Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

“My, my,” the shadow declared, “you are very ill, and if you die, I won’t learn anything.” The shadow pressed in more closely, and its fingers rummaged through Iseult’s thoughts. “It’s hard to read you anyway—you’re quite closed off. Has anyone ever told you that before?” The shadow didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, a question thundered through Iseult’s mind. “DO YOU TRAVEL WITH A TRUTHWITCH NAMED SAFIYA?”

Iseult’s gut went tight. The ice along her spine slashed outward. With every bit of strength and training Iseult could muster, she slammed down on her emotions, her thoughts, and every fragment of knowledge that threatened to rise to the surface.

But she was too slow. The shadow sensed her fear and lunged for it.

“You do! You do! You must to have such a wild response. Oh, Lady Fate favors me today. This was all so much easier than I expected.” Happiness rippled off the shadow. Iseult imagined it was clapping its delight. “Now, you must stay alive, little Threadwitch, yes? Can you manage that? I will need you again when the time comes.”

Time? Iseult thought, unable to speak. “Until we meet again!” the shadow trilled. Then the dark presence swept away.

And Iseult awoke to the real world.

The next several minutes were a blur of the monk helping Iseult sit up, of Safi’s Threads flaring from across the room, of the world spinning and swaying.

“Safi?”

“I’m here, Iz.”

Iseult relaxed slightly—until the monk inspected her bandage. Then it took all of Iseult’s self-control not to shriek at her to get the hell away! Oh, Moon Mother save her, how could there be so much pain?

You are very ill indeed—that was what the shadow voice had said and, watching the frightened gray Threads that flickered over both the monk and Safi, Iseult had no doubt the voice was right.

What she didn’t know, though, was whether the voice was real.

Iseult grabbed for the monk’s wrist. “Will I die?”

The monk went very still. “You … could die. The muscle is cursed, but I am doing all I can to keep the blood clean.”

Iseult almost laughed at that. Corlant must have cursed his arrow. No wonder he looked so smug after shooting me. He’d known the wound would kill her in the end.

Though … why? The reason why Corlant wanted Iseult dead was still lost to her. If he’d truly only craved revenge against Gretchya and Alma, then he wouldn’t have so blatantly aimed his arrow at Iseult.

It was more than Iseult could sort through right now. Too many thoughts, confusing and contradictory. No mental strength to carry it all.

“Water will help.” The monk dipped her head to a water bag. “Please try to drink while I find food.” She rolled to her feet and glided from the room.

Iseult swiveled her head toward Safi. For a flicker of a heartbeat, Iseult almost wished she could cry—could squeeze out a few teardrops as easily as the rest of the world. Just so Safi would know how relieved Iseult was to have her there. “You’re chained up.”

A wince pulled at Safi’s eyes. “I upset the Admiral.”

“Of course you did.”

“It’s not funny.” Safi sank against the wall, her Threads pulsing between the same gray and concerned green. “Things are bad, Iz, but I’ll fix them, all right? I swear, I’ll fix them. Evrane has promised to help us.”

Evrane. So that was the monk’s name. Evrane. So plain and unassuming.

“What happened to you, Iz? How did you get hurt?”

Iseult loosed a ragged breath. “Later,” she murmured. “I’ll explain … later. Tell me how we got here.”

Safi threw a cautious glance at the door before lowering her voice. “It all started in Veñaza City, right after Habim sent you away.”

As Safi described what had passed, Iseult found it harder and harder to stay tethered to the real world—to pick out the details that mattered.

Chocolate strawberries … Not important, she decided hazily. But dancing with Prince Merik of Nubrevna? Important. And being named the betrothed of Henrick fon Cartorra—all because the Emperor might know about Safi’s magic …

“Wait,” Iseult cut in, blinking against the pain in her arm. “You’re the Emperor’s betrothed? Does that make you the Empress of Cartorra—”

“No!” Safi blurted. Then more calmly, “Uncle Eron said I wouldn’t have to marry Henrick.”

“But if Henrick knows about your magic, then what does that mean? Who else knows?”

“I don’t know.” Safi’s forehead pinched up. Then, in an even faster rush of words, she finished her tale.

But the second half of the story was more confusing than the first, and Iseult couldn’t seem to move past the betrothal. If Safi became Empress, then Iseult would have nowhere to go.

The door clicked open. Evrane slipped in with a bowl.

“Why,” Evrane hissed at Safi, “does my patient look twice as pale as when I left? You have exhausted her, Domna!”

“I’m always pale as death,” Iseult said, winning a taut smile from Safi.

When at last Evrane had deemed Iseult sufficiently fed, she eased Iseult onto her back. Then Safi lifted her voice, chains rattling. “I’ll find a Firewitch healer, Iz, all right? I swear to you I will, and I swear that you will get better.”

“Oath accepted,” Iseult breathed. Her eyes were too heavy to keep open, so she let them flutter shut. “If you don’t find a healer, Saf, and I die, I promise to haunt you for the rest … of your miserable … life.”