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 fall 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 …
“Dismount!” Iseult screamed, pulling the reins with far more force than was fair. She scrabbled off the horse and with hands that were almost shaking, she unstrapped the cutlass. Beside her, Safi splashed into the ankle-deep waves with her pitchfork gripped tight.
Then without another word, the girls settled into defensive stances, their backs to the tower, and waited for the four monks to gallop across the beach toward them.
FOURTEEN