Page 154 of Bloodwitch
She knew that having a child lead her through the end of the world was as impossible as walking through blue light and ending up inside a nightmare. But there was also no other alternative. To release Leopold was to lose her way, and to release Owl was to lose the only anchor they had inside this chaos.
There was no sight in this tumult, no sense of up or down. At any moment, Iseult expected the ice-slick stone beneath her feet to crumble away.
But the ground would never betray an Earthwitch, and Owl led them true.
Once, Iseult thought she heard voices. She thought she saw Threads cresting through the fray, an army of people far, far below. It could have been a mirage, though. Shadows shaped like humans dancing in a storm.
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.
“This way,” Owl called, more a trembling in the stone than actual words, and Iseult realized they had reached a doorway where weak light shimmered through the chaos. It was small, though, and shrinking inward by the second.
Just as she had done above the Monastery, Owl scrabbled through without waiting for Iseult or Leopold.
They followed—of course they followed. Anything to escape this maelstrom. Iseult crawled through first, using Leopold’s grip to drop to her knees and squeeze through. She was battered, she was beat, she was pulled and compressed and broken in two.
Then she keeled out the other side, where cold air and blessed silence dashed against her. Owl squatted just ahead, her Threads a swirling array of pleasure and Earthwitch power. Still on all fours, Iseult dragged herself toward the child… then collapsed atop silty, damp earth. Two heartbeats later, and Leopold landed beside her.
Iseult and the prince sucked in gasps. His Threads radiated with the same wonderment and horror that Iseult felt. Her muscles twitched as if lightning still clashed. Her ears echoed and droned.
“What was that?” he rasped, pushing himself upright with his good arm. “By the Twelve, Iseult, whatwasthat? And what is she?” He edged a wary stare toward Owl, his Threads briefly glimmering with distaste. Or maybe it was disgust. Or just continued horror.
Iseult was too sapped to interpret anything anymore. “I think that the more important question is, where are we now?” They had definitely left the Monastery. It was cold here, but not frozen—and water rushed nearby.
Threads hummed nearby too.
“People,” Iseult said at the same time Owl chirped, “Finished, finished, finished.” Now Iseult was the one to eye her warily. Owl had changed since leaving the mountain. It was as if, after leading them through a world caving in, she had abruptly reverted back to her childish self.
She even drew figures in the soil with a finger—all while singing, “Finished, finished, finished.”
“You stay here,” Iseult said slowly, directing her words to Leopold though her gaze never left Owl. “I’ll go see who’s out there. Maybe they can help us.”
“Or,” he countered, “you stay here, and I go check.”
Iseult glared sideways. “We have no weapons, Prince, and last I checked, I’m the only one here with a magic that can hurt people. Well,” she amended, “there’s Owl. But…” She waved vaguely.
And Owl smiled up from her drawing. “Finished, finished, finished.”
“We could all go?” Leopold suggested, Threads shriveling inward with discomfort.
“And then all risk getting hurt? No.” Using her hands, Iseult foisted herself to her feet. The moonlit pines and beeches briefly hazed together—then quickly slid apart once more. “I can creep up and observe them without being seen. I’ll be back soon.”
Leopold’s only response was a dissatisfied grunt, but he didn’t argue. He was the one with a crown here, but Iseult was the one with the power.
Soon enough, she was tiptoeing into the trees. The landscape reminded her of the Sirmayans, of the forests she’d journeyed through over the past month. This was different, though—and she couldn’t say how she knew, she simply did.
And all of it was so, so different from Veñaza City.What if, what if, what if.
The Threads brightened ahead, and soon Cartorran voices rippled into Iseult’s ears, tense but not angry. A discussion, she decided, or a debate, for concentrated green wavered across their Threads.
Three of the people, though, had odd Threads. It wasn’t obvious from afar, yet the closer Iseult sidled, the more she noticed black tendrils writhing in their hearts.
Severed Threads,she thought. Except… not. It was unlike anything she’d ever seen, anything she’d ever been taught.
Iseult would have continued to study them, to evaluate safety andintent, but two footsteps later, she was close enough to distinguish individual words. And to hear a voice she had feared she would never hear again.
“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?”
