“What?” Iseult glanced up and found Owl canted in close to the unconscious man, like a dog sniffing a cornered hare. Light glanced off something in her hand.

A knife. She must have pulled it from Iseult’s things.

“Poke,” Owl repeated, brandishing the blade. “Wake him?”

“That will kill him.” Hell-gates and goat tits, did the Moon Mother hate her? Iseult darted for the knife. “Owl, give that to me.”

The child swiped backward, laughing. First a childish squeal, then a wilder, gleeful giggle when Iseult grabbed for her waist instead. Iseult was tired; Owl was fast; and in a blur of high-pitched shrieking, she scampered for a corner behind the bed. “Poke, poke, poke—”

A knocking boomed at the door. Iseult froze. Owl froze. Then came Aeduan’s voice, “It’s me.”

Of course it was him. There were no Threads—it had to be him.

With a flip of her wrist, Owl unlocked the bolt. Aeduan strode in, drenched and splattering water to the floorboards. “There is trouble,” he said, eyes instantly finding Iseult’s. “You need to leave.”

It was like dropping a cannonball on a frozen pond, yet instead of the ice shattering—instead of Iseult or Owl bursting into movement at Aeduan’s return—the ice did not crack. Nobody moved. Aeduan’s words shivered in the air and stayed there while Owl and Iseult gaped at him from the other side of the bed.

In that odd pause between Aeduan’s declaration and Iseult’s comprehension she realized what a strange tableau must stand before him: Iseult stooped over Owl, Owl in the corner with a knife, and an unconscious man tied to the bed mere paces away.

Then Aeduan moved, and everyone else followed. He shut the door. Owl dropped the knife. And Iseult scrambled around the bed.

“He was following me.” Her words came out garbled and thick. “Th-then I thought he was going to attack, so I a-attacked him first.”

Aeduan simply repeated what he had said before: “You need to leave.” Then he added, words clipped and efficient, “Someone saw you attack him. Soldiers are coming to arrest you. I passed them on my return. I heard them name our room and your face. You and Owl cannot stay here, Iseult. Go to the Monastery. They will protect you.”

Iseult’s breath rushed out. She had known this might be coming. Yet despite that, her mind couldn’t keep up. “How close are they?”

“Minutes away, at most. The damage from the storm has slowed them. You can find horses in the stable, and I will deal with Prince Leopold.”

And there it was again. The cannonball to slam down and thud against the ice. Prince Leopold. Prince. Leopold. Oh goddess save her, what had she done?

As if on cue, a voice thick with sleep drawled out in Cartorran, “Monk Aeduan? Is that you?”

Iseult twirled toward the man. Toward the prince. No more hazy Threads of sleep, but rather turquoise shock and hints of gray fear, spiraling straight into the sky.

“What is the meaning of this?” he began. Then his green eyes fell on Iseult. His expression faltered. “You.”

Iseult had no idea what that meant. You. He had been following her, he had been crouched outside the room, trying to get in—so obviously he knew who she was.

Although, suddenly her earlier theory that he worked for Corlant no longer made sense. Suddenly, she had a thousand questions fighting for space in her brain. Why was he hunting her? Why had he carried a pistol?

No time to ask them. No time to dwell. Soldiers were coming because Iseult had been so stupid.

In a flurry, she finished shoving gear into their packs while Aeduan turned his attention to Owl. The girl had crawled under the bed, her Threads shining with fear.

“Take me with you,” the prince said. No one listened. He strained against his bonds, body half upright beside the bed—and gaze still transfixed on Iseult. “Please,” he said. “Please, Iseult det Midenzi. Take me with you.”

At the sound of her name, cold hardened in Iseult’s lungs. She paused, her pack halfway onto her back and confusion swiping across her face. Her eyes bulged, her lips parted, and with the onslaught of emotion came an onslaught of theories and contradictions.

He must be Mathew’s contact and I’m supposed to meet him.

But then why was he following me? Why not go to the coffee shop?

