Page 159 of Witchlight
SEVENTY-SIX
Tonight was a dazzling night in Veñaza City. The stars shone with nary a cloud to interrupt their performance, and the city positively pulsed with heat baked into its cobbles from the day. Salt carried in off the sea, scented with jasmine and roses—and with lies and truths too, forever murmuring in that rhythmic way of the Dalmotti language.
Gods, how Safiya fon Hasstrel had missed this place.
She’d especially missed this particular rooftop tucked in the Northern Wharf District, where she found a sprawled-out Iseult gazing up at the Sleeping Giant.
A pot of fresh coffee steamed on the shingles near Iseult’s feet.
Safi plopped down beside her Threadsister. “Coffee at this hour?” There were two porcelain mugs, familiar and used. Safi always took the one with the chipped arm. “You’ll never sleep, Iz.”
“I don’t want to sleep.” Iseult stared straight overhead. She wore a fine gray suit with a matching cloak that would blend well into shadows. The fabric was light and strong and worth far more than anything Iseult had ever owned in Veñaza City—and Safi would know because Safi was the one who’d had it custom made for her.
She’d also had one made for herself, although right now, she still wore her white half gown over it all.
And right now, Habim, Mathew, and Uncle Eron were likely cursing Alix for helping Safi first sneakintothe ball… then sneak right back out again. But Alix had always had a soft spot for Safi. Hehadhoused her for all those years. And clothed her. And fed her too, on occasion.
“Is this done steeping?” Safi grabbed the coffee pitcher and squinted into its murky depths.
“Another few minutes.” Iseult finally tore her gaze from the sky. “You don’t see them anymore, do you?”
Safi didn’t have to ask to know what Iseult meant. “Only if I lookthrough the Truth-lens. Then I see them like I did right after the Collapse.”
A nod. Then a grunt as Iseult pushed herself to sitting. “Well, it’s different now. They’re simultaneously brighter and thinner. Especially the ones up there.”
“Yes, well, wearestill missing one Paladin. There were six Wells, but only five Paladins have given up their magic.”
Another nod, but this time, it was accompanied with a pensive frown from Iseult. And also a silence as she set to pouring their coffee. It was such a familiar combination of sounds. A music Safi hadn’t known she missed until this precise moment, when the first clink came from the strainer laid over Safi’s mug.
True, true, true,her magic sang, swelling in her chest. Prickling at her eyeballs.
Next came the burble of coffee pouring. The slight crunch as thick grounds gathered in the strainer. Another clink and finally a scrape as Iseult moved the strainer to her own cup and finished pouring.
Then both girls lifted their mugs and grinned at each other. A breeze tugged at Iseult’s hair. She wore gloves now because her hands were still too raw to leave exposed—and perhaps because, unlike Safi, she wasn’t comfortable yet with how they looked.
Safi was frankly just glad they could both stillusethem. What they’d done in the Contested Lands certainly could have ended much worse for them both.
“To Evrane,” Iseult said, extending her mug toward Safi. “Th-the Nameless Monk who s-saved me many times over.”
Safi’s heart twisted. “Saved us both, actually. Even if she was stingy with her knives.”
Iseult laughed, a taut sound. Then she and Safi tapped mugs. Steam twirled up between their faces.
After they each took a sip, Iseult lifted her mug again. “To Zander. Who was the best of the Hell-Bards and who w-was… a protector for any who needed him.”
Safi sucked in. Her nose hurt now with the intensity of the truth radiating off Iseult’s words—and off the ache that hadn’t left her lungs yet and perhaps never would. “To Zander,” she squeezed out.
Their mugs tapped again. They each sipped again. But where Safi thought they might be done, Iseult once more thrust out her mug. “ToKullen Ikray, as well as e-e-everyother life we knew and… and all the—the ones we didn’t. Even the Raider King. And even…”
“Polly,” Safi whispered. She couldn’t pretend she grieved him—she didn’t. Not after everything he’d done. But shedidgrieve the boy he’d been before the Rook King’s memories had taken hold.
She’d loved that boy, andhewas worth mourning.
One more clink of their mugs, and after a sniffle, after a dab at her eyes, Safi gulped down her coffee. Both girls did, in total silence save for the ceaseless noises of this city where they had first met. Where they had become Threadsisters. Where they had been trained and taught and honed into the Cahr Awen.
Safi might resent having had all her choices taken from her, but she didn’t resent where they’d led her in the end. Or what she and Iseult had—together—been able to do.
After swallowing back the final, dreggy sip in her mug, Safi clanked it onto the shingles, and to her surprise, she found something almost like mischief wiggling on her Threadsister’s nose.
