And Safi was leagues upon leagues away, her life hanging on a knife’s edge. Each second Iseult stood chained by indecision was a second lost forever. Another moment in which Evrane might return, or the Abbot. Another moment in which the insurgents might finally break the fortress walls, or the danger that threatened Safi might overwhelm her forever.
Trust Leopold or leave him?
He was a prince; he had connections; he knew the full reach of Eron fon Hasstrel’s plans. He was also Iseult’s only way of reaching the Archives—at least without losing her way.
But Leopold might be working with the Abbot. Or with Evrane. Or both. He might lead her straight into their clutches, and there would be no way of knowing what he intended until it was too late. Iseult had no weapons to defend herself. No strategies for evasion.
She also had no time, no time. She had to decide now.
“Wake up.” Her voice split the room, clear as in the Dreaming. Commanding and pure.
Leopold woke up. A jolt in his body and across his Threads. Then confusion as Iseult stalked over. Three long steps. Her shadow stretched over him. “You said you were here to serve me, Prince. Wholly and completely. So prove it. Lead me to the Archives.”
His mouth bobbed open. “Iseult—”
“Now.” With her command came fire. Full force, no reining it in. Small sparks ignited in the air. Pop-pop-pop. Bursts of light and sound.
Leopold recoiled, his Threads shocked clean, all the way to their stormy core.
“I will burn you,” she repeated. “Unless you lead me to the Archives. Now.”
He nodded, gliding to his feet with surprising grace. Astonished he might be, but he did not seem unsettled—and he neither argued nor even questioned how Iseult had commanded flames. He had been unflinching in Tirla; he was unflinching now.
“If you want to see the Archives, then to the Archives we will go—but first you need shoes.” He moved toward the wardrobe. With his good hand, he swung it open, revealing a pair of boots and his own beige wool cloak.
A second cloak waited too, fur-lined and white as the moon outside. Shining and ready. The uniform of a Carawen monk. All her life Iseult had wanted to wear one. All her life, she had wanted to be part of this shining order that accepted new members without prejudice.
Lies, lies, all of it lies. Aeduan had warned her in the Contested Lands, but she hadn’t wanted to believe him. Now, though, she saw this cloak and wished it was his. Broken and bloodied. Safe and familiar. She wanted that over this fake piousness and false purity.
This was her only option, though, so Iseult slipped into it.
“Why … the Archives?” Leopold asked between grunts as he fought to pull on his own cloak with only one arm. “What’s there?”
“A way out of the Monastery.”
A burst of turquoise surprise. “How do you know?”
“Go.” She pointed at the door.
“Iseult, I don’t understand—”
“Let a woman have her secrets, Leopold. Go.” She spoke that word with all the force of the Rook King behind her, and without another word of protest, Leopold nodded.
And Leopold went.
The hall outside Iseult’s room was empty, the windows boarded and sconces unlit. The stones shook every twenty paces, and the impact of catapults thundered louder and louder. Leopold led her down stairs, across intersections, and past countless doorways.
Four times Iseult sensed Threads approaching, and four times, all it took was a whispered word of “Monks ahead.” Then Leopold towed her into a small alcove or empty bedroom, where they would wait in silence—Iseult’s heart would jitter against her throat and Leopold’s Threads would turn muted gold with anxious caution. Then the Threads and the monks attached would move out of range, and Leopold would once more lead the way.
By the time they reached the Archives, the ground rumbled beneath their feet, shaking Iseult’s knees and clattering her teeth. The walls under siege must wait just beyond the library’s vast space, and like the halls from before, the windows were boarded and sconces dark. Huge sandbags had been placed in front of the windows too—only visible because a faint streak of light still crept in at the very top.
It revealed high ceilings and rows upon rows of bookcases. Little else, though. Nothing specific.
As if following her thoughts, Leopold hurried to a nearby sconce, fumbled a small candle from within the glass, and whispered, “Ignite.”
A tiny flame awoke.
“Where do we go?” he asked, voice low. Face glittering behind the fire.
