Page 119 of Witchlight
“No.” Iseult released a sigh. “I don’t c-care about your plans and schemes. Don’t you see that? The Exalted Ones areyourfight to wage andyourhistory to reckon with. Not mine, and certainly not the innocent people of the Witchlands.”
“But theyareyour fight to wage.” His green eyes flashed. His Threads too. “For the Lament is not yet complete. You and Safiya must topple nightmares still and build us anew, while the Six and I—”
“No.”Now Iseult snarled. Now she pushed to her feet, stronger than she expected her body to be—and certainly stronger than Leopold expected, for alarm scattered across his Threads like meteors. “I am done with that stupid Lament. It has locked you onto a path, and now you’re i-i-incapableof thinking beyond.
“So while you mightsaywhat happened at the Well can’t be undone, I don’t believe you. I reject that answer. I reject the Lament. I am not the shadow-ender, and Safi is not the world-starter.
“We aredonebeing your tools. We aredonebeing a blade and glass you wield with a flip of your hand, and we aredonebeing Threadstones meant to shatter in a Void Paladin’s grip.
“The Cahr Awen was a lie you created a thousand years ago because, like a-always, you refused to act directly. But I will live that lie no longer, Leopold, and now that the magic is gone from me? Now that there’s a… a h-hole inside me where the blade used to be? I saygood riddanceandgood-bye.”
Iseult squared herself before Leopold, her chin tipping high. He did not recoil, although his Threads paled with ashen uncertainty—a shade at odds with the sunrise glowing behind him.
“I was right,” she said, holding his gaze, “when I called youam-lejtuback in Cartorra. But I was wrong about why. You’re n-not a life sleeper because you don’t want Thread-family. You’re a life sleeper because even after centuries, you don’t understand what it takes to give love and receive it.”
Leopold sighed. A sound like the earth collapsing. Like a cave-in fromwhich nothing would ever emerge and no Threads would ever grow. For half a breath, as Iseult watched the prince’s eyes sink shut, she felt each shiver and shadow of his sadness. It filled her up. Saturated her like a bonfire.
And for that half a breath, there was no denying that he was magnificent, this lonely god of old.
Then the moment passed, the blue grief passed too, and when Leopold opened his eyes, it was with the smug, wicked glint of Trickster.
“You’re right, of course.” He bowed his head. “As was the Moon Mother in that fable you so love to tell.” He dipped close to Iseult’s ear and murmured:“For I love no one but myself, and I will always be alone.”
He vanished then, as Iseult knew he would do, because the truth was that Leopold fon Cartorra—the Rook King, the Trickster god of old—was a coward who only ever snuck or hid or schemed. But there was one small problem. It had been Leopold’s problem from the beginning: because he never acted directly, he couldn’t understand anyone who did.
So he wasn’t ready for what came next. He wasn’t ready for Iseult.
Or for her rage.
The moment before his body faded into the Dreaming, like smoke vanishing into the sky, Iseult grabbed at his Threads. At the searing silver core that made him a Paladin. At the forever-grieving heart of blue. At all the shimmers and shades cascading into him, filled with agonizing, bone-scorching heat.
Iseult grabbed on toallof them.
And then she simply held on.
SIXTY-ONE
Merik had not flown with such power in months. Perhaps ever. He felt unstoppable. Like Noden incarnate. His winds came to him with only a thought, and he took flight out of the forest.
The monstrous Itosha followed—as he knew she would. As hehopedshe would. For this was his home. This washisLast Holdout. He’d failed the people he’d vowed to protect, but there were still so many others left vulnerable. The Cleaved army in Poznin. Aunt Evrane and all the Cartorrans she had come with.
Even the raiders, the Purists, the Nomatsis who would have happily killed Merik only yesterday. They must all have lost their magic now. Just as Merik should have too.There are advantages,he thought once more,to being a dead man.
He rocketed high above the burned tree line. The Paladin followed, screaming and cackling as if this were the greatest joke she’d ever heard. Lightning slashed. Merik spun. It should have hit him; it didn’t.
Then he was high enough to see what little remained of the forest—and far more shocking, what little remained of Poznin.
There was a crater where the Well had been, as if a comet had fallen from the sky to gouge out building and forest and stone. To erase all that had ever been. And still seafire burned down avenues and through buildings, with its black smoke to clot the sky.
Even the river had changed, churning and chopping with a violent speed like Merik had never seen before.
Another slash of lightning. Brilliant, scorching, thunderous. Merik flipped sideways, instinct moving his winds faster than his mind ever could. He needed to lead this monster called Itosha away from here.
Merik saw her again as he spun. She grinned, clawlike hands shooting up. More lightning spewed from her fingertips. Merik saw it coming; he flipped easily aside.
“So fast!” she crowed. “But with power that is not your own, I see.”
How she knew that, Merik couldn’t guess. He just knew thatshewas suddenly much faster too. She slung toward him, her hair streaming behind her. Her grin leering in close with those unnatural teeth.
