A second cloak waited too, fur-lined and white as the moon outside. Shining and ready. The uniform of a Carawen monk. All her life Iseult had wanted to wear one. All her life, she had wanted to be part of this shining order that accepted new members without prejudice.

Lies, lies, all of it lies. Aeduan had warned her in the Contested Lands, but she hadn’t wanted to believe him. Now, though, she saw this cloak and wished it was his. Broken and bloodied. Safe and familiar. She wanted that over this fake piousness and false purity.

This was her only option, though, so Iseult slipped into it.

“Why … the Archives?” Leopold asked between grunts as he fought to pull on his own cloak with only one arm. “What’s there?”

“A way out of the Monastery.”

A burst of turquoise surprise. “How do you know?”

“Go.” She pointed at the door.

“Iseult, I don’t understand—”

“Let a woman have her secrets, Leopold. Go.” She spoke that word with all the force of the Rook King behind her, and without another word of protest, Leopold nodded.

And Leopold went.

The hall outside Iseult’s room was empty, the windows boarded and sconces unlit. The stones shook every twenty paces, and the impact of catapults thundered louder and louder. Leopold led her down stairs, across intersections, and past countless doorways.

Four times Iseult sensed Threads approaching, and four times, all it took was a whispered word of “Monks ahead.” Then Leopold towed her into a small alcove or empty bedroom, where they would wait in silence—Iseult’s heart would jitter against her throat and Leopold’s Threads would turn muted gold with anxious caution. Then the Threads and the monks attached would move out of range, and Leopold would once more lead the way.

By the time they reached the Archives, the ground rumbled beneath their feet, shaking Iseult’s knees and clattering her teeth. The walls under siege must wait just beyond the library’s vast space, and like the halls from before, the windows were boarded and sconces dark. Huge sandbags had been placed in front of the windows too—only visible because a faint streak of light still crept in at the very top.

It revealed high ceilings and rows upon rows of bookcases. Little else, though. Nothing specific.

As if following her thoughts, Leopold hurried to a nearby sconce, fumbled a small candle from within the glass, and whispered, “Ignite.”

A tiny flame awoke.

“Where do we go?” he asked, voice low. Face glittering behind the fire.

“The farthest corner,” Iseult answered, and yet again, the prince took the lead. No questions. Only obedience, his green Threads focused on escape.

Down aisles, around shelves, they moved ever closer to the corner.

They were halfway there when the door to the Archives heaved open. A scream of hinges, a groan of wood. Then Evrane’s voice coasted across the space. “Iseult! Where are you?”

No, no, no. Iseult grabbed Leopold’s cloak. “Run.”

Unflinching, unquestioning, Leopold ran. The Firewitched flame guttered and flared, but it did not wink out. Their footsteps pounded on flagstones, an easy sound for Evrane to follow—and not just Evrane. There were other Threads too. Other monks, merciless and hunting.

And the Abbot, bleeding, blending, slithering this way. “We had an agreement!” he shouted. “You promised me an army, Prince!”

An army? Iseult had no idea what that meant, and she had no time to dwell on it either. They were almost to the farthest corner, almost to the Rook King’s secret door.

Then they skittered past a final row of shelves, and the stone corner flickered before them. No archway, though, and no exit.

The floor quaked, and voices escalated from beyond the wall—voices of the insurgents. Iseult sensed Threads too, frantic and furious. The attack was right there.

Leopold rounded wide eyes on Iseult. “What next? I see no escape.”

Iseult saw no escape either. And now Evrane was declaring from across the room, “It is not safe for you to roam the Monastery, Iseult. You are not well. You must come back to me so I may heal you.”

No, no, no. There had to be a way out of here. What had the Rook King shown her? Think, Iseult, think. She could follow the cool course of logic wherever it led, even without a pause or time to breathe.

A stone wall. Shelves. Sconces and a wooden chair. It looked exactly as it had in the Dreaming, except this was real. This was right before her.

Another boom! rattled through her knees. She and Leopold were surrounded on all sides.

