The urge to lie was overwhelming—and not just a lie for Merik, but a story that Iseult could cling to as well.
It wasn’t my fault, she wanted to say. The Cleaved got to her, and that wasn’t my fault either.
But it was Iseult’s fault, and she knew it.
“Evrane was attacked by the Cleaved.” Iseult’s tone was colorless. Deliberate. A thousand leagues away and coming from a different person’s mouth. “I don’t know if she survived. I followed her, but she left the city.”
Merik’s Threads gave out then. The blue grief took hold completely, and he blinked back tears, his breaths choking in a way that must have sent pain shattering through his broken ribs.
That was when the glacier finally cracked, and Iseult gave up her control. She curled onto her knees beside Merik and, for the second time in her life, Iseult det Midenzi cried.
She had killed so many people today. Not on purpose, and not directly, yet the burden seemed no less vast. No less complete.
She almost … she almost wished Corlant’s curse had killed her in the end. At least then all of these lost souls might still be alive.
Eventually, Merik was too ill for her to ignore. He was pale, shaking, and his Threads were fading too fast.
So Iseult shoved aside everything she felt—every Thread that was never meant to hold sway—and she scooted closer to Merik. “Where is the Jana?” she asked, thinking his crew could get him to a healer. She and Safi had left the horses, and Iseult had no idea where the nearest living city might be. “Highness, I need to know where the Jana is.” She cupped his face. “How can I reach it?”
Merik was shivering now, his arms clutched to his chest, yet his skin roasting to the touch. His Threads were growing paler and paler …
But Iseult would be damned if she was going to let him die. She leaned in close. Made him meet her eyes. “How can I contact the Jana, Highness?”
“Lejna’s wind … drum,” he croaked. “Hit it.”
Iseult released his face, her gaze flying over the street … There. At the eastern corner of town, only a few blocks away, was a drum identical to the one on the Jana.
Iseult scrabbled upright. The salty morning spun, and her muscles felt like shredded glass. But she put one foot in front of the other … until at last she reached the drum.
She hefted up the mallet—there was only one, and she prayed it was a bewitched one, able to blast wind far and true. Then Iseult pounded the drum. Over and over and over again.
As she hammered—as she slammed her soul and her mistakes into the hide drumhead—she strategized. Because she still had that. She still had the skills to analyze her terrain and her opponents. She still had the instincts to pick the best battlegrounds.
Safi had initiated something a bit larger this time—getting kidnapped by Marstoks was definitely a new high—but no matter what it took, Iseult would figure it out.
She would get Merik to a healer.
She would find a way to stop the Puppeteer—to keep that shadow girl from ever cleaving anyone again.
She would get answers about Corlant’s curse—and perhaps find Gretchya and Alma again too.
And, above all, Iseult would go after Safi. Just as she beat this wind-drum, just as she ignored the screaming in her arms and the exhaustion in her legs, she would follow Safi and she would get her back.
Threadsisters to the end.
Mhe verujta.
* * *
Merik was unconscious when the Jana arrived. By the time he reached Noden’s Gift and the Origin Well, he was almost dead. There was saltwater in his wounds, his witchery had been pushed too far, and his three broken ribs didn’t want to heal.
When he finally awoke on a low bed in an upside-down cabin in Noden’s Gift, he found his aunt beside him, her silver hair as radiant as always. Her tender smile shaking with relief.
“I have good news,” she told him, her grin quickly shifting to a concentrated frown as she dabbed salve onto Merik’s arms, his face, his hands. “The Voicewitches in Lovats have been calling Hermin nonstop all day. It would seem that, despite their attack on Lejna, the Marstoks want to open trade. Yet they will only negotiate with you, Merik—and I imagine that has Vivia frothing at the mouth.”
“Ah.” Merik sighed, knowing he should be happy. Trade was all he’d ever wanted, and now he had proven that he could bring it back to Nubrevna.
Yet the triumph tasted like ash, and he couldn’t convince himself it had been worth the cost.
“Where is … Iseult?” he asked, voice reedy and weak.
Evrane’s expression soured. “Your crew left her in Lejna. Apparently, she convinced Hermin that she was fine by herself—that she had someone coming to meet her at a coffee shop.”
As Merik tried to puzzle through whom Iseult could possibly meet, Evrane went on to describe how Prince Leopold had vanished from Noden’s Gift. “One moment, he was in the brig, under heavy guard, and the next, his cell was completely empty. All I can guess is that a Glamourwitch somehow helped him escape.”
It was too much for Merik’s grief-addled, pain-stricken brain. He shook his head, mumbled something about dealing with it all later, and then settled into a magically induced, healing sleep.
Two days later—and three days after losing Kullen—Merik finally trekked from Noden’s Gift to the Nihar cove. Evrane parted ways with him, claiming she had to go to the Carawen Monastery immediately, and Merik couldn’t push past his pride long enough to ask her to stay.