think. I’m easily confused by strong faith. If people believe what they say, then my magic can’t tell the difference. I know when someone outright lies, but when people think they speak the truth, my witchery accepts it.” She trailed off, then almost grudgingly added, “That was why I didn’t believe you when you told me Nubrevna needed a trade agreement. My witchery told me it was true. Yet it also believed the lies in my history books.”
“Ah,” Merik breathed, unable to ignore the sorrow in Safi’s voice—or how that made his witchery skitter beneath his breastbone. His grip tightened on the reins. Hi
s Witchmark rippled over the tendons in his hand.
For half a heartbeat, Merik caught himself pretending that Safi wasn’t a domna and that he wasn’t a prince. That they were simply two travelers on a barren road, where the only sounds were the gentle clunking of the horses’ hooves, the scampering breeze, and the murmur of Evrane and Iseult behind.
But the bleakness of the land soon wedged into Merik’s thoughts—alongside the same rotation of worries he couldn’t control. Kullen. Vivia. King Serafin.
As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, Safi said, “You carry too much weight, Prince.” She nestled back until she rested against his chest. “More than anyone I’ve ever met.”
“I was born to my title,” he said roughly, pulling her slightly closer. Accepting the steadiness she offered in conversation. In touch. “I take it seriously—even if no one wants me to.”
“That’s just it, though, isn’t it?” A challenge shivered up her spine. “You love feeling needed. It gives you purpose.”
“Perhaps,” he murmured, distracted by her nearness. By the way his breath and the wind twirled through the unruly strands of her hair. “You speak Nubrevnan like a native,” he said at last, forcing his brain to change subjects. To concentrate on Safi’s words instead of her proximity. “Your accent is almost imperceptible.”
“Years of tutors,” she admitted. “I mostly learned from my mentor, though. He’s a Wordwitch, so his magic smooths away his accent. He used to make Iz and me practice for hours.”
“All that education.” Merik shook his head. “All that physical training plus a witchery men would kill for. Think of all you could do, Safi. Think of all you could be.”
A soft shudder moved through her, and a bounce shivered in her leg. “I suppose,” she said eventually, “I could be powerful or make changes or do whatever it is that you seem to be so good at, Prince, but I’d be fighting a losing battle. I don’t have what it takes to lead people. To guide them. I’m too … restless. I hate standing still, and except for Iseult, there has been nothing constant in my life.”
“So you will never stop running? Even if someone wanted you…” He didn’t finish. He couldn’t quite get those last words—to stay—over his lips.
But it sparkled in the air between them, and when Safi angled toward him, her brows were drawn. Then her gaze clicked into place, an inch below Merik’s and far too blue.
Suddenly, the space between them was too small. This river was out of Merik’s control, careening over the banks, and he could think of nothing but stopping the mare, heaving Safi off, and—
No. Merik couldn’t let his brain go there. He wouldn’t. Flirting was one thing, but touching … He couldn’t risk what that might lead to. What it might end in. Not with a Domna of Cartorra. Not with an Emperor’s betrothed.
So Merik sent up a desperate prayer to Noden that this day would end soon, before he—or his magic—lost control entirely.
THIRTY-FOUR
By the time Iseult and the group reached their chosen campsite, the pink sun was dropping behind the Jadansi—and Iseult was convinced her inner thighs were permanently deformed.
As Yoris had promised, the stream was a clean one, and as such, a miniature jungle had burst forth. The stream had grown too, and if a rain came, it would overrun its narrow banks. So, after letting the horses drink, Merik ordered they make camp on a nearby hill shaded by oaks and boulders.
Of course, it took Merik a long while to actually give that order. He and Evrane spent at least a quarter hour simply staring at the fern trees and listening to the night frogs sing. Their Threads were so euphoric, so triumphant, that Iseult told Safi to simply leave them be.
At last, though, the chestnut mare had had enough waiting. She lipped Merik’s shoulder, startling him back to the present. While Iseult and Evrane gathered wood for a cooking fire, Safi and Merik rubbed down the horses.
Swifts chittered overhead, seeming as pleased for the company as Iseult was glad for their noise. She was glad for anything that distracted her from the Threads throbbing over Safi and Merik. While they’d shared a horse, their Threads had been so bright as to give Iseult a headache.
Evrane’s Threads were blinding too, and they hadn’t stopped pulsing with giddy pink or green certainty since leaving Noden’s Gift.
How three people could feel so much amazed—and exhausted—Iseult.
Swooping down, she flicked a cicada skeleton off a fallen branch and then added it to her growing pile of kindling. Merik had insisted the fire be kept small and Iseult had more than enough wood, but she wasn’t ready to return to the group. She needed the time to regain control of her mind. Of her Threadwitch calm.
Eventually, though, she dragged herself back and helped Evrane lay out the bedrolls beneath an enormous, overhanging rock. An alert-stone sat atop it, searing magenta in the sunset.
