Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(83)

As Iseult scrambled to help Safiya, Merik whirled about and left the room, telling himself that Safiya was taken care of. That he wouldn’t think of her now. That he wouldn’t think of her ever again.

Yet when at last he reached the tiller of his father’s ship and caught sight of the Lonely Bastard piercing the horizon ahead, his arms were still warm—his neck still humming from Safiya’s grip.

*

Before Safi had returned, Iseult had been trapped in her nightmares again …

Sever, sever, twist and sever.

Fingers tore at Iseult. Yanked at her hair, her dress, her flesh.

Threads that break, Threads that die!

An arrow ripped through her arm; pain exploded through her entire being. And magic, magic—black, festering magic—

“Nasty dream you’re having.” The shadow’s voice jolted Iseult from the nightmare.

“You tremble and quake so much today,” the shadow continued, a syrup on its voice that was overly gleeful. “What upsets you? It wasn’t just the dream—you have that one all the time.”

Iseult tried to turn away, but every direction she shifted, the shadow followed. Every kick or mental thrust, the shadow avoided. Every desperate retreat, the shadow dug its talons in deeper.

And on and on the shadow babbled—or rather she babbled, for the shadow was a woman. A fellow Threadwitch, convinced that she and Iseult were somehow alike.

It was that talk that frightened Iseult the most. The possibility that this strange voice was like her. That maybe the shadow understood Iseult’s private pains more than anyone else.

Which of course made Iseult wonder if she wasn’t just imagining the entire thing. Going crazy while all of her hopes for the future trickled away between her fingers.

Or maybe Iseult was finally buckling beneath the Threads of the world—her ordinary heart pounded to dust.

“You are upset about your tribe,” the shadow declared matter-of-factly, stumbling on Iseult’s most recent memories. “My tribe pushed me out too, you know, because I wasn’t like the other Threadwitches. I couldn’t make Threadstones or control my feelings, so the tribe didn’t want me. That’s why you left yours, isn’t it?”

The curiosity on the shadow’s voice was double edged. Iseult knew she shouldn’t answer … yet she couldn’t help it when the shadow asked again: “That’s why you left, isn’t it?”

The urge to tell the truth—about her shame with Gretchya, her jealousy of Alma—tickled Iseult’s throat. Why couldn’t she fight this shadow? Use that frustration, she told herself almost frantically. Use that to fight her.

Iseult ripped her dream body sideways and latched on to the first mindless memory she could find: her multiplication tables. Nine times one equals nine. Nine times two equals eighteen—

But the shadow simply laughed.

“It’s silly that we’re expected to feel nothing,” the shadow continued, her tone dulcet once more. “I don’t believe the stories—the ones that say we don’t have Heart-Threads and Thread-families. Of course we do! We just can’t see them is all. Why would the Moon Mother give all of her children such powerful bonds, but then exclude us?”

“I don’t know.” Iseult was grateful for that easy question. If she answered it—if she seemed to cooperate—maybe the shadow would leave.

She didn’t. Instead, the shadow laughed her gleeful laugh and cried, “Why, look! Talking of Thread-families upsets you, Iseult. Why? Why?”

Nine times four equals thirty-six. Nine times five—

“Oh, it’s your mother! And her apprentice. They have left you hurt and broken. Goodness, Iseult, you are so easy to read. All your fears gather at the surface, and I can skim them off like fat from a borgsha pot. Here, I see that you couldn’t make Threadstones, so your mother sent you away. And, oh—what is this?” The shadow was exultant now, and no matter how wildly Iseult fought, she couldn’t keep her thoughts locked away.

“Gretchya and Alma planned their escape before you were even gone! And Iseult, look here—she tried to claim she loved you. Well, she obviously didn’t love you enough to take you with her. She manipulated you quite well, Iseult, just as her job entailed. Just as our job entails. We must weave Threads when we can—and break them when we have to. It’s the only way to untangle the loom.”

The shadow’s voice lowered to a whisper. A sound like wind through a graveyard. “Mark my words, Iseult: Your mother will never love you. And that monk you admire so much? She will never understand you. And Safiya—oh, Safiya! She will leave you one day. One day soon, I think. But you can change that.” The shadow dragged out a pause, and Iseult imagined she was smiling as she did so. “You can change the very weave of the world. Grab hold of Safi’s Threads, Iseult. Break them before they hurt you—”

“No,” Iseult hissed. “I’ve had enough of you. I’ve had … enough.” With every ounce of power in her muscles and her mind, Iseult opened her mouth—in the real world—and said, “Nine times eight equals seventy-two.”

The world plowed into her, carrying pain from her arm and the sound of footsteps—of Safi’s voice.

Iseult opened her eyes, and Safi toppled into her.

*

Safi shivered from the rain, and try as she might, she couldn’t seem to analyze her terrain, to evaluate her opponents—and there was something about strategy she was supposed to consider too.