Truthwitch

by Susan Dennard

  “So you have been expecting her?” Corlant’s Threads turned darkly hostile. “You made no mention of this to me, Gretchya.”

  “It wasn’t certain,” Alma piped up, beaming gloriously. “You know how Gretchya hates to snag the settlement’s weave if she doesn’t have to.”

  Corlant offered a grunt, his attention settling on Alma. His Threads twisting with more tan suspicion, and deep beneath that, a lusty lilac. Then his gaze speared Gretchya, and the lust flared outward.

  Iseult’s stomach curdled. This was not the dynamic she’d left behind. Corlant had been a nuisance when she was a child—always spouting the dangers and the sins of witcheries. Always claiming that true devotion to the Moon Mother was in the denial of one’s magic. The eradication of it.

  But Iseult had ignored him along with the rest of the tribe. Yes, Corlant had hung around her home and begged Gretchya for attention. He had even asked her to become his wife—not that Gretchya could marry. Only Heart-Threads could marry in a Nomatsi tribe, and Threadwitches didn’t have Heart-Threads.

  At first, Gretchya had ignored Corlant’s advances. Then she’d used reason, pointing to the Nomatsi tribal laws and the Moon Mother’s rules as well. By the time Iseult had fled the tribe, though, Gretchya had resorted to latching the doors at night with iron padlocks and paying two local men in silver to keep the serpentine Corlant away.

  When Iseult had visited last, though, Corlant had been gone—and Iseult had assumed the man had left for good. Clearly, though, that wasn’t the case—and clearly things had changed. Somehow Corlant had gotten the upper hand here.

  “I have alerted the tribe to Iseult’s arrival,” Corlant said, spine unfurling to its fullest length. His head almost reached the ceiling. “The Greeting should begin soon.”

  “How smart of you,” Gretchya said—but Iseult didn’t miss the muscle twitch in her mother’s jaw.

  Gretchya was scared. Truly scared.

  “I was so distracted by Iseult’s return,” Gretchya continued, “that I completely forgot a Greeting. We will have to get her changed—”

  “No.” Corlant’s voice slashed out. He spindled back toward Iseult, eyes cruel and Threads hostile once more. “Let the tribe see her exactly as she is, tainted by the outside.” He plucked at Iseult’s apprentice sleeve, and Iseult forced her head to bow.

  She might not be able to read her mother or Alma, but she could read Corlant. He wanted control; he wanted Iseult’s submission, so as her knees creaked into an unpracticed curtsy, Iseult rumbled a groan. Pulled it up from her stomach and clutched her hands to her gut.

  It sounded horribly overdone, and for a brief flicker of a heartbeat, Iseult desperately wished again that Safi were with her. Safi could brazen through this no problem.

  But if Alma heard the falseness in Iseult’s moan, she made no sign of it. She simply lurched toward Iseult. “Are you ill?”

  “It’s my moon cycle,” Iseult gritted out. She met Corlant’s eyes, pleased to see his Threads already paling with revulsion. “I need new blood wrappings.”

  “Oh you poor thing!” Alma cried. “I have a raspberry leaf tincture for that.”

  “We must burn your current wrappings and get you unspoiled clothing,” Gretchya inserted, twisting toward Corlant, who—to Iseult’s surprise and satisfaction—was retreating. “If you could please shut the door on your way out, Priest Corlant, we will begin the Greeting very soon. Thank you again for informing the tribe of Iseult’s return.”

  Corlant’s eyebrows bounced high, but he offered no argument—nor spoke another word as he slipped outside and heaved shut the door. A door without padlocks but with faded, chipped wood where the iron had once been.

  “Good thinking,” Alma hissed at Iseult, none of her happy glow remaining. “You aren’t really on your cycle are you?”

  Iseult shook her head, but then Gretchya grabbed her bicep tight. “We must work quickly,” she whispered. “Alma, get Iseult one of your gowns and find the Earthwitch healer salve for her hand. Iseult, take off your kerchief. We must deal with your hair.”

  “What’s going on?” Iseult was careful to keep her voice flat despite the growing thump beneath her ribs. “Why is Corlant in charge? And why did you call him Priest Corlant?”

  “Shhh,” Alma said. “You must not let anyone hear.” Then she scampered to the basement hatch and descended below the floorboards.

