The room stayed blessedly still throughout. Even when she took three steps away from the bed. Even when she picked up speed and crossed to the window. Cold shivered off the glass, bubbles and bends warping the view of the valley far below.
There were no clouds to hide the moon. It shone, the purest of lights illuminating the valley. A Threadwitching night, Gretchya would have called it. When the Moon Mother’s glow washes away all color, leaving only Threads. Leaving only our work. Back then, that work had been binding Threads to stones—or for Iseult, attempting to bind and failing.
Now, her work was observation. Learn your opponents. Learn your terrain.
The wide river that twined through the valley was surrounded by marsh in some spots and sharper shores in others. Islands streaked the deep, black waters, and bridges crossed, zigging and zagging toward the Origin Well on its own island, dark with evergreens. The waters north of it looked frozen.
Somewhere out there was Owl. Somewhere out there was Safi. Iseult had to find them. Both of them. If Iseult could get to the bridges, she could reach the Well, and from there, she could reach the northern shore by way of ice. Then it would be easy enough to follow the river east without drawing attention from either side. Yes, the raiders would be near, but dense forest stood in their way.
The only real problem she faced was how to actually reach the bridges. Monks, insurgents, fortress walls, and a sheer cliff blocked her. But the Abbot had referred to an escape, and clearly the monks had been able to leave the Monastery to retrieve Iseult and Leopold from their wreckage. That meant there was a way out of here. Iseult just had to find it.
She scratched absently at her nose. No bandages blocked her this time. Evrane’s magic must be working. Although the Abbot just ruined some of that, she thought, pulling away from the window and patting at the bandages on her neck.
He had practically shredded them. Fortunately, it did not hurt to smooth them back in place. They were not the only bandages torn, though. The ones on her arms had also peeled apart. She angled her biceps into the moon’s light, ready to fix those too, when she caught sight of the flesh underneath.
Smooth. Unmarred.
That … made no sense. She tore off more gauze, this time on her forearm. But there was nothing there either. This was not new skin, pink and raw from healing. Nor was it old skin, scarred and puckered. This was her skin, exactly as it had always been.
No bruises, no welts, no scabs.
Iseult ripped the bandages off her other arm. Once more, the same pale, unblemished flesh met her eyes. Impossible, impossible.
She darted for the mirror beside the wardrobe, and in seconds, she had torn off every strip of gauze that she could reach. Her neck, her face, her stomach, her thighs. A white pile gathered at her feet. But each newly exposed patch of skin revealed the same thing: she had no injuries.
None. Nowhere. And Iseult knew what magically healed skin looked like—Evrane had healed her before. This was not it.
But there was no reason for Evrane to lie to her. No purpose in tending wounds that were not real or locking Iseult in a healing sleep. Surely, Iseult was wrong. Surely, she was missing something. A key piece of information that would align all the thoughts now banging around inside her mind.
The healer kit.
She spun away from the mirror, running—easily, easily running—to the table. She tore open the kit’s latch and then dumped the contents onto the bed.
But there was nothing to see. Empty bottles, empty jars, and rolls of fresh linen. These weren’t even real supplies.
“What are you doing, Iseult?”
Iseult’s throat clenched shut. Moon Mother save her. In her panic, she hadn’t been checking the weave around her. Now Evrane was here, the door was creaking open, and the monk’s Threads shone with alarm.
With heart-thudding slowness, Iseult angled toward the monk. This woman saved you, she told herself. There must be some explanation here. Yet when her eyes locked finally on Evrane’s, she knew there was no explanation. At least none that could end well for her.
The darkness was back, throbbing off Evrane like heat waves. She was not Cleaved—this was different, this was unknown—but the monk was also not herself. All this time, Iseult had believed she was imagining the shadows, that they were from her nightmares, carried into this world by exhaustion and flames. But she was awake now, and the shadows still enveloped the woman who had saved her.
“Wh-what is wrong with you?” she tried to ask, but her words were muddled once more. Several languages all at once, or maybe no languages at all.
