Windwitch (The Witchlands #2)v(73)

Iseult had no idea how she was here. She had drifted off just a few moments earlier, while the Bloodwitch stood guard nearby. Then she had awoken—if it could even be called that—in this tower. Her vision had been fuzzy at first, the bricks of this top floor blurring into a gray mass, the darkness of the night outside like a black blob in the middle. Iseult had recognized it anyway.

She had recognized the Puppeteer too, even though she’d never seen the girl. Esme sat on a stool, facing a desk on which books were piled. Candles shimmered on the desk, on the windowsill, on jutting stones in the wall, casting the entire space in a flickering warmth.

Esme’s long black hair was divided into two braids, and as Iseult’s vision cleared, she realized the bright bursts of color within Esme’s hair were actually strips of felt. Strings of beads. Dried flowers too.

When at last the girl turned, it was clear from her soft cry and widening hazel eyes, that she hadn’t realized anyone was present.

Then her pale Nomatsi face lit up. “It’s you,” she whispered, before racing across the uneven floor toward Iseult.

Iseult’s dream-body reeled back two steps. The room turned foggy, unraveling around the edges. Esme reached her. Everything sharpened to a perfect, crisp focus as if Iseult were truly standing in the room.

Except that when Esme reached for Iseult, her hands cut right through.

The girl laughed, an easy, lilting sound. “It’s as if you’re standing here with me! You look so clear. How?” She scurried left, circling Iseult. Her eyes raking up and down.

“I … I don’t know.” Iseult’s dream-tongue felt fat. Her throat too tight.

“You’re taller than I thought you’d be,” Esme chimed, clapping her hands. “And more muscled.” She grabbed for Iseult’s biceps, but of course, her fingers whispered through.

Another delighted laugh. She pranced back in front of Iseult, and this time her attention fixed on Iseult’s face.

A frown knit down her forehead. “You have a scar beside your eye. Like a red teardrop. When did that happen?”

Lejna, Iseult wanted to snap. The Poisonwitches that you cleaved. But she swallowed her dream-words. If Esme had been angry about Iseult’s treatment of those Cleaved on the Nomatsi road, how would she feel about the ones Iseult and Aeduan had decapitated in Lejna?

Fortunately, Esme didn’t noticed Iseult’s silence. Instead, she was opening her arms and asking, “Do I look as you expected?”

Iseult forced herself to nod, even though it wasn’t true. The Puppeteer was much prettier—easily the most beautiful Nomatsi woman Iseult had ever seen, with her delicate jaw and lucent white skin. The flashes of color in her long hair enhanced the beauty, as did the dimple in her right cheek that flashed whenever she smiled.

“You’re … smaller than I imagined.” That, at least, was true. Esme’s petite stature simply didn’t align with the enormous magic she controlled.

“What a wonderful surprise to have you here.” Esme’s dimple sank deeper. “I was studying, as I always do at this hour. Night is the only time I have for myself.” The dimple vanished—but just for a moment. Then her grin rallied, and she traipsed off toward the desk.

“You must be in one of the old places,” she called over her shoulder. “Somewhere like my tower, where the walls between this world and the Old Ones is thinner. But which place, I wonder?” She grabbed a ragged tome off her desk, setting the nearest candles to guttering.

Then she spun toward Iseult. “OPEN YOUR EYES.”

The strength of the command—and the surprise of it—slammed over Iseult. She couldn’t resist, not before the tower scene dissolved and the ruins where Iseult slept coalesced.

Esme exhaled more glee. Somehow, she stood beside Iseult, her book clutched tight, and Iseult was hovering above her own sleeping body. Ice splintered through Iseult’s dream-self. She’d never seen magic like this. Never heard of it either.

Esme didn’t notice Iseult’s distress. The Puppeteer was, for once, fully separate from Iseult’s mind. No reading of Iseult’s thoughts, no stealing of Iseult’s secrets.

“This is definitely a palace from the old days. Those statues give it away. But are they owls or are they rooks?”

Owls? Iseult looked to where Esme motioned. Starlight poured over the eroded monoliths in each corner of the room; they looked like nothing but stone slabs covered in yellow lichen to Iseult. Not owls or rooks or anything else.

“And of course,” Esme continued, “the ease with which we can speak also shows this place for what it is.” She was talking to herself now, and after kneeling at the center of the room, she opened the book. There was no light to read by, but Esme didn’t need it. It was as if the candles in Poznin transferred here.

Iseult crept closer to Esme, her eyes bouncing from whatever it was the Puppeteer inspected to her own sleeping self. Wrong.

Iseult’s body never stirred, and Esme’s pages made no sound. Wrong, wrong. In fact, nothing but Esme’s voice carried here.

“I don’t see this place,” Esme said, sitting cross-legged. “Eridysi’s notes don’t mention it.”

“Eridysi?” The name blurted out before Iseult could stop it. Before she could even let the name sink in—for of course Esme couldn’t be referring to Eridysi the Sightwitch who’d written the famous “Lament” centuries before. Just as Iseult’s old rag doll hadn’t been named after that Eridysi either but had merely been a name she’d found pretty as a little girl.