  Gretchya towed Iseult to her worktable. “Everything has changed. Corlant runs this tribe now. He uses his witchery to—”

  “Witchery?” Iseult cut in. “He’s a Purist.”

  “Not entirely.” Her mother turned to the desk, sweeping stones and spools of multicolored thread aside—looking for only the gods knew what. “The rules have become much stricter since you left,” Gretchya went on. “Ever since the rumors of the Puppeteer began and cleaving became more frequent, Corlant has been able to wedge himself deeper and deeper into the tribe. He feeds off their fear and fans it to flames.”

  Iseult blinked in bewilderment. “What is the Puppeteer?”

  Her mother didn’t answer, her eyes finally lighting on what she needed: shears. She snatched them up. “We must cut your hair. It’s just … you look too much like an outsider—and, if Corlant is to be believed, then too much like the Puppeteer. Thank the Moon Mother you were smart enough to hide your head—we can pretend it was short all along.” Gretchya motioned for Iseult to sit. “We must convince the tribe that you are harmless. That you are not other.” Gretchya held Iseult’s gaze; a silence grew.

  Then Iseult nodded, telling herself she didn’t care. It was just hair and she could always grow it again. It didn’t mean anything. Her life in Veñaza City was gone; she had to let go of that past.

  Then she sat, the sheers grated into the first chunk of hair, and it was done. There was no going back.

  “For all that Corlant pretends to be a Purist,” Gretchya began, slipping into the same inflectionless voice Iseult had grown up hearing, “he is also a Voidwitch. A Cursewitch. I figured it out shortly after your last visit. I noticed that when he was near me, the Threads of the world were dimmer. Perhaps you noticed too?”

  Iseult nodded her acknowledgment—and ice trickled down her neck. All the dulled Threads of the tribe were Corlant’s doing. She hadn’t even known such a thing was possible.

  “Once I realized what he was,” Gretchya continued, “and once I saw how his power drained away mine, I thought I could use it as leverage against him. I threatened to tell the tribe what he was … But in turn, he threatened to take my witchery completely.

  “I ended up putting the noose around my own neck, Iseult, for after that conversation, Corlant threatened to erase my magic whenever he wanted something from me.”

  Gretchya spoke so matter-of-factly—as if the something that Corlant wanted was as simple as a bowl of borgsha or borrowing Scruffs for the day. But Iseult knew better. She remembered the way Corlant had lingered in the shadows near the chicken coop and watched Gretchya through the window. How his throbbing purple Threads had made Iseult learn all too young what “lust” meant.

  Goddess save her, what would have happened to Iseult if she hadn’t gotten out of the settlement when she had? How close had she been to wearing the same noose as her mother?

  Despite the six and a half years of loathing Iseult had so carefully and intentionally honed, she felt like a knife was digging into her breastbone. Guilt, her brain declared. And pity for your mother.

  To think that Corlant had been a Cursewitch all along. Able to kill a person’s magic as easily as Iseult saw a person’s Threads. It was another witchery linked to the Void—and another myth proven to be all too real.

  Iseult loosed a breath, careful to keep her head still as Gretchya snip-snip-snipped. “Wh-what…” she began, appalled by the shake in her voice. She could practically feel the frown her mother turned on her—could practically hear the inevitable reprimand: Control your tongue. Control your mind. A Threadwitch never stammers
. “What,” Iseult gnashed out at last, “is this Puppeteer?”

  “She is a young Threadwitch.” The shears ground against Iseult’s hair—harder, faster. Hair scattered across the floor like sand. “Each passing Nomatsi caravan has had a slightly different tale, but the general story is unchanged. She cannot make Threadstones, she cannot control her emotions, and … and she abandoned her tribe.”

  Iseult swallowed tightly. This Puppeteer did sound similar.

  “They say that unlike our Aetherial connection to the Threads,” Gretchya continued, “this girl’s power comes from the Void. They say she can control the Cleaved. That she keeps vast armies of them under her command—and in the darkest version of the tale, she even brings the dead back to life.”

  Cold latched on to Iseult’s shoulders. “How?”

  “The Severed Threads,” Gretchya answered softly. “She claims she can control the Threads of the Cleaved. Bend them to her will, even when they are dead.”

