Windwitch (The Witchlands 2)

Don’t do this. Iseult’s dream-voice crackled out, a distant, fuzzy thing that seemed to echo inside the Puppeteer’s skull.

Iseult sounded meek. Whimpering. She hated it, yet she couldn’t seem to stop it—no more than she could stop Esme from raiding. She picked through Iseult’s mind, like a rat atop the trash heap. Don’t read my thoughts tonight, Esme. Not now. Not ever.

The girl seemed to tense up—a heated sensation that locked up Iseult’s muscles in return. I can’t help it, she defended. I’m not trying to read your thoughts. They’re just floating on the surface. Like that dead fish you saw this morning. And yes, I can see the fish and the cold stream and the Cleaved in the clearing. I can see that you abandoned the Cleaved, as well. Why, Iseult? They were there to help you.

They were trying to kill me, Esme.

A jolt of horror flared through Esme—then across whatever magic she used to haunt Iseult’s dreams. No! I would never hurt you, Iseult. I sent them as friends.

Now it was Iseult’s turn for surprise. I … don’t understand.

A pause. Esme was clearly debating how to reply. Then with a rush of warmth over their bond, she declared, They had gifts for you, Iseult. One was a hunter whose gear I thought you could use. The others were soldiers. To protect you.

Nausea spun up Iseult’s sleeping throat. I-I couldn’t … Iseult broke off. Goddess save her, she was stammering. She didn’t even know she could do that in the Dreaming. I … couldn’t … tell, she forced out, that they wanted to help. The Cleaved acted like they would kill me.

But instead you killed them. A splash of flames from the Puppeteer. You led them onto a Nomatsi road and killed my Cleaved.

Iseult’s nausea pitched faster. She hadn’t killed those men … had she? They were Cleaved—already marked for death.

No, Esme said, her displeasure fanning into hot rage. They were men I cleaved for you, since you foolishly intend to cross the Contested Lands. No one crosses the Contested Lands alone and survives, Iseult. But then you led my Cleaved astray, and they died.

Iseult’s lungs clenched tight. She didn’t want Esme to know about the Bloodwitch; she didn’t want Esme to know about anything. So she turned to the distraction of simple arithmetic. She could run through numbers on the surface, but inside her thoughts could run their course.

Multiplying. Iseult liked multiplying. Nine times three is twenty-seven. Nine times eight … seventy-two.

Iseult was too slow. Esme saw exactly what she’d tried to hide.

Threadless. The girl’s surprise speared through Iseult. Such pure shock, Iseult could almost see turquoise Threads tinting the Dreaming.

Why is the Bloodwitch with you? Esme sounded frantic now. Her panic set Iseult’s breath to choking off. You don’t understand, Iseult—he is dangerous!

I know, Iseult squeezed out. I need his magic, though. I need him to find my Threadsister.

No, Esme cried. I will help you, Iseult. I will help you! He isn’t bound to the world as the rest of us are—you see it, don’t you? He has no Threads!

I … see it. Iseult could offer no other answer, for now shock of her own was winding through her dream-self. You see that too?

Of course I see it! And it means Weaverwitches like us cannot control him. It means he is dangerous, Iseult! You must run fast and run far! Wake up before he kills you in your sleep!

For the first time ever, though, Iseult didn’t want to wake. She didn’t want to be thrust out of the Dreaming. What does it mean, Esme? Tell me. Please.

Later, Iseult. Once he’s gone. Please, I’m begging you—please, WAKE UP.

Iseult woke up.

* * *

Safi had never been more tired. Her knee ached where Lev had kicked it out. Her healing foot ached all the more.

The Hell-Bards had marched all night, a single lantern to light their way. The only breaks had been spent squatting in the woods while Lev kept her crossbow fixed on Safi’s head.

The stars had risen while they trekked ever onward into a changing landscape. The jungle’s canopy gave way to steamy marshes speckled by bursts of trees or lucent marble ruins that cut across the sky. Yet despite the openness of the swamps, Safi preferred the jungle. Here, the ground itself was lumpy, unstable. Grasses as tall as her waist razored and scraped at Safi’s legs, while dark peat suddenly gave way beneath her, sucking Safi down.

She didn’t complain. Not once. Even when the Hell-Bards asked how she felt, she squeezed out, “Fine,” each time.

She wasn’t fine, though. The throb in her knee compounded with each step. The linen-bound ropes at her wrists burned deeper, yet she wouldn’t say a single rutting word about it. She wouldn’t give the Hell-Bards the satisfaction of thinking they had won.

Vaness took the same approach. She never spoke. She never reacted, despite her heavy collar. Despite the mosquitoes that feasted on her more than anyone else. Despite the fat hives that welled up across her arms and legs from each bite.

Safi almost wept at the arrival of dawn, when the jungle took hold once more, and as soon as they reached signs of humanity, she found her chest truly expanding. Her eyes stinging with tears.

She no longer wanted to escape. She simply wanted to stop.

They were at a cluster of huts beside a sluggish river, over which a wood-slatted bridge stretched. Beyond, a full city waited, surrounded by marble ruins stained brown with jagged edges and cooking fire smoke reaching for the sunrise.

Safi wanted to enter that city. The Hell-Bards wanted to enter that city. The empress of Marstok, however, did not. She dug her heels into the dark road and barked, “You cannot take me there.”