Page 48 of Witchlight
Occasionally, the trio passed camps at the roadside. Sometimes, they spotted smoke on the horizon. Twice, they found traveling caravans of traders. Yet no one ever bothered them; no one ever asked,Why are you traveling east into war?
On the fourth day, the gusts that had howled off the Windswept Plains softened, and for the first time since leaving the imperial lodge, they let their horses slow to a walking pace. But clouds hung like frowns on the horizon, and it felt to Iseult like the brewing storm waited for a moment when she might look the other way. Then it would strike with all its might.
It reminded Iseult of the storm Corlant had conjured, when he had cleaved the very sky to chase her.
On the fifth day, they rode hard again. Poznin was close now, three days at most if this blizzard would hold. The lands rolled with uneven, unpredictable hills, as if some god had left their shallow footprints across the plains. It made seeing ahead difficult.
As did the grass that hugged the highway, high as their horses’ chests and spanning as far as their eyes could see.
Halfway through the fifth day, they spotted smoke. Black coils had blended into the storm clouds. Aeduan drew up his mount, letting Iseult and Safi trot to a stop beside him. Then they all waited, their horses’ breaths pluming into the cold as their masters gazed ahead and wind beat against them.
That same wind scattered the smoke, taking thick, black clots and shredding it to papery tendrils.
“That’s more than just a campfire,” Safi said. Her Threads were a muddied mixture of suspicion and worry.
“And the highway goes right through it.” Aeduan, whose face was hidden within his Carawen hood, pointed to the road’s dip and rise. It would indeed take them directly into the smoke and fires. “We will have to circle around.”
Neither Iseult nor Safi responded to this. Instead they met each other’s eyes. “Someone might be hurt,” Iseult said. Cold stung her cheeks and nose.
Safi lowered the scarf across her face. Her freckled cheeks shone red. “We can’t risk finding that out, Iz.”
Iseult’s nose twitched. She knew Safi was right, but that didn’t make it better.Either we lose thousands of lives now,Leopold had said in the Dreaming,or we lose the entirety of the Witchlands when Sirmaya dies. Tell me which sounds preferable to you.
“All right.” Iseult nodded to Aeduan. “Lead us off the road.”
He bobbed his head, eyes flaring red within the shadows of his hood. Then he steered Surefoot into the tall grass. Safi followed atop Dandelion, while Iseult took up the tail with Cloud. This was their usual arrangement, for Aeduan could reach ahead for blood scents while Iseult could reach behind for Threads. The grass was a new challenge, though, slowing them severely.
Which turned out to be the point.
Threads suddenly wavered at the edge of Iseult’s magic, closing in fast.“Raiders!”she shouted at the same moment Aeduan roared, “Attack!”
Then the raiders were there. Tens of Threads zooming in from all sides in an ambush that couldn’t be escaped. Some Threads bore magics. Some only a thrill of cruelty. Yet all wore a shade like violent iron, and there was no stopping the response of Iseult’s magic in kind. The bad side of it that liked to sing,Sever, sever, twist and sever.
She squashed it down. Hard. That magic was only for final measures. Only in situations of last resort. Iseult had blades; she would use them.
Aeduan was already off his mount. Safi too, their blades unsheathing as figures manifested in the grass, hulking shapes lit by brutality.
Threads that break, Threads that die.
“Aeduan!” Iseult shouted. “Can you freeze them before they arrive?”
Aeduan glanced back. His hood had fallen, his eyes glowed red. “Some, but not all.”
“Then do it,” Safi barked, her Threads blazing with imperial expectation.
“Yes.” Aeduan stretched out his arms. His eyes flamed so red it sent lines across his face. And Iseult watched as the nine nearest raiders became statues within the golden grass. Their Threads burst with panic and surprise.
But they didn’t pass out. Instead of Aeduan’s usual magic to dominate them, his hands began to quaver—and already, there were more raiders crashing this way.
Iseult rounded toward Cloud. The horse sensed the tide of violence barreling toward her, but she was trained for war. She made no movement as Iseult freed her weapons from the saddle. First a moon scythe of sharpened steel. Then a second scythe from a mountain bat’s claw. It was the only remnant of Owl that Iseult had, and every time she held the hilt—every time she felt the claw radiate with ancient Threads of earth and stone—she thought of the little girl who wasn’t a little girl at all.
Long ago, when the gods walked among us.
Iseult turned to Safi, and without another word, the Threadsisters launched themselves at the first raiders finally toppling through the frozen grass.
All Safi saw were Red Sails. Because of course it was Red Sails. When the slaughter was at its ugliest, they were always near.
And this slaughter was ugly. Eight raiders stormed from the grass toward Safi and Iseult, and there was no missing the blood and soot across their vicious faces. Whatever that smoke was from, people had died there—and here were their murderers.