  “The three black Threads of the Cleaved,” Iseult whispered, and the snap of the shears abruptly stopped. At the same moment, Alma scurried up from the basement, a black gown in one hand and white blood-wrappings in the other. She hurried to the stove and heaved open the iron door.

  Gretchya twisted around to face Iseult. “You know Severed Threads?”

  “I have seen them.”

  Gretchya’s eyes went wide, her face bloodless. “You must tell no one of this, Iseult. No one. Alma and I thought they were a lie. A way for this Puppeteer—and Corlant too—to scare people.”

  Iseult’s mouth went dry. “You can’t see these Threads?”

  “No. And we have seen Cleaved before.”

  “I-I can’t m-make Threadstones,” Iseult spat, “so why sh-should I be the one who sees these Severed Threads?”

  Gretchya was silent, but then she tugged at Iseult’s hair and the snipping of the shears resumed. Moments later, smoke began to curl from the stove. Alma returned to the work table and offered Iseult the traditional black gown of a Threadwitch. Black was the color of all Threads combined, and along the collar, the narrow wrist cuffs, and the skirt’s hem, there were three lines of color: a straight magenta line for the Threads that bind. A swirling sage line for the Threads that build. A dashed gray line for the Threads that break.

  “How long do you intend to stay?” Alma’s question was a rough whisper, no louder than the fire.

  “Only a single night,” Iseult said, forcing her mind to avoid considering the Bloodwitch. She had enough to worry about in the tribe.

  Absently, she picked up a strip of uncut red stone from the worktable. A ruby, Iseult thought, and around it was a strand of sunset pink thread expertly wrapped with loops and knots.

  Several stones away was its twin. And Iseult didn’t miss the sapphires along the back of the table or the smattering of opals.

  Only in a Threadwitch’s home could one find such valuable jewels left unprotected. But a Threadwitch knew her own stones—she could follow them, even—and no Nomatsi would ever be stupid enough to risk stealing from a Threadwitch.

  “Do you like the Threadstone?” Alma asked. She leaned against the table—though she kept rubbing her palms against her thighs as if they sweated.

  Yet not once did Gretchya say to Alma, Keep your hands still. A Threadwitch never fidgets.

  “Alma made it,” Gretchya said.

  Of course you did. Iseult had never been able to get a Threadstone to work, and here was Alma, with a piece to outshine any other.

  “I did,” Alma said—though the words almost came out as a question: I did?

  Iseult’s gaze snapped to her. “Why would you make a Threadstone for me?” She felt her forehead bunch up, felt her lips curl back. It was such a disgusted face—such an uncontrolled and un-Threadwitch expression—she instantly wished she hadn’t made it.

  Alma flinched—yet quickly schooled her face blank and plucked up the second ruby wrapped in pink thread. “It’s a…” She trailed off, glancing at Gretchya as if unsure what to say.

  “It’s a gift,” Gretchya prompted. “Do not be shy—Iseult only frowns at you because she is confused and cannot control her expressions.”

  Heat licked up Iseult’s face. Irate heat. Or perhaps shamed heat. “But how did you make it?” she ground out. “I’m a Threadwitch—you can’t see my Threads, so you can’t attach them to a stone.”

  “Your … your mother,” Alma started.

  “I showed her how,” Gretchya finished. She dropped the scissors on the worktable and marched toward the stove. “The cloths will finish burning soon and Corlant will be back. Hurry.”

  Iseult pressed her lips thin. Her mother’s response was no answer at all.

  “You should be grateful,” Gretchya continued as she poked at the stove’s flames. “Those rubies in your hand will glow when Safiya is in danger—and when you are too. It will even allow you to track each other. Such a gift should not be taken lightly.”

  She wasn’t taking the gift lightly—yet nor would she feel gratitude toward Alma. Ever. Alma had made this out of guilt. She was, after all, the reason Iseult had been denied a place as a Threadwitch apprentice—and also rejected as Gretchya’s heir.

  “Get dressed,” Gretchya ordered Iseult. “And quickly, while Alma sweeps up this cut hair. We must tell Corlant and the tribe that you changed your mind and wish to return to the tribe as a Threadwitch.”

  Iseult opened her mouth—to point out that her mother could not have two apprentices and that the tribe was well aware of Iseult’s magical failings—but then she let her lips fall shut. Alma was grabbing for the broom and following orders just as a Threadwitch ought to. Because Threadwitches did not argue; they followed the cool course of logic where it led.

