Page 42 of Witchlight
Or at least, that’s what Iseult imagined she was feeling.
And she imagined too that she wasn’t here. That instead, the heat sweeping against her was from sunbaked cobblestones in Veñaza City. That it was just her and Safi, two Threadsisters facing off against the world. The only thing they’d wanted in those days was to get enough money to forge out on their own. For years, they’d had adventures and made mischief and cared for nothing but what the next day might bring.
Now here they were, hundreds of leagues and countless lifetimes away. So much had changed in the last few months.And yet nothing has changed at all.
At that thought, a plan assembled in Iseult’s mind, slicing through her brain as clearly as Leopold’s drawings upon the page—except these wereherthoughts andhervisions of a terrain that waited ahead. Planning had always been her greatest strength. Logic, organization, careful strategy. These were the skills she used to complete all the wild, impulsive schemes that Safi initiated them into.
And while Safi might not have started this particular scheme, that didn’t mean Iseult couldn’t find a way to finish it.
Her hand fell from her collarbone. She closed the book on Poznin history. It was thinner than Eridysi’s diary, but only by half an inch. Otherwise, its dimensions were nearly the same—meaning it slipped easily intothe case at Iseult’s hip. She fastened the buckle with a click, then crouched over to grab the now-pocked Nomatsi pack. The weight settled across her shoulders with creaking ease. The shield, however, was no use anymore, so she left it behind. One more artifact for this tower to claim.
Threads raveled at the corners of Iseult’s magic. Hell-Bards and soldiers, she assumed, wondering why an inferno had erupted into the night. She didn’t want to explain, and she certainly didn’t want to be caught with this pack upon her shoulders or crates of supplies aflame.
So she left behind the tower where she had almost died—more than once now—and she felt no regrets over the wreckage. Instead, she felt only cold fury and hard, indomitable determination.
Safi awoke thinking that war had come.Cannons,she thought.I hear cannons.
But there was no follow-up boom, and she was not on a battlefield or trapped on a warship. She was simply in her room, the shadows complete because someone had banked her fire and blown out her lamps.
She felt drunk as she tried to rise.Why did I hear cannons?The bed spun. She was still dressed.
A knock at her door. “Come,” she growled, her throat fighting her as much as her mind and body did.
A Hell-Bard shoved in. “There’s been an explosion in the forest, Your Imperial Majesty. About half a mile from here. We don’t know if it’s an attack or something else.”
Something else?Safi wanted to demand.What the tits else causes an explosion?But she only waved at the man and barked, “Update me as soon as you know.”
He bowed. He turned to leave.
“Wait. What is the hour?”
“The twenty-third chimes just sounded.”
So late?Safi waved at him again. The word,Dismissed,was beyond her current capacity—and he seemed to understand, for he said, “Should I send for Monk Evrane?”
She shook her head. Then regretted that movement. Then waved even more emphatically for the Hell-Bard to go. This time he obeyed.
Once her door clicked shut, Safi gulped in air and probed at her head with her fingers. The Cahr Awen were still in there, but so was Evrane’s magic. It wanted to suck her back into sleep. It wanted to roll her out to sea on the tide.
But if it was almost midnight, then it was almost time for Safi and Iseult to leave. So Safi dragged herself from her bed. Surely whatever had just happened in the forest would not affect Iseult. Surely at any moment her Threadsister would shove in wondering why Safi wasn’t ready for the road.
Except…Cannons. War. Explosion in the forest. Safi’s stomach plummeted. Her breath punched from her lungs. Suddenly she knew exactly what could set the night on fire.
As did the Cahr Awen souls. Already, she could feel them reawakening. The barrel of bees stirring, wanting to sting and buzz and shove back into the cracks of her brain.You must leave. Do not let this stop you! Do not stay here!
“Yes,” she snarled, staggering toward her closet—and toward the clothes she had already chosen to keep her warm on the road.
Her fingers moved for her Threadstone. But it wasn’t there, because it hadn’t been for weeks. Safi still felt incomplete without it.
Gods below, she hoped Iseult was all right. And gods below, she wasn’t about to wait here to find out. She let her hand fall. She had a secret way out of the castle—one she and Iseult had used whenever they needed to evade Caden and his Hell-Bards.
Thinking of Caden made Safi’s ribs hurt.
Thinking of Iseult made them hurt far more. But the girlsdidhave a backup plan in case the worst happened. A spot to meet, where they could regroup, recalibrate, and reevaluate without the controlling eyes of Eron or Evrane.
In minutes, Safi was dressed. All beige, all wool or fur or leather meant to withstand the Windswept Plains and their ire. A scarf cloaked her face, gloves warmed her hands. She was boiling in her bedroom, but she’d be glad for the extra heat as soon as she slid through the hidden doorway tucked in the closet’s back corner. It was a spot Henrick had told her about because why not? It was no use to him anymore.
Once she’d strapped a sword and a parrying knife at her hip, Safi tugged the final piece of preparation she needed for the night. It was not intended for the road; it was nothing more than a letter folded over and sealed with Hasstrel blue wax—and the Hasstrel mountain bat stamp.Love and dread,she thought for the second time that day as she placed the letter on her desk.
