Though she didn’t recognize the suburb, Safi could guess that the lighthouse was near—a few miles north at most.
She darted toward the inn’s yard as fast as her feet could carry her. A glance at the cart showed it ambling onward, and then a glance at the gray gelding showed it almost to the stable door.
Safi slowed only once, beneath the inn’s arched gate, to heft up the pitchfork. It was definitely heavier than her sword, but the iron wasn’t rusted and the fork points were sharp.
She raised it high, pleased when the scrawny stable boy caught sight of her charging his way. He blanched, dropped the horse’s reins, and cowered against the stable door.
“Thank you for making that easy,” Safi declared, grabbing the reins. The horse eyed her curiously, but made no move to run.
Yet before Safi could get her foot in the stirrup, her eyes landed on a small leather scabbard on the stable boy’s belt. She stomped her foot back down and heaved the pitchfork back up. “Give me your knife.”
“B-but it was a present,” the boy began.
“Do I look like I care? If you give me that knife, I’ll give you enough silk to buy twenty-five knives just like it.”
He hesitated, clearly trying to figure out how that deal would work, and Safi bared her teeth. He fumbled the knife from his belt.
She took it, stabbed the pitchfork in the mud, and snatched up her skirts. But the knife was dull and the silk strong. It took too many heartbeats to rip the blade through …
A cry of alarm went up in the inn. Whoever this gray belonged to had decided he wanted to keep him.
Safi threw the layers of silk in the boy’s face. Then with a great deal less grace than she normally exhibited when mounting a horse, she clambered into the gelding’s saddle, gripped her new knife tight, laid the pitchfork over the pommel, and kicked into a canter.
The horse’s owner reached the doorway just in time to see Safi wave good-bye—and to hear her shout “Thank you!” She gave the man one of her very brightest smiles. Then she veered the horse south and away from the northbound cart. She would circle around to a different street ahead.
But she didn’t get far. In fact, the gray had barely galloped to the next inn when she realized something was wrong.
There were five men in the street before her. They jogged in a perfect row, their white cloaks streaming behind them and their scabbards and weapons clanking.
Carawen monks, and the one in the middle was covered in blood. He even had arrow shafts poking out from his chest, his legs, his arms.
Bloodwitch.
Safi’s stomach punched into her lungs. Eron had tried—and failed—to stop the monk. With movements that felt impossibly slow, Safi yanked at the reins and wrenched the gelding north. Thank the gods, the horse was well trained. His hooves kicked up dried mud and he galloped in this new direction.
Safi didn’t look back; she knew the monks would follow. The last inn blurred past and a world of marshy coastline spread before her. Far in the distance the road inclined into cliffsides and limestone.
In moments, the cart and driver she’d just escaped came into view—and there was no missing the man’s Witchmark. Its shape was familiar enough to recognize, even with her speed. The man was not a peasant at all, but a Voicewitch.
Safi had just enough time to scream at him, “The Bloodwitch hunts me! Tell my uncle!” before barreling past him down the empty, moonlit road.
THIRTEEN
Iseult and Alma caught up to Gretchya in moments.
Shouts pursued for a time—as did the writhing gray Threads of the violent—but only two more arrows thunked into Alma’s shield. And somehow, though Alma did not follow the Nomatsi trails, her mare’s footing was sure.
After what felt like an hour, Alma directed the horses to a wide willow on a lazy brook. Gretchya hopped down first, a firepot in hand and Scruffs at her side. She circled the tree before motioning that all was clear.
Iseult slid off the horse—and almost toppled into her mother. Her legs were rubber and her arm …
“You’ve lost too much blood,” Gretchya said. “Come.” She took Iseult’s hand and guided her into a world of drooping branches and whispering leaves. The bay mare followed willingly, as if she knew this place. The stolen brindle, however, took some convincing from Alma.
“You planned this,” Iseult croaked, following her mother to a tree trunk dappled in moonlight.
“Yes, but not for tonight.” Gretchya lifted a long stick from against the tree and motioned up, to where two lumps sat on branches just out of reach—and just out of notice. Gretchya batted off both sacks.
