Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(29)

Goddess save her, what would have happened to Iseult if she hadn’t gotten out of the settlement when she had? How close had she been to wearing the same noose as her mother?

Despite the six and a half years of loathing Iseult had so carefully and intentionally honed, she felt like a knife was digging into her breastbone. Guilt, her brain declared. And pity for your mother.

To think that Corlant had been a Cursewitch all along. Able to kill a person’s magic as easily as Iseult saw a person’s Threads. It was another witchery linked to the Void—and another myth proven to be all too real.

Iseult loosed a breath, careful to keep her head still as Gretchya snip-snip-snipped. “Wh-what…” she began, appalled by the shake in her voice. She could practically feel the frown her mother turned on her—could practically hear the inevitable reprimand: Control your tongue. Control your mind. A Threadwitch never stammers. “What,” Iseult gnashed out at last, “is this Puppeteer?”

“She is a young Threadwitch.” The shears ground against Iseult’s hair—harder, faster. Hair scattered across the floor like sand. “Each passing Nomatsi caravan has had a slightly different tale, but the general story is unchanged. She cannot make Threadstones, she cannot control her emotions, and … and she abandoned her tribe.”

Iseult swallowed tightly. This Puppeteer did sound similar.

“They say that unlike our Aetherial connection to the Threads,” Gretchya continued, “this girl’s power comes from the Void. They say she can control the Cleaved. That she keeps vast armies of them under her command—and in the darkest version of the tale, she even brings the dead back to life.”

Cold latched on to Iseult’s shoulders. “How?”

“The Severed Threads,” Gretchya answered softly. “She claims she can control the Threads of the Cleaved. Bend them to her will, even when they are dead.”

“The three black Threads of the Cleaved,” Iseult whispered, and the snap of the shears abruptly stopped. At the same moment, Alma scurried up from the basement, a black gown in one hand and white blood-wrappings in the other. She hurried to the stove and heaved open the iron door.

Gretchya twisted around to face Iseult. “You know Severed Threads?”

“I have seen them.”

Gretchya’s eyes went wide, her face bloodless. “You must tell no one of this, Iseult. No one. Alma and I thought they were a lie. A way for this Puppeteer—and Corlant too—to scare people.”

Iseult’s mouth went dry. “You can’t see these Threads?”

“No. And we have seen Cleaved before.”

“I-I can’t m-make Threadstones,” Iseult spat, “so why sh-should I be the one who sees these Severed Threads?”

Gretchya was silent, but then she tugged at Iseult’s hair and the snipping of the shears resumed. Moments later, smoke began to curl from the stove. Alma returned to the work table and offered Iseult the traditional black gown of a Threadwitch. Black was the color of all Threads combined, and along the collar, the narrow wrist cuffs, and the skirt’s hem, there were three lines of color: a straight magenta line for the Threads that bind. A swirling sage line for the Threads that build. A dashed gray line for the Threads that break.

“How long do you intend to stay?” Alma’s question was a rough whisper, no louder than the fire.

“Only a single night,” Iseult said, forcing her mind to avoid considering the Bloodwitch. She had enough to worry about in the tribe.

Absently, she picked up a strip of uncut red stone from the worktable. A ruby, Iseult thought, and around it was a strand of sunset pink thread expertly wrapped with loops and knots.

Several stones away was its twin. And Iseult didn’t miss the sapphires along the back of the table or the smattering of opals.

Only in a Threadwitch’s home could one find such valuable jewels left unprotected. But a Threadwitch knew her own stones—she could follow them, even—and no Nomatsi would ever be stupid enough to risk stealing from a Threadwitch.

“Do you like the Threadstone?” Alma asked. She leaned against the table—though she kept rubbing her palms against her thighs as if they sweated.

Yet not once did Gretchya say to Alma, Keep your hands still. A Threadwitch never fidgets.

“Alma made it,” Gretchya said.

Of course you did. Iseult had never been able to get a Threadstone to work, and here was Alma, with a piece to outshine any other.

“I did,” Alma said—though the words almost came out as a question: I did?

Iseult’s gaze snapped to her. “Why would you make a Threadstone for me?” She felt her forehead bunch up, felt her lips curl back. It was such a disgusted face—such an uncontrolled and un-Threadwitch expression—she instantly wished she hadn’t made it.

Alma flinched—yet quickly schooled her face blank and plucked up the second ruby wrapped in pink thread. “It’s a…” She trailed off, glancing at Gretchya as if unsure what to say.

“It’s a gift,” Gretchya prompted. “Do not be shy—Iseult only frowns at you because she is confused and cannot control her expressions.”

Heat licked up Iseult’s face. Irate heat. Or perhaps shamed heat. “But how did you make it?” she ground out. “I’m a Threadwitch—you can’t see my Threads, so you can’t attach them to a stone.”