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“Another glamour,” Lev explained, moving to Safi’s side. “I bet you’re getting real sick of those.” Then with a rakish grin, she too strutted onto invisible nothing.
Merik recognized one of those figures the instant he saw her. That golden hair, shorter now, and that loping stride. But she died, he thought, heart tightening. Mind reeling. She died in an explosion two weeks ago. Then a second thought hurled in: And so did you. In an instant, Merik pulled in his winds. And Merik flew to her.
Te varuje. I trust you as if my soul were yours. Aeduan had never thought he would hear those words spoken to him. Not since his mother had died. Not since he had learned he was a demon—and that all demons died alone. Te varuje. Iseult vanished into the darkness of the cave.
“Now you owe me four life-debts, Monk Aeduan!” Lizl lifted her voice above the raiders and the other monks barreling this way. She shoved Natan’s blade into Aeduan’s hand. “And a fifth one for this sword, plus a sixth for the rebels I’ve brought to save you.”
His heart boomed strong, and for the first time in his twenty years of existence, Aeduan knew who he was and what he had to do. He straightened. He joined the fight. For the Cahr Awen.
Such happiness. Such warmth. Iseult almost wept at the sight of her. No, she did weep. Tears flecked from her eyes, and she realized she had been wrong before. Back at the sky-ferry. The warmth in her chest was love, for this strange child who was not a child at all.
When it reached their throats, Merik finally looked into Kullen’s eyes. His real eyes, no longer black. No longer lost, but merely blue and sad and true. His Threadbrother’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” Kullen croaked. And Merik wanted to say the same thing. Never had he wanted anything more. Kullen was here. He was alive. And there was so much Merik needed to apologize for.
Soon, all of Lovats would be overrun. But when a little fox finds her den and kits threatened, when she finds that her escape routes have failed, then she turns back. Then she fights. And a captain always goes down with her ship.
For half an eternal second, she almost imagined she saw what they saw: a woman waiting for her death. Submissive and weak and bowing to the force of masculine rage. But men had ruled the Witchlands long enough with only bloodshed and chaos to show for it. It was past time Noden and the Hagfishes bent to a woman’s rule.
Vivia lost all concept of time. She lost count of how many people she felled. The water measured time by drought and flood, it measured life by wave and erosion. It had no interest in humanity, no concern if blood stained its soul.
She stared at Vivia and Vivia stared at her. Then as one, they started running. Toward each other. A slogging, slow stride through water and corpses. They reached each other, and the Empress of Marstok collapsed into Vivia.
Boulders crashed around them. Never did they hit Iseult or Leopold, though, nor their strange, icy bridge. Always, Owl flicked them away as easily as a girl tosses toys—and for a dragging moment between steps, Iseult wondered if Owl had ever had toys. She did not seem like a child now. Moon Mother’s little sister.
“Weasels piss on you,” said the only speaker without the darkness in her Threads. “I know more about these mountains than you, Caden. After all, who’s the domna here?” “You do realize what my last name means. Fitz Grieg?” A pause. Then: “You bastard!” Safi cried, and a sound like punching filled the forest. “You are literally a bastard! Why the rut didn’t you tell me?” “It’s implied in the name! I’m sorry if you were too dense and self-absorbed to notice.”
Never had Iseult been squeezed so tightly, and never had she squeezed so tightly back. What if, what if, what if. None of those speculations and daydreams mattered now. Because now Iseult was back where she belonged. Initiate and complete. Threadsisters to the end.
He could go wherever his will might lead. He already knew exactly where that was. Not a place, but a person. Not a job, but a promise. And not an obligation, but a desire.
Then she offers him one of her sly, subtle smiles—only visible if you know what you are looking for. He knows what he is looking for. “Also,” she adds softly, “I want you to be able to find me.”
To Holly Black, thank you for helping me find the theme in my series that I couldn’t see. You literally saved this book with a single afternoon of chatting.