“The farthest corner,” Iseult answered, and yet again, the prince took the lead. No questions. Only obedience, his green Threads focused on escape.
Down aisles, around shelves, they moved ever closer to the corner.
They were halfway there when the door to the Archives heaved open. A scream of hinges, a groan of wood. Then Evrane’s voice coasted across the space. “Iseult! Where are you?”
No, no, no. Iseult grabbed Leopold’s cloak. “Run.”
Unflinching, unquestioning, Leopold ran. The Firewitched flame guttered and flared, but it did not wink out. Their footsteps pounded on flagstones, an easy sound for Evrane to follow—and not just Evrane. There were other Threads too. Other monks, merciless and hunting.
And the Abbot, bleeding, blending, slithering this way. “We had an agreement!” he shouted. “You promised me an army, Prince!”
An army? Iseult had no idea what that meant, and she had no time to dwell on it either. They were almost to the farthest corner, almost to the Rook King’s secret door.
Then they skittered past a final row of shelves, and the stone corner flickered before them. No archway, though, and no exit.
The floor quaked, and voices escalated from beyond the wall—voices of the insurgents. Iseult sensed Threads too, frantic and furious. The attack was right there.
Leopold rounded wide eyes on Iseult. “What next? I see no escape.”
Iseult saw no escape either. And now Evrane was declaring from across the room, “It is not safe for you to roam the Monastery, Iseult. You are not well. You must come back to me so I may heal you.”
No, no, no. There had to be a way out of here. What had the Rook King shown her? Think, Iseult, think. She could follow the cool course of logic wherever it led, even without a pause or time to breathe.
A stone wall. Shelves. Sconces and a wooden chair. It looked exactly as it had in the Dreaming, except this was real. This was right before her.
Another boom! rattled through her knees. She and Leopold were surrounded on all sides.
“Iseult,” Leopold murmured, and now white panic shivered across his Threads. “Please say you know what you are doing.”
She ignored him. She ignored the approaching Threads and drumroll of feet, she ignored the Abbot bellowing about payments and bargains and tier tens betrayed. And she ignored the shockwaves raging through the foundation.
Iseult was stasis. Iseult was ice.
A stone wall. Shelves. Sconces and a wooden chair. Each item perfectly still. As calm as Iseult was amidst all this chaos.
But they should not be still. Everything else shook; they should be shaking with them.
Iseult dove forward, shoving past Leopold. She smacked her hands on stone. Cold, rough, real. But also frizzing with magic. This wall was a lie. This wall was not real. It was bewitched, like the sky-ferry, and all it needed was the right combination of taps.
Or three flicks of a feathery wrist.
Iseult knocked three frantic times, and in a whoosh of charged air, the entire corner disappeared. Before her yawned the arched doorway.
This time, Leopold was the one to grab Iseult by the cloak. Awe, relief, and explosive surprise shaking across his Threads. The verdant focus was back too. He bolted into the darkness, and Iseult flew just behind. Once on the other side, though, she paused long enough to angle back.
Three flicks of her wrist, and the wall reassembled. Then she and
Leopold ran.
Thank the Moon Mother he still held the candle, for otherwise, they would have scrambled in total darkness, missing where to duck and twist and crawl around stalagmites. The insurgent attacks thundered through the rock, but Iseult heard no pursuit and felt no Threads chasing from behind.
Eventually, they reached an opening in the tunnel, where a small cavern spanned upward and the path split in two. One route angled sharply up. The other angled sharply down.
Leopold slowed to a stop, panting. The flame’s light sputtered, casting shadows on the dark walls.
Shadows that looked like wings. Shadows that sent chills trilling down Iseult’s spine. Where had the Rook King led them? She forced herself to look only at the prince, though. At his Threads, burning and vibrant and true.
“How,” he said between harsh gasps, “did you know about this?”
“You would not believe me if I told you.” She fought for rough breaths of her own. Too much time in bed without a proper meal had stolen her energy. “We need to keep going.”
He straightened, eyes thinning and Threads tanning with suspicion. “Why? Why did we need to leave, Iseult?”