“Iseult,” Evrane said calmly. “You are not well. You should be in bed.” With elegant steps, she crossed the room. Her expression—and her Threads, too—was as serene and compassionate as Iseult had always known it to be. “You need to sleep,” she went on. “Sleep, Iseult. Sleep.”
The shadows charged off her body, a hundred black wings taking flight. They flapped toward Iseult, then against her and over her and finally inside. A hundred thousand wings to beat within her skull.
There was no fighting it. Whatever Evrane was, she was not the monk Iseult had once known and cared about.
Iseult’s knees turned to water beneath her. She fell.
And the wings dragged her down.
FORTY-THREE
Safi awoke to voices in her room. Two maids had come to bathe her and dress her. Safi knew them. She had interrogated them before, and the shorter one had made her laugh.
These young women had nothing to hide, so her magic purred with contented truth at their presence. Safi let their chatter buzz around her—who had arrived for the party, who was wearing what, and how the nobility had reacted to strict security protocols.
It felt good to be clean. It felt good to have slept. And it felt good to don new clothes. Safi’s silk gown was a lovely one, if impractical. Loose long sleeves, a plunging neckline, and filmy skirts that hung against her ankles. It revealed more of Safi’s chest than she liked, not enough of her legs, and the sleeves would hinder her in a fight.
“But it’s the latest style in Dalmotti,” the taller girl insisted, which left Safi to wonder why such a gown was also popular here.
At least, though, it had a pocket. The perfect size for her Truth-lens, which she plunked in, her chest puffing with triumph. She couldn’t wait to give it to Vaness.
Once the maids departed, Rokesh appeared. His shoulder was no longer bandaged, and he moved more easily as he ushered her from the room, where her Adder guards moved into formation. No one spoke, and Safi welcomed the silence.
Tonight, she would have noise enough to deal with. Tonight, she would be on full display, for every member of the Sultanate, military officer and adviser, every noble relative, and every lead bureaucrat too. All would be assembled in one place to gape at the Truthwitch and know they were being tested.
Safi expected to be brought straightaway to the throne room. Or perhaps to Vaness’s office, or even her imperial quarters. Instead, she was brought once more into the bowels of the Floating Palace, to another part of the island she’d never seen before, a vast storage area with shelves and crates—and at the far end, a doorway that fed onto Lake Scarza.
Habim met Safi and the Adders at the door. He was in full regalia tonight, a hundred colorful sashes draped across the brilliant gold and green of his uniform. Each one for a different honor awarded to him; each one as foreign to Safi as everything else she’d learned about him in the last day. Behind him waited a long row of servants and soldiers, all with chins high as if awaiting orders.
Habim did not acknowledge Rokesh, who offered a small bow, and if Habim harbored any ill will toward Safi over the Hell-Bards, he did not show it. Instead, he gestured broadly at the room behind.
“Does all look well to you, Truthwitch?”
Safi frowned, confused, and rubbed at the scar on her thumb. “Does what look well?”
This earned her a sigh. “The fireworks.” Habim pointed at the nearest crat
e. “Those boxes are about to be carried onto the lake for detonation, and those boxes”—he motioned to smaller cases beyond—“contain personal spark-candles for the guests. I must ensure they are safe.”
Safi glanced at the boxes. Nothing in her magic reacted. No hum of truth, nor any hiss of lies either. She approached the closest crate and pried off the lid. A perfectly normal display of clay plots stared up at her, exactly as she knew fireworks ought to look.
Rokesh slid into position beside her. “Say something,” he murmured, his voice rougher than usual. She glanced his way, blinking. Surprised. “Say something,” he repeated.
So she said something. “They are safe.”
“Good,” Habim barked, spinning toward the servants and soldiers. “Distribute them and move to your assigned stations.” He offered no more words for Safi, so Rokesh led her from the room.
Up, up, they returned the way they had come, except this time, the Adders escorted her into the main palace gardens. They hit two rows of soldiers before reaching the top level of terraces. Music lilted on the breeze, carried over murmuring voices. Some tense, some happy, all hushed and low.
