Page 118 of Witchlight
It was a magnificent show, unlike anything Iseult could have imagined. She felt each of the Rook King’s emotions, each of Leopold’s. And not simply because she could see and interpret the Threads, but because the glamour wove directly into her. Directly through her. It played at her own Threads as if she were one more instrument inside Leopold’s orchestra.
Because she was.
She always had been.
Iseult came back into her body gradually. No more shadows. No more pain. She simply lay on the snow while Leopold gazed down at her with a look that said,I would never hurt you.Somehow, he still believed that.
For several seconds, the ghost of the Rook King lingered upon him. There was the hard jaw. There was the silver crown. Then that too fell away, and there was only a prince, green-eyed and golden-haired.
Iseult blinked as the final glimmers of the glamour melted like dewdrops off a flower. Here was the biting cold. Here was the shrine. And here was the snow slanting against her, carried by a burgeoning wind that flew toward Poznin. It bit against Iseult’s cheeks and scraped at the old scars across her hands.
Above all, it struck flint on steel inside her heart.
Anger,she pinpointed instantly, and she couldn’t help but smile. Becausethiswas an emotion that was useful to her.Thiswas a feeling she wanted to be embraced by. Its fires warmed her muscles, sharpened her senses, and ground her body and mind into many years of training.
She had been a tool for so long, filled with Threads that had never been her own—and that had been placed there by this Paladin kneeling beside her. But he was hardly the only person who’d ever treated her as a tool or tried to hammer her into what they wanted her to be.
Make Threadstones, lead the tribe.
Protect Safi because no one can protect her like Thread-family.
Be the Cahr Awen and heal the Wells.
Do not heal the Well and instead cleave them.
Save Moon Mother before it is too late.
So many expectations. So many years spent trying to be what everyoneelsewanted Iseult to be—and all that had led to was disaster.
“I trusted you,” she said softly, searching Leopold’s face for some sign of humanity. Of regret. He was so beautiful—even more so now, for it was not merely the distant Well that reeled Threads of magic into it. Raw power bled into Leopold as well.
Before Iseult, he was becoming a god.
“I even cared for you,” she continued, and with tender caution, she tried to rise. Leopold reached to help her.
She shook him aside.
“After all that time we spent together in the Sirmayans, Leopold, h-how could I not care for you?” Iseult reached sitting. Now her eyes were only a few inches below Leopold’s. Wind pulled at his curls. Snow fluttered on his lashes. “But everything you’ve ever said to me was a lie.
“You never worked with Eron fon Hasstrel, but m-merely tricked me with a book from my childhood. And you didn’t kill Corlant so I wouldn’t have to, but so I wouldn’t form a new Well with the power of the blade inside me.
“And you certainly never loved me. Not really.”
Leopold’s Threads tweaked with scarlet frustration—and a glimmer of that aching, lonely blue. “Of course I loved you. And I still do.”
“But only because youmademe. Only b-because I was a looking glass to find what you needed. A blade to be stabbed into hearts you couldn’t reach yourself.”
Now Leopold’s cheeks twitched. “Yes, I did make you, but not because Iwantedto. I had no other choice, Iseult. It was the only way to save Sirmaya.”
“Maybe.” Iseult shrugged one shoulder, imitating the mask of boredom Leopold always wore. Cold seeped into her legs. Her hair swatted against her face. “But I really don’t care if it was the only way. Just as I don’t care what h-happened a thousand years ago or a hundred years ago or even three decades ago. What I care about is what happened today. What you didtoday,at the Air Well.”
Iseult inhaled here, letting the cold fortify her and stasis slide into her toes. She did not shout, she did not emote. “How long do we have?” she asked.
“Before…?” He let the word trail out. His Threads flashed toward muddy confusion.
“Before the Exalted Ones are awake, Leopold. Before your ridiculous plan”—she pointed to the Threads, traipsing, twirling by—“is finished and magic is gone from the Witchlands?”
An upward tilt of Leopold’s chin. “This cannot be undone, if that is what you are asking. And it does not have to be, for I already have another plan set in motion. One of the Exalted Ones will join my side against the others. He is called Nadje. You knew him when he—”
