Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(67)

*

Iseult was stuck in the half-dreaming again. Voices lingered outside of her awareness, and dreams hovered just beyond. Someone was here.

It wasn’t the people in the ship’s cabin, of which Iseult could hazily hear. This presence was a different shadow—someone who wriggled and writhed in the back of her mind.

Wake up, Iseult told herself.

“Stay asleep,” the shadow murmured. It had a voice she knew: Iseult’s own voice. “Stay asleep but open your eyes…”

The voice was stronger than Iseult. It coated her mind with a sticky, inescapable syrup, and though Iseult screamed at herself to awaken, all she managed was exactly what the voice wanted.

She cracked open her eyes, and saw the cabin’s oiled bulkhead.

“A boat,” the shadow murmured. “Now tell me, Threadwitch, what is your name?” The shadow still spoke in Iseult’s voice, though there was a giddy layer over her words, as if she constantly smiled. “And do you travel with another girl? A Truthwitch? You must, for there are only so many Threadwitches at sea right now—three, to be exact, of which only one is the appropriate age.”

“Who,” Iseult began, though she had to fight to get the single word over her lips. Her voice sounded a million miles away, and she wondered if perhaps she actually spoke in the real world—if that was why her throat seemed to burn with the effort. “Who are you?”

The shadow’s glee solidified, and an icy trickle slid down Iseult’s spine. “You are the first person to sense me! No one has ever heard what I say or what I command. They simply follow orders. How is it that you know I’m here?”

Iseult didn’t answer. Just voicing the one question had sent white-hot pain through her body.

“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.”