Page 90 of Witchlight
Iseult had no answer for the Raider King’s question.So tell me now: Why has cleaving worsened with each Well you have healed?Her hands went to her collar, cold and wet. Then fell limp at her sides. Her nostrils flared. Her tongue was stiff and lifeless as her mind scrabbled ineffectually for a reason, an explanation, a worthy reply for the man before her with his patient, serious Threads.
But every cohesive sentence got stuck to her tongue like flies on sap. Nothing she could conjure resounded with the same thunderous certainty.
So tell me now: Why has cleaving worsened with each Well you have healed?
Iseult’s ankles began tremoring on the snow. Only years of Threadwitch training—of stasis, in her fingers and in her toes—kept her from collapsing at the intensity of what Ragnor had just asked… and at the answers she didn’t have.
It truly felt as if the sun had moved to night and the moon had moved to day. As if the land had flipped inside out, and nothing looked quite real anymore. A small voice, almost lost to the confusion, squeaked inside Iseult:Do not falter. Safi and Aeduan need you.But the voice was too small to mean anything—and besides, weren’t its conclusions based on false information? Wouldn’t healing this final Well only make cleavingworse?
Cold clamored against her feet. She rested scarred hands upon her thighs. And a strange, peaceful quiet settled over her as stasis rearranged into something new and logic laid claim. Was it really possible for Alma to be wrong? For Safi and the Cahr Awen souls to be wrong? And Leopold too, and Monk Evrane, and so many people—could all of them be wrong? Were Iseult and Safi truly making cleaving worse by healing the other Wells?
Ragnor gazed at Iseult, his face creased with such sympathy, it actually hurt to look upon him.Threads that build, Threads that bind, Threads that break.He possessed them all, spinning across his soul. Brightest of all, though, were the Threads already broken. The grieving blue core of him as pure as Sirmaya’s own ice inside the mountain.
People had died to save the Witchlands, and more people would die to finish this. But how many people could be saved? How many Republics of Arithuania could form and flourish without empires to ruin them? How many displaced lives—Nomatsis, Baedyeds, and yes, even Purists and Red Sails too, could find safe havens without empires to dominate or Wells to control?
Life is the price of justice,Aeduan had said once to Iseult, quoting this very man standing before her.
Do not falter!a voice squeaked again. It sounded like Safi. It sounded like the Cahr Awen souls. It sounded, even, like Leopold.But does it sound like me?Iseult wasn’t sure. Her logic mind was trapped between two possibilities that might both be true.
Ragnor shifted his weight upon his knees. The sword sheath at his hip clinked. “‘Six turned on six,’” he recited. “‘And made themselves kings. Then one turned on five, and stole everything.’ Thatonewas the Rook King. My former master. He tricked me, Eridysi, and the Paladins who wanted only good for this world. He tricked us into killing the Exalted Ones. Then one by one, he killed each of us too.
“Or he tried to.” Ragnor opened his hands. The exposed clots of cleaving still glistened. “Sirmaya protected me, Dysi, and my girls. For a thousand years, we slept in Her ice. Then one day, Dysi and I awoke to find the world had changed. No longer did six all-powerful tyrants enslave and massacre the people. No longer was magic confined to twelve Paladins chosen by Sirmaya. Instead, witches lived everywhere across the land.
“The world Dysi and I had known was gone, and everything we’d fought for had been relegated to legend.
“As for my daughters, they were trapped inside this… this sleeping ice, and nothing I did could get them free again. If not for Aeduan—whom Dysi gave birth to right there inside our frozen tomb—I would never have left my girls. But my new son needed me, and Dysi needed me too.The goddess will release them when the world is safe,Dysi promised, and I had no choice but to trust her.
“So we stepped into the day, and instantly, we knew that all was not as it seemed. The signs were everywhere—the little songs Lisbet had sung to us, the warnings she’d told Dysi a thousand years ago. We saw those warnings all around us.” Ragnor paused, his Threads flickering with something that was almost pink amusement, but mostly pale disgust.
“The people of today didn’t even know that Lisbet was the Sightwitch who’d seen the prophecies. All her visions were attributed to Dysi andcalled ‘The Lament.’ An apt name, at least, since we could easily see Sirmaya was dying—and is still dying, because magic, Iseult det Midenzi, was never meant to be ours.
“If we do not stop the flow of power out of our goddess, then not only will She die, but everyone else will too.”
Iseult listened, unmoving despite the snow sinking into her clothes. Into her hair. She had pieced together tiny fragments of this story from Eridysi’s diary, but most of it was new information that her brain couldn’t appropriately catalog. Aeduan had two sisters? Eridysi was his mother and he’d been born inside the mountain? The Lament was not written by Eridysi but by someone else?
Do not falter. Do not let these tales confuse you.
“Why,” she said as flatly as she could, “are you telling me all of this?”
“Because we must cauterize these wounds. We must save Sirmaya before it is too late.”
“You mean you need me to cleave the Wells. That’s it, isn’t it? W-without Esme or Corlant, there’s no one left who can do it, so now you are turning to me—even though for months, you’ve tried to kill me.”
“No.” Ragnor shook his head. “I’ve never tried to kill you. Capture you, yes. But I have never intended for you or the light-bringer to die. Tools should not be penalized for being tools.” His right hand—still gloved—moved to the sheath at his hip. Then with the practiced ease of a soldier, he withdrew his sword. Steel flashed.
Iseult sank back, her left arm rising defensively. Her right arm groping for her boot. But she stopped before retrieving the knife.
Because Ragnor was not attacking.
Instead, he held the blade toward Iseult like a merchant showing his wares. And it was no ordinary blade. For one, the steel was shattered all the way to the hilt. For two, hovering over the jagged sword’s edge were three wriggling Severed Threads.
Sever, sever. Twist and sever. Threads that break, Threads that die.
“What is that?” Iseult asked on an exhale. A single swipe of that steel, and Threads would shear beneath it.
“This is the source of your power.Thisis what makes you the Cahr Awen. Eridysi made the blade. Then the Rook King used it to create you and the light-bringer.”
A wave of recognition rolled over Iseult. As if she was suddenly a Truthwitch; as if she suddenly knew Ragnor spoke true. This blade was a mirror. This blade was a piece of herself.
