Bloodwitch (The Witchlands, #3)

“No, no, no.” The words whispered out, unbidden, and she knocked the useless quartz aside. Tears prickled behind her eyeballs, and she hated it. She hated it, just as she hated this palace and she hated that no one had given her any sodding answers since leaving the Well.

And above all, Safi hated that Iseult was so very far away. With Iseult, Safi was brave. With Iseult, Safi was strong. And with Iseult, Safi was fearless. On her own, though, she was just a girl trapped in another country while unknown enemies tried to kill her.

Grabbing her real, heart-achingly true Threadstone, Safi shoved to her feet. Stars flashed across her vision. She’d sat too long, eaten too little. But she ignored them—just as she ignored the whooshing throb in her eardrums. Instead, she stumbled to her doorway and pushed out into the night.

The crow wasn’t there; Safi didn’t know why she’d thought he would be. There was, however, a firefly. It winked beside the telescope. Then it vanished. Then it winked again a few paces away.

When she was growing up, Habim had told Safi that children made wishes upon fireflies, and Safi supposed that if ever there was a time for wishes, it was now. So she scurried over to it, and with a swipe of her hand, caught it from the sky. It landed gently, seemingly unconcerned by her touch.

Please, Safi begged, watching it light up. Then shutter out. Then light up again, a golden flicker that turned the Threadstone still clutched in her hand to flames. Please, Sir Firefly, she repeated. Wherever Iseult is, just keep her safe.



* * *



Iseult did not feel safe.

She might have evaded soldiers, but Leopold fon Cartorra presented an entirely new swath of dangers—dangers she was not accustomed to. She could face swords and pistols, fists and flame without batting an eye. But clever word games and courtier’s masks set her Threadwitch calm to reeling.

Iseult hadn’t wanted to leave Owl alone at the bridge, but she had wanted to let Leopold catch the horses even less. At least Owl had Blueberry to keep her safe. If the prince decided to run off with their steeds, though, then Iseult and Owl would have no transport and, worse, no supplies.

The black gelding had bolted into the forest. The roan mare had followed, and their hooves had thrashed the underbrush and left a clear trail to follow. Leopold led the way, Iseult just behind. Her gaze never left his Threads. Her hand never left the pommel of her cutlass.

Her fingers tapped out a rhythm. Until that movement made her think of Aeduan. Then she stopped.

“There is no way the horses will return to the bridge,” the prince said, tossing a backward glance. “Not so long as that bat remains.”

“We must catch them first. Then we can worry about luring them back.”

“Oh, we will catch them. Have no fear.” Leopold strolled on, a confidence to his step. An ease, as if they merely walked the halls of a palace, not the moonlit corners of a mountain forest. “Rolf is a well-trained beast, and the mare will follow his lead.”

“Then tell Rolf to go to the bridge, so the mare will follow his lead.”

“He is not that well trained.” A laugh—again, at odds with their surroundings. And this time, contradicting Leopold’s Threads as well. Instead of pink amusement, they glimmered with fear. “Even the great white bears of the Sleeping Lands would not be stupid enough to approach a mountain bat.”

“You’re scared of him.”

“You are not?”

“No,” Iseult replied, and she realized it was true. In all the chaos of the Contested Lands, there had been no time to be afraid. Blueberry had attacked men who wanted to kill her, and that had made him an ally. “He will not hurt us.”

“Really? Do mountain bats dislike the taste of princes?”

Before she could explain to him that Blueberry only hurt those that hurt Owl, Leopold drew up short. Iseult almost ran into him. Then she saw why: they had reached a rocky clearing, no underbrush left for the horses to trample.

“Our trail has run cold.” Leopold twirled toward Iseult, Threads and expression briefly in alliance: he was frustrated. His cheeks twitched. “Any chance you can sense their Threads?”

“Animals do not have Threads.” She circled around him.

“Animals do not have them,” he asked, following several paces behind, “or you cannot sense them?”

Iseult wished he would shut up. “Does it matter? My magic will not help us, either way.” She squinted down at the earth, turned gray beneath the moon, but even with its light, it was too dark to spot hoof prints. However, a sound bubbled against her ears. Running water. Another mountain creek.

If she were a horse who had run for an hour, she would be thirsty. And if she were thirsty, she would go to a stream free of mountain bats. In a rush of silent speed, Iseult set off across the clearing. She stepped over long shadows, then into the trees that cast them, and soon enough, Iseult found the horses. They had indeed followed the water into the forest.

“Rolf,” Leopold said, delight in both his tone and his flushed Threads. Yet before he could cross to his gelding, Iseult drew her cutlass.

He halted mid-step. “This again?”

“This again,” she replied. “At the bridge, you offered to explain everything from the start. You will do that now.”

“No ‘please’?” A smile on his face. Frustration in his Threads. “I am royalty, you know.”

“And I am the one holding the sword.”

“Ah.” He huffed a chuckle, and pink amusement returned. He had liked her response, it would seem, and without another word of protest, Leopold the Fourth, imperial heir of Cartorra, began his tale.

He had a musical way of speaking. His words rolled against Iseult’s skin, a perfect rhythm of sound and pause. A perfect complement to the frozen night air as he explained how he’d been working with Safi’s uncle. Their aim had been to prevent Safi from marrying his uncle, Emperor Henrick. Then Leopold described how he had hired Aeduan under the pretense of capturing Safi, but how he had then intentionally sabotaged all travel by taking stops and even misdirecting Aeduan—all so Safi could reach safety before Aeduan caught up.

Or was meant to reach safety, until the Empress of Marstok had interfered.

Iseult said nothing throughout his story, carefully chewing over each assertion. They fit what she knew from Safi—and what she knew from Aeduan too—yet rather than trust Leopold more, she found she trusted him less. Throughout his declaration, he had kept a tired half smile upon his face, as if this entire situation were a game. As if he thought Iseult a pitiful child who needed his indulgence.

“And then,” he finished with a spin of his right hand, like a minstrel taking a bow, “I stole the monk’s coins and had my Hell-Bards transport them to Lejna. For you. All quite straightforward, if you think about it.”

Hardly, Iseult thought. Aloud, she said: “I was in Lejna. I did not see any Hell-Bards.”