“I’m afraid you very much are.” The Fury flicked his wrist.
And wind slammed against the Threadwitch. It knocked her to the earth, snapping bones, and before the huntswomen could draw their bows, the Fury had smashed them aside as well. Then he strode to Aeduan, gripped his shoulder, and hoisted him to his feet.
Aeduan tried to turn to the Threadwitch, tried to tell her, “I do not know where Dirdra is, but I will find her again.” Except wind roared in, thick with snow. It was too loud to shout over, too wild to see beyond.
Two heartbeats later, Aeduan and the Fury took flight.
* * *
Endless flames and inescapable laughter.
Over and over, Iseult died on this battlefield. Over and over, the blaze engulfed her and pounded her ordinary heart to dust. But even in death, there was no relief, for death only brought more hell-fire and cackling.
There was the Firewitch she had killed. There was the Firewitch she was going to kill. She was his, and he was hers until time ended and the Moon Mother released them all to eternity.
She tried to beg—always she tried to beg—yet all that ever came was a muffled, echoing roar. As if another woman screamed and that woman was buried deep beneath a mountain.
Over and over. No end, no beginning.
And no warning, just like before, when the new world seared into hers. Iseult wept at the first holes rending through the battlefield. Hot tears on a face that was charred to nothing.
One by one, the flames flickered away, and one by one, gray shadows and frozen winds swept around Iseult. Still she wept, a hiccupping silent sob on a body crumpled to the snow.
She had no idea how long she stayed that way. All she knew was that eventually her tears subsided, replaced by chattering teeth and shaking bones.
The silver king had arrived.
One moment, Iseult was alone. The next, she sensed him—and on the third moment, she saw him too.
He was more solid tonight. Where Iseult had imagined his back hunched, she now realized he simply wore thick furs atop his shoulders. And where she’d thought him stiff, she now saw he was tensed. Defensive even, as if he worried Iseult might attack.
His crown glittered as brightly as before, and its icy shimmer shone over dark hair, olive skin. That was all Iseult could see, though. No eyes, no mouth, just a blur where his face ought to have been.
“Are you the Rook King?” She was surprised by how clear her voice rang out across the gray. More musical and crystalline than in real life. After so long without words, she almost cried again at that sound.
The King bowed his head.
A yes, Iseult had to assume. “But how are you here when you died centuries ago?”
Again, he bowed his head, silver crown glinting. But Iseult’s question demanded more than that for an answer … Although, she supposed, with no mouth, there could also be no words. Whatever questions she flung at him, they would have to be answered by a simple yes or no.
All right. Think, Iseult, think. She didn’t know how much time she had before the Firewitch returned. Ask the important questions first.
“Did you help me escape the Firewitch?”
A solemn nod.
“Can you help me escape him again?”
He opened his arms, shadows streaming like feathers beneath them. It meant nothing to Iseult … unless …
“You don’t know?”
Nod.
“What about Evrane? Can you help me escape her?”
This time, he nodded once before bowing low, like a knight offering fealty to a queen. Then his arms lifted high above his head, and the landscape changed.
First came a stone wall behind the king. Then shelves beside the stones. Then books on the shelves and a rug beneath their feet. Item by item appeared, and a room assembled around Iseult and the Rook King.
“What is this place?” Iseult asked once the room was finished. Though they had left the snowscape, Iseult still trembled with cold.
The King said nothing. Gave no indication he’d heard her question. Instead he moved to the edge of the room, to where the two walls met in a narrow gap between the shelves. Here a plain wooden chair rested beneath an unlit iron sconce. He glanced back at Iseult, blurred face briefly marred by two dark eyes. So dark they were almost black.
His gaze stayed fixed on Iseult as he motioned to the wall. A flick of his hand, shadows trailing, then two more flicks, and a doorway appeared. Gone were the shelves, gone were the stones. Now, only a low arch descended into darkness.
The Rook King waved again. The stones and the shelves returned.