Iseult didn’t answer. There was nothing she could say that he would believe. Evrane is possessed by darkness and imprisoning me in sleep. Oh, and the ghost of the Rook King showed me how to break free. Iseult hardly believed it herself.
“It wasn’t safe there,” she answered. “And since Safi cannot come, there is no reason to stay. You have to trust me.”
He chewed his lip, expression and Threads wary—though now sage consideration spooled around the tan. Then all at once, a sharp column of fern funneled through. He had come to a decision.
“I trust you,” he murmured. “But which way do we go?” Swinging the candle away from her, he peered first at the ascending path, then the other.
“Down,” Iseult said, and she plucked the candle from his grasp and took the lead. She had no idea if down was actually the right way to go, but it seemed the logical choice. The valley was below them, so surely aiming that way would eventually take them where she wanted to go.
Or maybe it would lead them straight into hell-fire. Iseult really had no idea. The Rook King had only shown her the way out of the Monastery, not the mountain.
The sounds of the insurgent battle faded the deeper they went, and Iseult took this as a good sign. The rock formations smoothed out too, and the air turned colder. A sharp bite that she hoped meant winds ahead.
Then she felt actual wind against her face, crisp and frozen, and gradually, light began to suffuse the stone. Iseult’s gait quickened. Even drained as she was, she had done it. She had gotten away. Whatever Evrane had become, whatever the Abbot had wanted, and whatever the Rook King truly was—none of that mattered.
She had escaped, and now she and Leopold would find Owl. Then they would find Safi.
The tunnel’s end gaped before them, gray and frozen. A Threadwitching night, the light bright enough to send spots skating across Iseult’s vision as she approached.
She was running now, Leopold’s footsteps pumping behind her. Marshy shoreline waited just ahead. So close.
They reached the exit. They hurried through.
And that was when Iseult sensed the Threads. That was when she saw the people fifty paces away. Twenty figures in heavy furs crouching amidst the frozen reeds, all bound by faint blue Threads. People with the same magic, working together. They gaped at Iseult and Leopold, their Threads shifting to a uniform glaring surprise.
Except for one man. The only man standing separate from the group, he had not noticed Iseult or Leopold skittering to a halt upon the shore. He held a large curved horn to his lips, and a fraction of a heartbeat later, the horn sounded. A clear, startling call. Three short blasts.
At the fourth long drawl, the twenty others shot to their feet, axes and blades thrust high. Then they roared, Threads blaring to violent steel, and charged right for Leopold and Iseult.
FORTY-EIGHT
The Northman’s blade punched through Esme’s chest. Blood sprayed. He yanked back. She fell, gasping. Shocked. Silent.
Merik lunged forward, unsure why he felt the need to catch the Puppeteer before she hit the ground. His body acted without thought. He pulled her into his arms; her blood gushed across him.
“The Loom,” she choked out. “Bring me closer to the Loom.”
Merik did not bring her closer to the Loom. “You must stay still,” he said, but she fought him then, clawing and coughing: Loom, Loom, Loom.
The Northman lunged, his arm reared back to stab her again.
“No!” Merik dropped Esme roughly to the ground. He snapped tall and raised his hands. “No hurt!”
The Northman frowned. Blood dripped from his knife, brighter than the tassels. “Help,” he said, clearly confused. “Help. Go.” He waved to the trees. “Help.”
On the grass, Esme began to weep. Blood—there was so much blood. “Loom,” she whispered again, clutching at Merik’s leg. “Bring me to my Loom.”
Still, Merik did not bring her to the Loom. He knew, viscerally and logically, that this was his chance to flee. That this was a gift from Noden not to be tossed away. Yet for some reason, his feet felt rooted to the spot. His eyes rooted on a dying girl beside him.
Blood, blood. There was so much blood, and Merik felt no triumph at the sight of it. No relief at Esme’s face, taut with pain, or at her chest shaking while she tried to breathe.
He felt only pity. There might still be a person inside all that hate. After all, she did not bleed so differently than he did.
