But this … this felt like the end. Safi was going to have to be a domna, plain and simple, and there was no room for Iseult in that life.
Loss, she thought vaguely as she tried to identify the feeling in her chest. This must be loss.
“I’ve told you this before,” Habim said gruffly. His gaze raked up and down, like a general inspecting a soldier. “A hundred times, I’ve told you, Iseult, yet you never listen to me. You never believe. Why did Mathew and I encourage your friendship with Safi? Why did we decide to train you alongside her?”
Iseult squeezed the air from her chest, willing the thoughts and the shame to ebb away. “Because,” she recited, “no one can protect Safi like her Thread-family.”
“Exactly. Thread-family bonds are unbreakable—and you know that better than anyone else. The day that you saved Safi’s life six years ago, you and she were bound together as Threadsisters. To this day, you would die for Safi, just as she would die for you. So do this for her, Iseult. Hide away for the night, let Mathew and I deal with the Bloodwitch, and then return to Safi’s side tomorrow.”
A pause. Then Iseult nodded gravely. Quit being a fanciful fool, she chided herself—exactly as her mother had always done. This wasn’t the end at all, and Iseult should have been smart enough to see that right away.
“Give me your scythes,” Habim ordered. “I’ll return them to you tomorrow.”
“They’re my only weapons.”
“Yes, but you’re Nomatsi. If you get stopped at another blockade … We can’t risk it.”
Iseult gave a rough scrub at her nose, and then muttered, “Fine,” before unstrapping her prized blades. Almost childishly, she thrust them at Habim. His Threads flickered with a sad blue as he moved deeper into the alley and swooped up a waxed canvas bag from the shadows. He withdrew a rough black blanket.
“This is salamander fiber.” He draped it over Iseult’s head and shoulders and fastened it with a simple pin. “As long as you wear this, the Bloodwitch can’t smell you. Do not remove it until we’re together tomorrow night.”
Iseult nodded; the stiff fabric resisted the movement. And Moon Mother save her, it was hot.
Habim then reached into his pocket and plunked out a sack of clanking coins. “This should cover the cost of the inn and a horse.”
After accepting the piestras, Iseult turned to a dilapidated door. The sounds of chopping knives and boiling pots drifted through the wood, yet her hand paused on the rusted doorknob.
This felt … wrong.
What sort of Threadsister would Iseult be if she left Safi without a good-bye—or at least a backup plan for those inevitable worst-case scenarios?
“Can you give Safi a message?” Iseult asked, keeping her words calm. At Habim’s nod, she continued. “Tell Safi that I’m sorry I had to go and that she’d better not lose my favorite book. And … oh.” Iseult raised her eyebrows, feigning an afterthought. “Please tell her not to slit your throat, since I’m sure she’ll try to once she finds out you’ve sent me away.”
“I’ll tell her,” Habim said, voice and Threads solemn. “Now hurry. That Bloodwitch is no doubt on his way right now.”
Iseult bowed her head once—a soldier to her general—before yanking open the door and marching into the steamy, crowded kitchen.
SIX
As the snare drums approached, Safi’s wrath riled higher and higher. The only reason she didn’t chase after that cursed Nubrevnan as he strode toward his ship (with his shirt still unbuttoned) was because the tallest, palest man she’d ever seen marched beside him … And because Safi had lost sight of Iseult.
But her frantic search for her Threadsister was interrupted when the footsteps and the drumbeats of the approaching guard cut off. When the crowds along the pier fell silent.
A slice, a thunk … a splatter.
For a long moment, the only sounds were the pigeons, the breeze, and the calm waves.
Then a strangled sob—someone who’d known the dead man, perhaps—cut the silence like a serrated knife. It echoed in Safi’s ears. Shook in her rib cage. A minor chord to fill a hole left behind.
A hand landed on Safi’s bicep. Habim. “This way, Safi. There’s a carriage—”
“I need to find Iseult,” she said, unmoving. Unblinking.
“She’s gone somewhere safe.” Habim’s expression was grim—but that was nothing unusual. “I promise,” he added, and Safi’s magic whispered, True. A warm purr in her chest.
So, stiff as a ship’s mast, Safi followed Habim to a nondescript, covered carriage. Once she was seated within, he shut the door and yanked a heavy black curtain over the window. Then, in curt tones, Habim explained how he and Mathew had recognized the girls by their weapons and had shortly thereafter found Mathew’s destroyed shop.
Shame crept up Safi’s neck as she listened. Mathew was more than just her tutor. He was family, and now Safi’s mistakes had ruined his home.
Yet when Habim mentioned sending Iseult to an inn—alone, unprotected—all of the afternoon’s horror was swallowed up by skull-rattling rage. Safi dove for the door …
Habim had her in a stranglehold before she could even twist the knob. “If you open that door,” he growled, “the Bloodwitch will smell you. If you keep it shut, however, then the monk can’t trace you. That curtain is made of salamander fiber, Safi, and Iseult is wearing a cloak of the same fabric right now.”