  Logic had led Iseult here, so she would ignore her hurt and fear, and she would follow logic as she’d been trained. As she’d managed throughout her time in Veñaza City, with Safi at her side.

  NINE

  Never—not in ten million lifetimes—would Safi have expected to slip into her role as a domna this easily. Not with so many people around her, their body heat filling the vaulted ballroom and their constant lies scraping over her skin. But the children from her past had angled into adulthood while their parents had seamed into old age.

  And with all the sparkling wine and the shine of chandeliers, with the wall of glittering glass that overlooked the Jadansi’s marshy shore, it was hard for Safi not to enjoy herself.

  In fact, she found it no different from pulling a con with Iseult. She was playing the right hand while her uncle cut some unknown purse. If this was all that Uncle Eron wanted from her, then Safi could—almost happily—comply. Especially with Prince Leopold fon Cartorra at her side.

  He had grown into a fine specimen of a man—though still much too pretty to be taken seriously. In fact, he was undoubtedly the most beautiful person, male or female, in the room. His curls were a glossy strawberry, his skin had a golden red-cheeked glow, and those long blond lashes that Safi so vividly remembered were still draped over his sea green eyes.

  Yet for all his external changes, he was the same sharp-tongued, playful boy she remembered.

  He tipped back a gulp of wine. It set his curls to flopping—and several nearby domnas to sighing.

  “You know,” he drawled, “the blue velvet on my suit lacks the depth I’d hoped for. I specifically requested imperial sapphire.” His voice was a rich baritone, and the way he balanced his words with pauses was almost musical. “But I’d call this more of a dull navy, wouldn’t you?”

  Safi snorted. “I’m glad to see you haven’t changed, Polly. For all your wit, you remain as infatuated with your looks as ever.”

  He flushed at the name Polly—as he had every other time she’d uttered it this evening, which had only made her want to say it more.

  “Of course I haven’t changed.” Leopold shrugged gracefully. “My perfect face is all I have, and studying hard will only get you so far in Cartorra.” H
e flipped his un-Witchmarked hand at her. “But you, Safiya”—pause—“have changed quite a bit, haven’t you? That was a dramatic entrance you made.”

  She looked away, her own cheeks heating up—but not with shame. With fury.

  She’d arrived at the ball a full hour late. Twilight had already melted into moonlight because Uncle Eron had insisted on finishing an entire jug of wine before departure. Upon arrival at the Doge’s palace, though, Safi understood why: Eron’s former Hell-Bard brothers were on duty.

  Four of the armored knights stood sentry in the Doge’s garden, where cypress branches whispered in the breeze and tree frogs harmonized. Two more Hell-Bards guarded the palace entrance, and the final six waited stonily behind Emperor Henrick.

  Every time Safi spotted another one of the enormous, axe-wielding knights, her stomach dropped to her toes. Her fists balled up tight. Yet every time, she kept her chin high and her shoulders back.

  Not that any of the Hell-Bards noticed Safi or her uncle. In fact, only one showed any reaction as they strode past—and as far as Safi could tell from beneath the steel helm that all Hell-Bards wore, he’d been young. Too young to have served with Uncle Eron.

  Actually, now that Safi considered it, maybe that Hell-Bard’s bold wink in the gardens hadn’t been directed at Uncle Eron but at her.

  She did look rutting gorgeous tonight.

  By the time Safi and Uncle Eron had reached the entrance hall, the other doms and domnas had long since moved to the ballroom. The Emperor, however, had insisted that he and Prince Leopold wait until the final dom arrived.

  When Polly spotted Safi striding toward him, he rushed in front of his uncle’s throne—as if buffering her from the Hell-Bards’ stares like he’d always done in childhood—and swept a charming bow. He even cut in when Henrick held Safi’s hand a bit too long after she knelt in fealty (gods below, she had forgotten how very toad-like the Cartorran emperor looked—and how very sweaty his grip was).

  And Leopold even went so far as to escort Safi personally into the ball, and, oh, if that hadn’t caught the gossip tongues in a mousetrap. She had almost laughed at the first slack-jawed domna. It was as if everyone had forgotten how she and Leopold had conspired as children.