Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(16)

Iseult was scarcely listening. “Does all the nobility i-include Safi?”

Habim’s expression softened. His Threads flickered to a gentle, peach tenderness. “That includes Safi. Which means she currently has her uncle—and an entire court of doms and domnas—to protect her from Yotiluzzi’s Bloodwitch. But you…”

Habim didn’t have to utter the rest. Safi had her title to protect her, and Iseult had her heritage to damn her.

Iseult’s hands lifted. Rubbed her cheeks. Her temples. But her fingers were only a distant sensation of pressure on her skin—just as the crowds were a throbbing hum, the rattle of the guards’ drums a low hiss.

“So what can I do?” she asked at last. “I can’t afford passage on a boat, and even if I could, I have nowhere to go.”

Habim waved to the end of the alley. “There’s an inn called The Hawthorn Canal a few blocks away. I’ve hired a room and a horse there. You’ll stay overnight, and then tomorrow, at sunset, you can travel to The Hawthorn Canal’s sister inn on the north side. Mathew and I will be waiting for you. In the meantime, we’ll deal with the Bloodwitch.”

“Why only one night, though? What could possibly h-happen in one night?”

For a long breath, Habim stared so intently it was as if he could read Iseult’s Threads. As if he could search her for truth or lies. “Safi was born a domna. You have to remember that, Iseult. All her training has been toward that one thing. Tonight, she is needed at the Truce Summit. Henrick has openly demanded her presence, which means she cannot refuse—and it means you cannot stand in her way.”

With those simple words—you cannot stand in her way—Iseult’s breath hardened in her lungs. For all that Safi might have lost their savings, and for all that a Bloodwitch might have latched on to their trail, Iseult had still believed that everything would blow over. That this snarl in the loom would somehow untangle, and life would return to normal in a few weeks.

But this … this felt like the end. Safi was going to have to be a domna, plain and simple, and there was no room for Iseult in that life.

Loss, she thought vaguely as she tried to identify the feeling in her chest. This must be loss.

“I’ve told you this before,” Habim said gruffly. His gaze raked up and down, like a general inspecting a soldier. “A hundred times, I’ve told you, Iseult, yet you never listen to me. You never believe. Why did Mathew and I encourage your friendship with Safi? Why did we decide to train you alongside her?”

Iseult squeezed the air from her chest, willing the thoughts and the shame to ebb away. “Because,” she recited, “no one can protect Safi like her Thread-family.”

“Exactly. Thread-family bonds are unbreakable—and you know that better than anyone else. The day that you saved Safi’s life six years ago, you and she were bound together as Threadsisters. To this day, you would die for Safi, just as she would die for you. So do this for her, Iseult. Hide away for the night, let Mathew and I deal with the Bloodwitch, and then return to Safi’s side tomorrow.”

A pause. Then Iseult nodded gravely. Quit being a fanciful fool, she chided herself—exactly as her mother had always done. This wasn’t the end at all, and Iseult should have been smart enough to see that right away.

“Give me your scythes,” Habim ordered. “I’ll return them to you tomorrow.”

“They’re my only weapons.”

“Yes, but you’re Nomatsi. If you get stopped at another blockade … We can’t risk it.”

Iseult gave a rough scrub at her nose, and then muttered, “Fine,” before unstrapping her prized blades. Almost childishly, she thrust them at Habim. His Threads flickered with a sad blue as he moved deeper into the alley and swooped up a waxed canvas bag from the shadows. He withdrew a rough black blanket.

“This is salamander fiber.” He draped it over Iseult’s head and shoulders and fastened it with a simple pin. “As long as you wear this, the Bloodwitch can’t smell you. Do not remove it until we’re together tomorrow night.”

Iseult nodded; the stiff fabric resisted the movement. And Moon Mother save her, it was hot.

Habim then reached into his pocket and plunked out a sack of clanking coins. “This should cover the cost of the inn and a horse.”

After accepting the piestras, Iseult turned to a dilapidated door. The sounds of chopping knives and boiling pots drifted through the wood, yet her hand paused on the rusted doorknob.

This felt … wrong.

What sort of Threadsister would Iseult be if she left Safi without a good-bye—or at least a backup plan for those inevitable worst-case scenarios?

“Can you give Safi a message?” Iseult asked, keeping her words calm. At Habim’s nod, she continued. “Tell Safi that I’m sorry I had to go and that she’d better not lose my favorite book. And … oh.” Iseult raised her eyebrows, feigning an afterthought. “Please tell her not to slit your throat, since I’m sure she’ll try to once she finds out you’ve sent me away.”

“I’ll tell her,” Habim said, voice and Threads solemn. “Now hurry. That Bloodwitch is no doubt on his way right now.”

Iseult bowed her head once—a soldier to her general—before yanking open the door and marching into the steamy, crowded kitchen.