“What is it?” Iseult asked, even as she knew that he could not answer. She looked back to his face, but his eyes were gone once more. Everything was gone, actually—all of his features had blurred together like water dropped on drying ink.
Iseult stepped toward him. Think, Iseult, think. “Your eyes come and go. Do you have a mouth too? Can you make one form?”
His hands shot up, palms encased in shadow. A warning for her to stop walking.
Iseult stopped.
Then slowly, arms still outstretched, he shook his head. No mouth. No answers. Yet as Iseult watched, a shadowy third arm slid out from his shoulder. It snaked across the space toward the nearest shelf, before stopping beside a plain leather tome.
One moment, the book was there. The next moment, it was not.
“The Carawen book,” Iseult breathed. “The one Leopold took from the Archives. That’s where this doorway is?”
The Rook King bowed, and the shadow arm dissolved to nothing.
“But I can’t go in.” She shrugged helplessly. “I can’t wake up. Evrane keeps me asleep with some … some dark magic.”
A pause. The Rook King’s chest expanded, as if he inhaled. Then his eyes returned, winking into place beneath dark brows. He strode toward her. His left hand swung up, but this time, instead of shadows, there was only light. Bright shards like crystallized fog.
Iseult tried to rock back, but her feet were rooted. Her hands too. Even her head. All she could do was watch as he loped closer.
Then he reached her. His hand touched her face and cold stabbed through, stealing her breath. Claiming her mind. Frost and moonlight and a Dreaming drained dry.
GO.
The command filled her top to bottom, more urgent need than actual word. Go, go, go—now it is time to go.
When Iseult woke up, a sputtering second later, there was no magic to hold her down. No shadows to flap and crow. No Evrane either.
Iseult was free.
And it was time to go.
FORTY-SIX
The Sotar family house stood proudly on White Street, halfway up Queen’s Hill and surrounded by a limestone fence with iron bars. Orange trees and jasmine grew thick within, and at the sight of Vivia and her guards, the two Sotar soldiers within immediately opened the gate.
The conversation Vivia was planning to have, however, was a private one, so she left her personal guards behind and marched to the front door alone. There a page boy also hastened to attend to the Queen-in-Waiting.
Except I am Queen-in-Waiting no longer, Vivia thought. She didn’t know what she was. Princess was the person from before. Captain was too.
She supposed it didn’t really make a difference.
Vizer Sotar met her in a bright sitting room with worn chairs and even more worn flooring and curtains—of which Vivia approved. The Sotar family might produce the most wealth in the nation, their lands insulated from the poison and flames of the war, but they also put more into their own people than anyone else.
“I have not yet heard back from my wife,” Sotar said upon entering the room. He strode into the sunlight, matching Vivia’s stiff pose beside the garden window before offering a bow.
“That isn’t why I’m here.” Vivia turned to face him. She wore no mask now; she was neither bear nor Nihar. She was simply Vivia the little fox, and she hoped that would be enough. “Did you know that my crown has b
een reclaimed?”
Sotar frowned, as if he’d misheard. “Reclaimed?”
In quick, efficient tones, Vivia explained what she had just learned at the Sentries. No tears. No emotions. No madness. With each word, Sotar’s mouth slackened more and more.
By the end, he had to place a hand on the windowsill to steady himself. “The bastards.” His eyes met Vivia’s. “Your Highness, I swear I did not know any of this. Quihar, Eltar, and Quintay worked without approval of the other vizers. They did the same with your mother, thirteen years ago.”
Of course those vizers had done the same; Vivia didn’t know why she was surprised. And suddenly, she had to wonder if her father had been behind that move too. If he had been the reason the High Council had declared Jana unfit to rule.
Either way, it did not change Vivia’s current situation. If the High Council was not unanimous in its support of Vivia as Queen, then she was not allowed to lead. The power returned once more to the Regent.
Yet just because she had lost the loyalty of three vizers, fourteen officers, and her own father—that did not mean there weren’t people who supported her. There were many, and she knew if she called them, they would come.