Thump, thump! The bulging satchels hit the earth and dust plumed. A green apple rolled out.
Iseult dragged herself onto the willow’s roots, her back against the wide trunk. Scruffs settled beside her, and with her left hand, she scratched at his ears while Alma continued to coax the pony beneath the branches, the now arrow-filled Nomatsi shield still affixed to her back.
Though Iseult couldn’t see the blood on her right sleeve—not in this darkness—she couldn’t miss the pain. At least, she thought dimly, the cut on my right hand doesn’t hurt anymore.
After rummaging in the bags, Gretchya bustled to Iseult’s side with the dusty apple and a leather healer kit in tow. She wiped the apple on her bodice. “Eat this.”
Iseult took it but barely got it to her mouth before her mother offered her a pendant. A small rose quartz hung from the end of a braided string. “Wear it,” Gretchya ordered, crouching on the earth beside Iseult.
But Iseult made no move to take the necklace. An apple was one thing, but Painstones were rare and cost hundreds of piestras.
Gretchya tossed the stone impatiently; it landed on Iseult’s lap, the quartz glowing a dim pink. Instantly, the pain reared back. Iseult’s breaths deepened. She felt capable of thinking again.
No wonder these things were addictive.
Iseult’s gaze settled on Alma once more, who now stood at the edge of the hanging branches with her back to Iseult and Gretchya. She kept watch while the horses munched at small patches of grass.
“Corlant,” Iseult began as Gretchya scooted to her side, a lancet in one hand and linen cloths in the other, “wanted to kill me. Why?”
“I don’t know.” Gretchya hesitated. “I … can only guess that he thought your arrival was a sign that Alma and I were leaving. He figured out our plans, I think, and hoped to keep us in the settlement by hanging y—” She broke off, wet her lips, and did not finish the sentence.
Before Iseult could point out that Corlant’s measures seemed much too extreme if all he wanted was to keep Gretchya in the tribe, Gretchya was slicing through the arrow shaft poking from Iseult’s bicep. Then she grasped the arrowhead on the left side … and yanked it through.
Blood gushed. It pulsed out in time to Iseult’s heartbeat—not that she could feel it. In fact, she simply munched on her apple, occasionally patted Scruffs’s head, and watched her mother work.
Next came healer witch salves to ward off infection and creams to speed healing. They were all pricey items, yet before Iseult could protest, Gretchya began to speak, and Iseult found herself falling into the familiar, inflectionless voice of her childhood.
“Alma and I began making preparations to flee shortly before you left six and a half years ago,” Gretchya explained. “We gathered piestras and gemstones one by one. Then one by one we sewed them into our gowns. It was slow work. Corlant was often there, forcing himself into the house. Yet he also left often, vanishing from the settlement entirely for days at a time.
“During those times, Alma would take the mare here and drop off supplies. She brought the last of our things only yesterday. Our plan was to flee four days from now. I owe the Moon Mother a thousand thank-yous that we did not leave before you came.”
Somehow, amongst all those words, the ones that shone the brightest for Iseult were the ones unspoken. “You planned all this … before I was even gone f
rom the tribe? Why did you send me away then? Why not just go with me? Or at least tell me w-when I v-visited?”
“Control your tongue, Iseult.” Gretchya flashed her an intolerant look. “You may not realize it, but it took me years of planning to get you out. I had to find you lodging in Veñaza City. I had to find you a job—and I had to do it all without Corlant noticing. So when Alma and I decided to leave as well, it took years more to plan. We would have come for you, Iseult. In Veñaza City. Why did you leave?” she demanded.
“I … got in trouble.” Iseult sensed the stammer, ready to pounce, so she chomped into her apple to hide it. “The settlement was the only place I could think to hide—”
“You should have stayed in the city like I told you to. I ordered you never to return.”
“You ‘ordered’ that three years ago,” Iseult countered. “F-f-forgive me if I tangled your careful weave.”
Her mother’s bandaging grew rougher—tenser. But there was no pain … and thankfully, there was no more reference to her stutter.