“Iseult,” Leopold murmured, and now white panic shivered across his Threads. “Please say you know what you are doing.”

She ignored him. She ignored the approaching Threads and drumroll of feet, she ignored the Abbot bellowing about payments and bargains and tier tens betrayed. And she ignored the shockwaves raging through the foundation.

Iseult was stasis. Iseult was ice.

A stone wall. Shelves. Sconces and a wooden chair. Each item perfectly still. As calm as Iseult was amidst all this chaos.

But they should not be still. Everything else shook; they should be shaking with them.

Iseult dove forward, shoving past Leopold. She smacked her hands on stone. Cold, rough, real. But also frizzing with magic. This wall was a lie. This wall was not real. It was bewitched, like the sky-ferry, and all it needed was the right combination of taps.

Or three flicks of a feathery wrist.

Iseult knocked three frantic times, and in a whoosh of charged air, the entire corner disappeared. Before her yawned the arched doorway.

This time, Leopold was the one to grab Iseult by the cloak. Awe, relief, and explosive surprise shaking across his Threads. The verdant focus was back too. He bolted into the darkness, and Iseult flew just behind. Once on the other side, though, she paused long enough to angle back.

Three flicks of her wrist, and the wall reassembled. Then she and Leopold ran.

Thank the Moon Mother he still held the candle, for otherwise, they would have scrambled in total darkness, missing where to duck and twist and crawl around stalagmites. The insurgent attacks thundered through the rock, but Iseult heard no pursuit and felt no Threads chasing from behind.

Eventually, they reached an opening in the tunnel, where a small cavern spanned upward and the path split in two. One route angled sharply up. The other angled sharply down.

Leopold slowed to a stop, panting. The flame’s light sputtered, casting shadows on the dark walls.

Shadows that looked like wings. Shadows that sent chills trilling down Iseult’s spine. Where had the Rook King led them? She forced herself to look only at the prince, though. At his Threads, burning and vibrant and true.

“How,” he said between harsh gasps, “did you know about this?”

“You would not believe me if I told you.” She fought for rough breaths of her own. Too much time in bed without a proper meal had stolen her energy. “We need to keep going.”

He straightened, eyes thinning and Threads tanning with suspicion. “Why? Why did we need to leave, Iseult?”

Iseult didn’t answer. There was nothing she could say that he would believe. Evrane is possessed by darkness and imprisoning me in sleep. Oh, and the ghost of the Rook King showed me how to break free. Iseult hardly believed it herself.

“It wasn’t safe there,” she answered. “And since Safi cannot come, there is no reason to stay. You have to trust me.”

He chewed his lip, expression and Threads wary—though now sage consideration spooled around the tan. Then all at once, a sharp column of fern funneled through. He had come to a decision.

“I trust you,” he murmured. “But which way do we go?” Swinging the candle away from her, he peered first at the ascending path, then the other.

“Down,” Iseult said, and she plucked the candle from his grasp and took the lead. She had no idea if down was actually the right way to go, but it seemed the logical choice. The valley was below them, so surely aiming that way would eventually take them where she wanted to go.

Or maybe it would lead them straight into hell-fire. Iseult really had no idea. The Rook King had only shown her the way out of the Monastery, not the mountain.

The sounds of the insurgent battle faded the deeper they went, and Iseult took this as a good sign. The rock formations smoothed out too, and the air turned colder. A sharp bite that she hoped meant winds ahead.

Then she felt actual wind against her face, crisp and frozen, and gradually, light began to suffuse the stone. Iseult’s gait quickened. Even drained as she was, she had done it. She had gotten away. Whatever Evrane had become, whatever the Abbot had wanted, and whatever the Rook King truly was—none of that mattered.

She had escaped, and now she and Leopold would find Owl. Then they would find Safi.

The tunnel’s end gaped before them, gray and frozen. A Threadwitching night, the light bright enough to send spots skating across Iseult’s vision as she approached.

She was running now, Leopold’s footsteps pumping behind her. Marshy shoreline waited just ahead. So close.