Then the soldiers parted and the full gala spanned before Safi. Vaness and her own contingent of Adders waited just ahead upon a stage. Lanterns hung from decorative iron chains draped from tree to tree, and elaborate floral arrangements doused the space in rose and daylily.
Six musicians performed on the level below the Empress’s, flutes and harps and a single, hollow-throated drum. And on the lowest level waited the guests. A sea of figures, dressed in their finest. Silk and satin and velvet and taffeta twirled across a dancing circle surrounded by ornate iron posts with Firewitched flames.
The guests were nothing compared to what waited beyond the Floating Palace, though, for the lake was covered in boats. White-masted or with oars extended, nets flapping or with sailors crawling, no matter the ship, they were all kept at a distance by prow-to-prow naval ships. The Azmir shore, meanwhile, writhed like an anthill. Hundreds upon thousands of Marstoks gathered to watch the imperial fireworks take flight.
The attack on the Well had kept no one away.
Vaness turned at the sound of Safi’s footsteps. She glowed at the center of her stage, her gown a fiery red crepe fit for the Empress of the Flame Children and Chosen Daughter of the Fire Well. Her hair, coiled atop her head like a torch, was woven through with matching ribbons, while her manacles had stretched into thin bands spiraling up her arms. Instead of iron at her waist, she now wore a belt of gold.
At the sight of Safi, her chest deflated ever so slightly. A subtle exhale of relief, and Safi couldn’t resist tossing her a grin. Vaness waited until Safi fell into place just behind her—and then for Rokesh to fall into a matching place on her other side—before she turned to face the crowds.
Before she turned to face the tens of thousands of Marstoks who loved her, yet didn’t know her at all.
Vaness lifted her arms. The people of Azmir roared. It was a sound to topple storm clouds and swallow thoughts. The noise bellowed against Safi, gyrated in her lungs, her legs, her skull. So many people, so near and so far, all screaming their approval—and all of them screaming true.
No sign of disapproval now. The Azmirians wanted to be dazzled, they wanted to be entertained. So Vaness gave them what they asked for. Her wrists flicked up, her fingers pointed to the sky with palms out …
Three bursts of light zoomed into the sky. Then they detonated, a thousand shooting stars streaming down. Explosive cracks! followed a heartbeat later—and somehow, the crowds roared all the more.
Safi wanted to roar right along with them. It was an endless thunderstorm of colored light that swelled and skated. Sometimes, mere bursts of brilliance to fill the sky. Other times, elaborate pictures of battles and cities and forests came to life in an explosive tableau. One after the other, a spectacle like nothing she had seen or heard before, and with Safi in the best possible seat to witness it—the Empress’s own patio.
She was also in the best spot to constantly assess the party below. She couldn’t help it; something felt off about the assembly. Something scrubbed against the back of her neck—something that wasn’t her magic. Yet no matter how hard she scrutinized, all that swept against her was truth; all that bubbled in her belly was honest conversation and delight.
It was as a row of firework soldiers marched across the black sky, their reflection moving serenely on the lake below, that it finally dawned on Safi: what she was witnessing was impossible. Everyone lied. There was no escaping that fact, yet Safi sensed no falsehoods from the people below.
The ceaseless tide of lies that crashed within truths was gone. Completely vanished.
Gods curse her, what had Safi done? Clearly, she had used up her magic on the Truth-lens. Only half, though—the half that recognized deceit. The half that she had chosen to imbue into the glass. She didn’t understand how this was possible. Her magic simply was. It existed inside of her, always present, always responding.
Until right now, when it didn’t anymore.
She fumbled for the Truth-lens. Though she had not wanted to show it publicly, not before giving it to Vaness, she had no choice now. She had to know if it worked—she had to know if she could get her magic back. But when she shoved her hand into her pocket, her fingers did not touch metal.
Her fingers touched paper. With a slackening jaw, she gaped down at a spark-candle upon her palm. Almost the same shape, almost the same weight. Someone had switched them out.
