Page 113 of Bloodwitch
The King said nothing. Gave no indication he’d heard her question. Instead he moved to the edge of the room, to where the two walls met in a narrow gap between the shelves. Here a plain wooden chair rested beneath an unlit iron sconce. He glanced back at Iseult, blurred face briefly marred by two dark eyes. So dark they were almost black.
His gaze stayed fixed on Iseult as he motioned to the wall. A flick of his hand, shadows trailing, then two more flicks, and a doorway appeared. Gone were the shelves, gone were the stones. Now, only a low arch descended into darkness.
The Rook King waved again. The stones and the shelves returned.
“What is it?” Iseult asked, even as she knew that he could not answer. She looked back to his face, but his eyes were gone once more.Everything was gone, actually—all of his features had blurred together like water dropped on drying ink.
Iseult stepped toward him.Think, Iseult, think.“Your eyes come and go. Do you have a mouth too? Can you make one form?”
His hands shot up, palms encased in shadow. A warning for her to stop walking.
Iseult stopped.
Then slowly, arms still outstretched, he shook his head. No mouth. No answers. Yet as Iseult watched, a shadowy third arm slid out from his shoulder. It snaked across the space toward the nearest shelf, before stopping beside a plain leather tome.
One moment, the book was there. The next moment, it was not.
“The Carawen book,” Iseult breathed. “The one Leopold took from the Archives. That’s where this doorway is?”
The Rook King bowed, and the shadow arm dissolved to nothing.
“But I can’t go in.” She shrugged helplessly. “I can’t wake up. Evrane keeps me asleep with some… some dark magic.”
A pause. The Rook King’s chest expanded, as if he inhaled. Then his eyes returned, winking into place beneath dark brows. He strode toward her. His left hand swung up, but this time, instead of shadows, there was only light. Bright shards like crystallized fog.
Iseult tried to rock back, but her feet were rooted. Her hands too. Even her head. All she could do was watch as he loped closer.
Then he reached her. His hand touched her face and cold stabbed through, stealing her breath. Claiming her mind. Frost and moonlight and a Dreaming drained dry.
GO.
The command filled her top to bottom, more urgent need than actual word.Go, go, go—now it is time to go.
When Iseult woke up, a sputtering second later, there was no magic to hold her down. No shadows to flap and crow. No Evrane either.
Iseult was free.
And it was time to go.
FORTY-SIX
The Sotar family house stood proudly on White Street, halfway up Queen’s Hill and surrounded by a limestone fence with iron bars. Orange trees and jasmine grew thick within, and at the sight of Vivia and her guards, the two Sotar soldiers within immediately opened the gate.
The conversation Vivia was planning to have, however, was a private one, so she left her personal guards behind and marched to the front door alone. There a page boy also hastened to attend to the Queen-in-Waiting.
Except I am Queen-in-Waiting no longer,Vivia thought. She didn’t know what she was. Princess was the person from before. Captain was too.
She supposed it didn’t really make a difference.
Vizer Sotar met her in a bright sitting room with worn chairs and even more worn flooring and curtains—of which Vivia approved. The Sotar family might produce the most wealth in the nation, their lands insulated from the poison and flames of the war, but they also put more into their own people than anyone else.
“I have not yet heard back from my wife,” Sotar said upon entering the room. He strode into the sunlight, matching Vivia’s stiff pose beside the garden window before offering a bow.
“That isn’t why I’m here.” Vivia turned to face him. She wore no mask now; she was neither bear nor Nihar. She was simply Vivia the little fox, and she hoped that would be enough. “Did you know that my crown has been reclaimed?”
Sotar frowned, as if he’d misheard. “Reclaimed?”
In quick, efficient tones, Vivia explained what she had just learned at the Sentries. No tears. No emotions. No madness. With each word, Sotar’s mouth slackened more and more.