When at last everything was situated and a meal of hot porridge gulped back, Iseult wiggled into her bedroll and closed her stinging eyes, grappling for that perfect sense of belonging she’d felt in the Origin Well’s cool, kicking waters. Yet, for all that Iseult could remember what she’d felt, she couldn’t actually summon back the feeling.
As she lay there, thinking and reaching and analyzing, she drifted off.
And the shadow was waiting.
“You’re here! And you’re all healed.” The shadow seemed genuinely pleased by this, and Iseult imagined she clapped in the real world—a real world that Iseult was certain existed. This voice wasn’t just some mad extension of her deepest fears.
“You’re right,” the shadow crooned. “I’m as real as you are. But look—I’ll let you see through my eyes for a moment, just to convince you.”
It was like coming up from a deep dive. Light swam across Iseult’s vision followed by colors—gray and green—and distorted shapes … until finally a shuttering of black, as if the shadow blinked long and slow, and the world materialized. Gray stones, worn and crumbling, met Iseult’s eyes. No, the shadow’s eyes, though which Iseult now saw.
It was like the ruined lighthouse by Veñaza City but rather than sea-soaked beach, this land was covered in rich shades of green. Ivy wound and broke through the walls. Grass tufted at the building’s base.
“Follow me, follow me,” the shadow sang—though it wasn’t as if Iseult could truly follow or move at all. Just as she saw through the shadow’s eyes, she moved in the shadow’s body.
“Where are we?” Iseult asked, wishing she could swivel the shadow’s head and see more than just an arched entry into a round room.
An evening sun—brighter than the one in Nubrevna—beamed in through windows with broken glass, and the shadow aimed for a winding staircase at the back. She moved with a strange, bouncing gait, as if she stayed on the balls of her feet when she moved. As if she might start skipping at any moment.
She did start skipping when she reached the worn stairs. Up, up, up she spun, her gaze on the steps and thoughts silent. When she reached the second floor, she traipsed toward a window with shards still dangling from the iron lattice.
“We’re in Poznin,” the shadow finally answered. “Do you know it? It’s the capital of the once great Republic of Arithuania. But every nation rises and falls, Iseult. Then, eventually, they all rise again. Soon these ruins will flourish into cities, and it will be the other nations that die this time.” As the shadow spoke, she leaned onto the windowsill and a wide avenue slid into view—along with hundreds … No, hundreds upon hundreds of people.
Iseult gasped. The men and women stood in rows, and even in the amber sunset, there was no missing the charred color of their skin. The pure blackness of their eyes.
Or the three Severed Threads drifting over each of their heads.
“Puppeteer,” Iseult breathed.
The shadow girl became very still. As if she held her breath. Then she gave a curt nod that sent the view lurching. “They call me the Puppeteer, yes, but I don’t like it. Would you, Iseult? It sounds so … oh,
I don’t know. So frivolous. Like what I do is a game for children. But it isn’t.” She hissed that word. “It’s an art. A masterpiece of weaving. Yet no one will call me Weaverwitch. Not even the King! He was the one who told me I was a Weaverwitch in the first place, yet now he refuses to call me by my true title.”
“Hmmm,” Iseult said, barely listening to the girl’s rambling. She needed to evaluate as much as she could with each flick of the Puppeteer’s eyes toward the Cleaved. Plus, it seemed that the girl couldn’t read Iseult’s thoughts so long as she was too absorbed in her own.
Each row had ten across. Men, women … even the occasional small figure, like an older child. But the Puppeteer’s gaze never lingered on individuals, and Iseult was too busy estimating the army’s size to focus on the few details she could grab.
Iseult had counted up to fifty rows—and was not even halfway down the avenue—when the Puppeteer’s words cut into her awareness: “You’re a Weaverwitch too, Iseult, and once you learn to weave, we’ll change our title together.”
“To … gether?”
“You’re not like other Threadwitches,” the Puppeteer elaborated. “You have a need to change things, and the hate to do it. The rage to break the world. Soon, you’ll see that. You’ll accept what you really are, and when you do, you’ll come to me. In Poznin.”
Hot sickness rose in Iseult’s chest—vile and almost impossible to hide. So she blurted the best lie she could craft. “You s-seem tired. I am so sorry. Is weaving exhausting?”
The Puppeteer seemed to smile. “You know,” she said softly, “you are the first person to ask me that. Breaking Threads wears me out, but it is talking to you that drains me the most. Yet…” She trailed off, her eyes falling shut, and her weariness was palpable as she dipped forward—pressed her forehead against an eye-level iron bar. She sighed, as if the metal soothed. “It is worth the exhaustion to talk to you. The king has been so angry with me lately, though I do everything he demands. Talking to you is the only bright spot in my day. I have never had a friend before.”