Windwitch (The Witchlands #2)v(116)

Leaving Iseult to finally, finally claim a moment of peace to herself.

“Where are you going?” Aeduan asked as she skirted past him, heading back toward the pond.

“Not far.” She motioned vaguely ahead. “I need … a drink from the pond. I’ll be back soon.”

He frowned, and though he didn’t argue, it was also clear he didn’t approve—and heat flushed in Iseult’s cheeks. They had come far in this odd partnership to now be holding to each other accountable.

Iseult reached the pond, breathing heavier than she ought. But at least there was no one to disturb her. No one to hear her creep to the pond’s edge and crouch above the water.

Her reflection stretched across the surface. It wobbled ever so slightly at the edges, as if it didn’t know who it was.

Sever, sever, twist and sever.

Iseult looked away, fingers rising to her Threadstone.

She looped off the leather thong and peered at the ruby. It rested atop the silver taler, in her palm.

“Safi,” she whispered. Her other hand clamped over the stone. “Safi,” she repeated, straining. Stretching. Feeling for Threads.

Safi was out there, and this stone was bound to her. If Esme could do this dream-walking, and if …

Well, if Iseult was truly like Esme, then she could perhaps dream-walk too.

But nothing came. Nothing, nothing, thrice-damned nothing. “Weasels piss on you,” Iseult whispered, and heat plucked at her eyes. She sniffed, and held the stone tighter. “Where the rut are you, Safi?”

Swearing doesn’t suit you, Iz. You are simply too poised to pull it off.

“Safi?” Iseult fell to her haunches. A rock pierced her thigh. “Is that you?”

Who else would it be? It’s my dream.

It was working. Iseult couldn’t believe it, but it was working.

“This isn’t a dream, Saf. I’m really here. I’m really talking to you.”

Of course it’s a dream. I think I would know, since I’m the one sleeping.

“Saf, it’s Thread…” Iseult hesitated, cold spiderwebbing through her chest. For this wasn’t Thread magic, was it? This was Esme’s magic, and Esme was not a Threadwitch.

Whatever it was—whatever this witchery could do—it couldn’t be all bad if Iseult could talk to Safi.

She swallowed. “It’s magic,” was all she said at last. “And trust me, this is real.”

A pause stretched between them. Then giddy pink Threads filled Iseult’s mind—and warmth too. A beam of Safi’s sunshine to chase away the cold.

Goddess, Iseult had missed that feeling.

And goddess, she had missed her Threadsister.

Well, weasels piss on me is right! Safi’s dream-voice took on a breathy, elated quality. We’re actually talking right now, Iz! Can you thrice-damned believe it?

Iseult couldn’t help it. She laughed.

Safi laughed too, and sunset colors shimmered over their bond. The Threads of friendship.

Before Iseult could revel in that perfect shade, a figure caught her eye. A shape moving amid the pines.

No Threads. Her heart jolted. It was Aeduan—of course it was Aeduan, yet why did he have to come this way now?

Iseult spoke faster. “Where are you, Safi? Are you safe?”

I’m on a ship to Azmir, and yes. I’m safe. We should arrive at the capital tomorrow. Where are you?

“I’m c-coming for you.” Iseult’s tongue was turning fat. She had so much to say. This couldn’t be over already. But now Aeduan was almost to the submerged wall. He would be close enough to hear Iseult soon. “I-I won’t be in Azmir for a while, Saf, but I’ll get there as soon as I can. I have to go now.”

Wait! Stay! Please, Iz!

“I … can’t,” she gritted out.

Just tell me, are you safe? And don’t lie, Iz. I’ll know.

Iseult couldn’t help it. Her stammer slid away, and she smiled. “I’m safe, Safi. We’ll talk again soon. I promise.” Then she lifted her hand from the ruby.

In two breaths, Safi’s Threads had drifted away. Iseult’s heart was left cold as she slipped the leather back around her neck.

Then Aeduan stepped onto the shore. He stayed silent as he crossed the rocks, and to Iseult’s surprise, she found her frustration already leaching away.

For, of course, she could simply dream-walk again. Her time with Safi wasn’t over. It was only just beginning.

Aeduan stopped nearby and inspected his reflection like Iseult had done. No sitting, of course, for Iseult doubted he ever sat. Or relaxed. Or did anything that normal humans did.

Then again, Iseult supposed, she wasn’t precisely normal either. Weaverwitch—

No. She would not think of that.

Iseult plunked her hands into the water. Its icy grip banished her thoughts. Deeper she dug, until her elbows were under. Her biceps—

“Fireflies.”

“What?” Iseult splashed upright. Chill bumps raced down her arms.

“There.” Aeduan waved across the pond. “Fireflies. They’re good luck in Marstok, I’ve heard. And children make wishes on them.” There was something light to Aeduan’s voice, as if he …

“Are you making a joke?” Iseult pushed to her feet. Water droplets splattered across the stone.