“You must go to the other vizers,” Vivia said. “I trust your ability to gauge where their loyalties lie. Gather those who still support my rule and ask them to provide not only their guards, but anyone able and willing to fight. I will press no one into service, but we need every person we can find to protect the city.”
“Hye.” Sotar nodded firmly. “It will be done.”
“I will assemble my own crew. I led many on the rivers and seas of Nubrevna, and I trained with many before that. There are a core group of soldiers I trust, and I will ask them to find others.”
“We can meet here.” Sotar opened his hands to the room.
But Vivia shook her head. “No. There might be nothing legally preventing us from meeting, but my father will notice if we assemble somewhere so prominent. And…” She sucked in a steeling breath. “And I do not trust him not to act against us again.” Against me.
Sotar’s face tightened. A compassionate wince that cut straight to Vivia’s heart. He knew how much this hurt her; he also knew there was nothing to be done and no time to dwell. They had been betrayed, Vivia most of all, and now the only path forward was to minimize damage and minimize death.
Vivia tipped up her chin. Pulled back her shoulders. She was her mother’s daughter. She could do this.
“We will meet at Pin’s Keep, Vizer Sotar. At the twenty-second chimes. Bring the High Council members who still support me, and I will bring the soldiers. Together, we will craft a new strategy.”
Now it was Sotar’s turn to inhale deeply. To draw back his shoulders and lay a fist over his heart. Then he sank into a bow, deep and true. “I am yours to command, my Queen.”
Chills trembled down Vivia’s arms at those words. No one had ever called her “my Queen” before. No one had ever offered her such genuine respect and such real approval. She had wanted this from her mother, but her mother had been filled with too many demons of her own.
So Vivia had turned to her father. She had scraped and begged and apologized, and every now and then, he had dropped scraps for her to devour. But Serafin, she saw now, respected no one save himself, and his approval was only given so long as it did not affect his own self-image. He wanted all the glory, none of the blame.
“Thank you,” Vivia told Sotar, and she meant it. “I will see you and the other vizers soon.”
Then Vivia Nihar, rightful Queen of Nubrevna, Chosen of the Void Well, and Little Fox of Nubrevna, returned once more to the crowded night.
* * *
Safi lunged in front of Mathew. He wouldn’t hurt her. Her body knew that, even if her mind had yet to fully fathom that he was here. She reached Vaness before the blade could connect, forcing Mathew to spin away. To swipe up the sword at the last second.
It still hit Vaness. A slice across her face.
The Empress did not move, though. Did not even flinch.
“What are you doing?” Mathew cried. His voice, that was his voice—how had Safi not noticed earlier? How had she not noticed the lightness of his eyes and lashes? Because Mathew and Habim gave you what you expected to see. And now they were cutting the purse.
Mathew twirled sideways, a graceful swordsman, and planted two paces away. Safi twirled with him, keeping her body between him and Vaness.
Still, the Empress did not react behind her. None of the Adders did either, or anyone in the crowds below. Everyone watched the fireworks cascading above. Blissfully oblivious.
It was then that Safi realized Vaness wasn’t bleeding. Safi had seen the blade connect with flesh, but no blood streamed down her face.
Glamour. The Empress must be hidden beneath a glamour made to look just like her.
Weasels piss on Safi, she should have seen this coming. Uncle Eron had used the same plan in Veñaza City: glamour the party while an attack ensues. Which meant there was a Glamourwitch somewhere near, and likely the same one they’d used before.
If Safi had had her magic, she would have sensed this coming. For that matter, if she’d been paying any thrice-damned attention, she would have spotted the signs. This was why the false soldiers hadn’t attacked her at the Well. This was why, when Safi had first interrogated Habim, she had sensed him lying.
Habim hadn’t merely heard of a plot to overthrow the Empress and claim the throne, he had created it.
Habim, Mathew, and Uncle Eron. Three men Safi had known for nineteen years, but never truly known at all. And now her body was all that stood between the Empress of Marstok and death.