“We will go to Saldonica now,” Gretchya said at last. “You can come with us.”
Iseult’s eyebrows shot up. Saldonica was at the opposite end of the Jadansi Sea—a wild city-state, seething with illegal trade and crime of every imaginable sort. “But why there?”
Alma cleared her throat and angled away from her vigil beside the branches. “I have aunts and cousins that live in the Sirmayan Mountains. Their tribe travels to Saldonica each year.”
“In the meantime,” Gretchya added, “we will sell Threadstones. Apparently there is a growing market for them in Saldonica.”
“Pirates need love too.” Alma’s lips fell into that easy smile of hers and she glanced at Gretchya as if this was a shared joke between them.
And the brewing ache in Iseult’s throat grew larger. She could barely swallow the apple.
Gretchya closed her healer kit. “We have enough money saved for a third ticket to Saldonica, Iseult. We planned to invite you.”
Iseult found that hard to believe, yet she had no idea what her mother—or Alma—felt right now. No idea what colors shimmered in their Threads or what emotions held sway.
It didn’t matter anyway, though, for Iseult had plans of her own. A life of her own to build with Safi.
“I can’t go with you,” Iseult said.
“If not with us, then where?” Gretchya pushed to her feet, matter-of-fact and almost … relieved. This was what she had wanted all along: a daughter like Alma. A true Threadwitch.
“Safi’s waiting for me nearby.”
“But she isn’t,” Alma blurted, and with her hand outstretched, she hurried toward Iseult.
On her palm was a glowing ruby. The second Threadstone.
Iseult choked and dropped the apple. She wrenched out her own Threadstone—it also shone with a red light. Safi was in trouble.
Iseult jumped to her feet. The Painstone fell from her lap. Agony crashed over her.
First it was pain, in a great downward rush. Then exhaustion that turned her body to limp straw. She staggered forward, into Gretchya’s arms. Yet before she could tumble too far, before she could fall onto her mother’s shoulder and faint, Alma swooped the necklace off the earth and draped it over Iseult’s neck.
Instant relief. Shocking, terrifying relief.
And as Iseult withdrew from her mother, Gretchya turned to Alma. “Can you sense Safi’s location?”
Alma nodded, her grip on the stone turning white-knuckled. Then she pointed southeast. “That way. But she’s moving north fast. She must be in great danger.”
“We’ll go,” Gretchya declared, moving toward the bay mare. “We have two cutlasses and the bow—”
“No.” Iseult straightened to her full height. A breeze surged into the willow, shaking branches and pulling at her cut hair. Somehow, with that burst of cool, fresh wind, Iseult finally regained control of her tongue. Of her heart. “Please, do as you had planned and travel to Saldonica.” Iseult’s fingers wrapped around the Painstone, ready to return it.
“Keep it.” Gretchya laid a hand on Iseult’s wrist. “You’ll never make it to Safiya otherwise.”
“And take Alichi,” Alma said, motioning to the gray mare. “She knows the terrain.”
“The brindle will be fine.”
“The brindle won’t be fine,” Gretchya snapped—and Iseult flinched. There was actual emotion in her mother’s voice. “Alichi is rested and knows the trail. So you will take her, the Painstone, and some money. A cutlass too.” Gretchya tugged Iseult toward the mare. “Or would you rather have a bow? You can also take the shield.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“How do I know that?” Gretchya rounded back on Iseult, her eyes hard. “I never knew if I would see you again. Do you think it was easy for me to let you go? Do you think it is easy now? I loved you too much to keep you in those walls.” Her mother drew closer, her words urgent and fast. “You will take Alichi, and you will go to Safiya’s rescue as you always do. You will leave me again because you were meant for bigger things than I can give. And as always, I will pray to the Moon Mother for your safety.”
She pushed the reins into Iseult’s left palm, but Iseult found her fingers had stopped working. Her voice too, for there was a hole, deep and exposed, where her heart had just been.
“Here.” Alma appeared beside Iseult and offered her a cutlass—the kind used to hack through grass and undergrowth—in a simple scabbard on a worn belt.