Nubrevna. His homeland flickered through the back of his mind, and with it came the memory of crowded streets and soaring bridges where ships sailed home. It was the one place he had always believed in, the one thing that had always made sense.
Letting the Puppeteer destroy it, letting the Raider King or the Fury destroy it—that did not make sense.
Esme might bleed as he did, but so did everyone else around them. All these Cleaved, all these people who had once had lives and families and loved ones of their own. She had destroyed them, just as she would destroy Nubrevna too.
Unless Merik did something to stop it. He would not kill her. Esme had cleaved Kullen; she might end up being the only way to un-cleave him too. Merik also had no idea what might happen to her Loom or to her Cleaved if she died. What if they died with her?
That was a risk he couldn’t take. And with that thought, he finally moved. With gentle hands, he carried Esme to the Well, to her Loom. She gasped, she convulsed, and her blood sank deeper into the grass. He could do nothing to heal her, but maybe her Cleaved could.
Merik turned to the Northman. “Go,” he said. “Now we go.” For of course, if Esme’s Cleaved could save her, they could also hunt down Merik.
The Northman did not argue. He let Merik wrench him around and haul him toward the main path, and when Merik pushed into a run, he also kicked up his knees. Their feet thundered down the hill, over variegated shadows cast by a bright, oblivious moon in a bright, oblivious sky. Trunks streaked in the corners of Merik’s vision. Cleaved, too, immobile without their Puppeteer to guide them.
Merik didn’t know where he was going—away, away. That was the extent of his plan. Away from the Well and Esme, and once his magic felt strong enough, away from Poznin entirely.
They reached the bottom of the hill. Moonlight beamed over them and streets snaked off in different directions. Merik slowed to a stop, already panting. He leaned on his knees while the Northman did the same, and swung his gaze in each direction.
Right would lead to Esme’s tower. Left to the river. Straight to the Windswept Plains.
The plains, his magic murmured, and he felt himself grin. On the plains, there were other people. And on the plains, there was wind. No, he was not yet strong enough to fly, but soon. Beneath these gulps of air, the power sparked hotter.
He straightened, hand rising to point …
His
eyes caught movement in the trees. Figures were shambling this way. The Cleaved were shambling this way.
Shit, shit, shit. Esme was working faster than Merik had anticipated. Too late now to stop her, though, and what was it Vivia always used to say? No regrets, keep moving.
Merik grabbed the Northman’s shoulder, and he got moving. “Run.” As one, they launched into a sprint.
The Cleaved didn’t like this, and their half-dead legs picked up speed. They tumbled from the forest, and then from buildings too. Body after body, filling the streets. Gathering into a stampede that swarmed at Merik and the Northman from all angles.
They pushed themselves faster.
Down streets and over walls, around fallen statues and through tree-choked squares, Merik and the Northman drove their legs. They leaped, they slid, they barreled around anything that blocked their way.
Until Merik and Northman reeled onto a wide avenue, free of trees. Swallowed by grass. The ground shook beneath them. The grass stalks rattled and swayed.
And now a hundred more Cleaved chased from ahead. There was no exit. They were cut off from all sides.
The Northman’s pace faltered, but Merik gripped his arm and pulled him on. They could not stop. They could not slow.
Merik had a hundred paces to find an escape—or else he had a hundred paces for his magic to return. It unfurled more with each razoring breath. Ninety paces. Eighty. Sixty paces, and Merik could see black eyes. Fifty, and the shadows that lined Cleaved skin came into focus—
There. A toppled building on the right. It hid an alleyway clotted by saplings. The trees would slow Merik and the Northman, but they would slow the Cleaved too.
He hauled the Northman into the slip of space between ruins. Leaves and branches slapped against them. They zigged and zagged and did not slow. Not when the earth shook so hard it knocked rubble loose from buildings. Nor when flesh slapped against flesh and saplings crunched behind.
They reached the alley’s end. A new road, a new expanse—and more Cleaved. But Merik knew this road. He had walked here only last night, and straight ahead would lead to a pool filled with corpses.
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