“Step away,” Mathew hissed. He advanced a step, Adder blade raised in warning. “Why are you interfering, Safi?”
“Why are you attacking?”
“Because this is the plan. The one we have all worked for. You know that.”
“No, I don’t. Because you and Habim have told me nothing!”
“Then we will explain after.” Mathew circled the Empress; Safi circled too. “Now is not the time for this—”
“Explain after what? After the Empress is dead? How will that bring peace to the Witchlands, Mathew?”
“By eliminating someone who wants war! She broke the Twenty Year Truce, Safi. She caused this war to resume.”
For half a heartbeat, Safi believed him. After all, it was what everyone always said, including the Empress herself. Vaness had landed forces in Nubrevna, canceling the magic that bound her to the Twenty Year Truce—and therefore the magic that bound all the other nations and empires as well. So yes, she had caused it.
Yet as each of these thoughts speared through Safi’s mind, she realized her chest hadn’t buzzed with truth at Mathew’s words, her magic hadn’t twinkled and sung.
Which meant he was lying.
Safi’s gut flipped. A great downward drop that yanked her lungs straight to her toes. She felt like vomiting. Or shrieking. Or even demanding that Mathew tell her it wasn’t true—that they hadn’t somehow coordinated the end of the Truce, the resuming of the war.
Somehow, though, Safi managed to do none of those things. Somehow, she managed to channel Iseult’s stasis and sink more deeply into a defensive stance. “It was you who ended the Truce, wasn’t it? I don’t know how, but it wasn’t the Empress who did it at all. It was you.”
Mathew’s eyes shuttered within his shroud. A pained wince that cut straight to Safi’s heart. True, true, true. “I told you,” he said gruffly. “In Veñaza City, I told you there were big wheels in motion—”
He did not get to finish. At that moment, the glamour wavered. Ever so slightly, as if the entire world blinked, and for half a breath, the real world tore through.
It was so much worse than Safi had imagined. There was the Empress, standing in exactly the same place but with blood gushing down the right side of her body. Behind her, twelve Adders lay dead, every one of them impaled on their own swords
. It was Lake Scarza, though, that made Safi gasp and rear back—and made everyone in the crowds do the same. A collective cry of horror that rippled outward while the world they saw was briefly replaced with another.
Military boats aflame and sinking. The wall of soldiers now a wall of corpses. Smoke and fire and explosions erupting in time to the fireworks.
Then the glamour snapped back into place. The ships floated once more. The soldiers and Adders stood sentry. And Vaness did not bleed.
It was too late, though. The mistake had been made. People knew they had been duped.
“Safi!” barked a new voice. Habim leaped onto the terrace, Firewitched pistol in one hand, sword in another. He moved into position beside Mathew. “Stand down, Safi. Do not ruin this. I realize you care about the Empress, but—”
Safi laughed. A surprising burst of sound that shut up Habim and made Mathew flinch. A fuzzy, burgeoning thing that could not have been more at odds with the crowds panicking below or the fireworks still detonating.
“Do not ruin it?” she repeated. “I already thought I had! All this time—ever since Veñaza City, I thought I had ruined your precious little plan. I thought I had made choices that were wholly my own, and sent Uncle’s scheme spinning through the hell-gates.
“Now I see I was nothing more than your puppet. I suppose you knew about the engagement to Henrick all along. You knew I would end up in Marstok. And I suppose you thought I would help you here tonight, didn’t you? Well, you’re wrong. Because I won’t.”
“The Empress isn’t what you think she is, Safi—” Habim began.
“That is rich coming from you, General.”
“She is what her parents taught her to be, Safi. She will only lead Marstok into more war.”
“No.” Safi hissed that word with all the conviction she could conjure. Then she spat it again, harder, “No. You’re wrong. You don’t even know her, Habim.”
“We are running out of time,” Mathew warned. He stood taller now, with Habim at his side. Two Heart-Threads doing what they believed was right—and what Safi might have believed was right too, if she hadn’t seen behind Vaness’s mask.
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