But Iseult could not reply. She was still felled by her mother’s words. Alma wound the belt around Iseult’s hips and hung the second Threadstone over Iseult’s neck. Two bright red lights throbbing over a dull pink. Then she gripped Iseult’s left bicep. “My family’s tribe is called Korelli,” Alma said. “They come to Saldonica in late autumn. Ask for them—if you ever come. I hope you do.”
Iseult didn’t answer—and she had no time to wallow in her confusion, for in moments, she was seated forward against the mare’s neck, her cutlass set back and out of the way.
“Find me again,” Gretchya said. “Please, Iseult. There is so much I haven’t told you about … everything. Find me again one day.”
“I will,” Iseult murmured. Then without another word or another glance, she dug her heels into Alichi’s sides, and she and the mare set off after Safi.
* * *
Iseult and Alichi found the road easily enough. As Alma had promised, Alichi knew the route and her canter was sure. Scruffs chased after her for several minutes, but he soon gave up.
Iseult’s heart clenched with each step that the hound lagged, and she couldn’t keep from waving when he finally shambled to a stop.
After a quarter hour, the silver meadows ahead shifted into moonlit marshes and sandbars. The breeze began to smell of salt and sulfur, then a wide dirt road appeared before her.
Yet rather than kick the mare into full speed, Iseult pulled the horse to a stop. She was just north of the weedy crossroads at which she’d met the silver-haired monk—a woman as different from that Bloodwitch as the Aether was from the Void.
Then the mare’s ears twisted south. Alichi sensed company. Iseult swung her gaze down the road, to where a horse and rider approached at full gallop. Iseult could see the unmistakable halo of Safi’s blond hair. She could also see the unmistakable white cloaks of four mercenary Carawens less than a quarter mile behind.
What the hell-flames had Safi gotten into? And how the hell-flames was Iseult going to get them out?
Iseult closed her eyes, gave herself three inhales to find that place she never could hang on to when her mother or Alma were around. Alichi shifted uneasily, clearly ready to get away from whatever was coming—and Iseult was inclined to agree. The horses couldn’t gallop forever, and Iseult was pretty sure that four Carawen monks would be hard to stop without some defense.
A defense like the lighthouse.
Iseult pushed the mare into a canter. She needed to be at the perfect speed to fal
l in with Safi—
“Move!” Safi’s voice shrieked out. “Get off the road, you idiot!”
Iseult only looked back once to scream, “It’s me, Safi!” Then she kicked the mare into a gallop—just as Safi hurtled into position beside her.
They galloped side by side.
“Sorry to make you wait!” Safi roared over the rapid four-beat race. Her legs were bared, her silk gown shredded, and she clutched a pitchfork to her stomach. “And sorry for the trouble on my ass!”
“Good thing I have a plan, then!” Iseult shouted back. She couldn’t hear the pursuing monks, but she could sense their Threads—calm, ready. “The lighthouse is close enough for us to make a stand.”
“Is the tide out?”
“Should be!”
Safi’s white Threads flickered with icy blue relief. She shifted her gaze briefly to Iseult—then back to the road. “Where’s your hair?” she shouted. “And what happened to your arm?”
“Cut my hair and got shot with an arrow!”
“Gods below, Iseult! A few hours away and your whole life tumbles through the hell-gates!”
“I might say the same to you,” Iseult shouted back—though it was getting hard to scream and ride. “Four opponents on your tail and a ruined dress!”
Safi’s Threads flickered to an almost giddy pink and then flared with panicked orange. “Wait—there are only four Carawens?”
“Yeah!”
“There should be a fifth.” Safi’s Threads glowed even more brilliantly. “And it’s him. The Bloodwitch.”
Iseult swore, and a great downward sweep of cold knocked away her calm. If a soldier like Habim had failed to stop the Bloodwitch, then she and Safi stood no chance.
But at least the lighthouse was starting to take shape now—its stout walls separated from the road by a long strip of beach and receding tide. The horses pounded off the shore and into the waves. Saltwater blasted upward. The old tower with its barnacles and gull crap was thirty paces away … twenty … five …
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