The question was who—and why and when? She spun away from the horizon, away from the fireworks. Someone would have needed to get very close to trade items without her sensing.
Her eyes landed on Rokesh, ten paces away. He gazed steadily back. He watched her, and she suddenly remembered how he’d placed his hand upon her elbow in the storage room. The lightest of touches, but enough distraction for him to have snagged her Truth-lens and replaced it with a spark-candle.
It made no sense, though. There was no reason for him to want it, no reason for him to take it. All he’d had to do was ask. After all, she had tested Rokesh. She knew him to be true. Unless he isn’t any longer.
Earlier, she had noticed his injury was gone. Then in the storage room, he had commanded her to say something—and she had. Without thought, she had obeyed.
And then there was the glamoured hole at the Well. Glamourwitches were not common, nor Dalmotti silk gowns with a pocket just the right size for a spark-candle.
Then there was the simple truth that Habim had always said since his arrival: “We have a plan.” Not I, but we.
With your right hand give a person what he expects. With the left hand, cut the purse.
Rokesh unsheathed his sword.
And Safi screamed, “Mathew, don’t!”
FORTY-FOUR
The Fury made short work of the chains that bound Merik to the tower. The collar, though—that required Esme’s magic to open. So Kullen hauled Merik outside, and they took flight.
It was glorious. Even if it wasn’t Merik’s magic to carry them, even if he had a collar around his neck and cleaving magic to pump in his veins. Flying, however brief, made him feel whole again.
Not even two full days had passed since the wind had lashed his face and blustered beneath his feet, yet it felt like it had been centuries. Below Merik, moonlight washed the lost city of Poznin in silver. From above, it looked different. Alive and dreamlike. Ancient things made new again, and even the endless Cleaved looked fresh, whole beneath that glow.
The journey ended all too soon, and the forest around the Well clustered thicker and thicker. Then the Well itself appeared, a tiny figure in ermine standing at its side. Her eyes were closed as the Fury landed, her arms extended while she worked at her Loom.
She did not react when Kullen and Merik arrived, nor when Merik’s knees buckled from impact and he hit the grass on all fours. And she did not react when the Fury barked, “Puppeteer.” Her fingers kept o
n strumming and twining at invisible Threads.
The Fury lost his patience in an instant. “Puppeteer!” he called louder, still to no avail. So he launched once more into a prowling pace. It flattened the grass in a crooked line, and with each step, he picked at the scabbing on his mutilated ear.
He also muttered to himself: “Thankless tasks, thankless tasks. I am no tool. I am the Fury. I was there on the day the Six turned, just as he was.” As Kullen walked, black lines slithered across his face. Shadowy snow fell.
He reached the end of his line and pivoted. Pick, pick, pick. “That will change with you at my side, Merik. Unlike you, the General is not a king, and once I find the blade and the glass, then I won’t need him. Or any of them.” Now his glare turned to the Puppeteer, and he stalked right up to her.
Then he lurked over her, staring down while snow fell and darkness webbed across him. “Six turned on six,” he sang, “and made themselves kings. Five turned on one and stole everything.”
The Fury remained that way, humming rhymes, while Esme continued her focused work at the Loom. And the Fury remained that way as Cleaved slowly emerged from the forest, one by one, to flank the Well.
Merik hardly noticed them. His blood had rushed to his head from the flying; his ears had popped; and the energy from his last meal had already worn off. More importantly, his mind was snagged on what the Fury had said—on the fact that no one wanted the same thing. Hye, they all wanted to enter this mountain, but Esme wanted the Wells. The Raider King wanted the empires. And the Fury wanted a blade and a glass, and then Merik at his side …
That was valuable information. People with different aims could always be pitted against one another.
When at last Esme’s eyelids rolled up, her head swiveled to face the Fury. “What,” she hissed, “do you want?” Before Kullen could answer, her eyes caught on Merik several paces away. Rage snarled across her face. “How dare you bring him here.” She shoved past the Fury, voice lifting as her arm lifted too. “Go back to the tower, Prince! I command you!”
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