No, he must be working with Eron fon Hasstrel. How else would he know my name?

But why would he work to depose his own uncle, then?

Before Iseult could organize her thoughts into any logical, cohesive order, Threads drifted into the periphery of her magic. Hostile, focused, and bound in a way that suggested they followed the same orders. They filed into the yard outside.

Oh, the Moon Mother hated her indeed. She should never have attacked Leopold—a thrice-damned prince—and she should never have dragged his body into their room.

She dropped the pack and vaulted for the lantern beside the door. A rough exhale across the flame. “Soldiers,” she told the sudden darkness. “They’ve reached the inn.”

At those words, a rattle took hold of the room. A faint trembling—so subtle at first, Iseult didn’t know what the sound was. Like insect wings or ferns on a breeze. Then she realized it was the glass in the mirror, the glass in the window.

Then she realized she had spoken in Nomatsi. Owl had understood, and now the girl’s Threads were pulsing brighter, and then brighter still in a terror that split the shadows of the room. All while the faint, almost invisible Threads of her earth magic tendriled outward, reaching for whatever substance she could control. First the window, then the mirror, and now the sconce that had held the lantern’s flame. How much longer before her magic latched onto the screws and bolts? The bricks and the stones that kept this inn upright? Iseult had worried she’d burn them all to the ground, but it was far more likely Owl would topple them first.

In moments, Iseult’s vision had adjusted to the darkness. Aeduan now knelt beside the girl. The prince still strained against his bindings, bed creaking, and beneath the shaking glass around them, shouts now trembled through the floorboards. The soldiers were inside the inn.

“I can help you.” It was the prince, his voice and Threads intense with concentration. No panic here, only calm insistence. “I have a gelding in the stable—take him, and I will handle the soldiers.”

“How?” Iseult asked at the same time that Aeduan snapped, “No.”

“I can distract the soldiers long enough for you to get away. But you have to untie me.”

Again, Aeduan said, “No,” but Iseult ignored him. She had caught this man and brought hell-fire onto their heads. Maybe … maybe that act need not be a total waste. Especially if Leopold was the one meant to meet her all along.

She crossed the room in four long strides and glared down at the prince. Moonlight flooded in through the rain-speckled window, draining him of color. “Why should we trust you?”

“What other options do you have?” he demanded, and Iseult was inclined to agree. There was no time left for subtlety, nor time for clever word games. Iseult needed a straight answer from the prince. Now.

“Do you work for Safi’s uncle?”

Surprise and a quick skittering of confusion spiraled through his Threads. “You know about that?”

“Iseult,” Aeduan cut in, Owl clinging tightly to his leg. “You cannot trust him. Leave him.”

She couldn’t, though. Not when she had so many questions and so little time. Lips pressing tight, she withdrew the knife she’d reclaimed from Owl. She dug the blade into Leopold’s lowest vertebrae, and whispered, “If you betray us, if you so much as breathe a word to those soldiers about where we are going, then I will burn you alive and shred whatever bits of your body remain. Do you understand?”

A gulp. A shiver of unsteady Threads. “I understand.”

“Good.” She hauled him upright, then cut his bindings. He stumbled into Aeduan, who caught him and slung him out the door. A shallow breath later, and the prince was gone.

* * *

The seconds slithered past as Aeduan, Iseult, and Owl waited for some sign the soldiers below were busy. The glass around them shook faster and faster. Even the floorboards trembled, and no amount of whispered words could calm Owl. Terror had sent her magic spinning out of control. Aeduan knew what that felt like.

Iseult’s hand closed over Aeduan’s elbow. His breath hitched.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You are ill, and now we have to run—all because I was a fool. I had no idea who he was, I swear.”

Aeduan hesitated. They had come so far in this odd partnership to now be apologizing to each other.

He pulled away from her. “I found a Painstone at the outpost. I will be fine.”

Iseult’s lips parted as if to reply, but then Leopold’s voice sang up from downstairs—“Why are all these soldiers here?”—and there was no time for conversation or explanation.