Vivia twirled, and the water twirled with her. It whipped outward, splitting into a hundred limbs that moved as she commanded. That lashed and struck and yanked men low. The water was an extension of her body, of her mind. It wanted what she wanted—it wanted its home empty and safe.

Vivia lost all concept of time. She lost count of how many people she felled. The water measured time by drought and flood, it measured life by wave and erosion. It had no interest in humanity, no concern if blood stained its soul.

The water gathered and built and rose, and the higher it climbed, the stronger Vivia felt. Still the raiders charged; still she slashed and slew. Free, alive, unstoppable. No fetters to hold her down, no masks to hold her back.

Until her water suddenly hit resistance. Until it suddenly reached a body that would not yield, that would not bend.

Vivia startled back into her mind. Her water whips stilled. She gasped, stunned by the water’s icy claws—by how high it had flooded around her. All the way to her mid-thighs and still rising. Bodies floated by, some twitching, some choking, but most unmoving and dead.

More raiders still came too. Vivia heard them splashing and shouting.

It was the person standing before her, though, that seized Vivia’s attention. A figure in a sodden gown swayed in the water, and on either side of her were two iron shields that had stopped Vivia’s attacks.

The Empress of Marstok’s chest quivered in time to desperate breaths. Black coated half her face. She stared at Vivia and Vivia stared at her.

Then as one, they started running. Toward each other. A slogging, slow stride through water and corpses.

They reached each other, and the Empress of Marstok collapsed into Vivia. Her skin was frozen to the touch and it shone a sickly green beneath the foxfire. The black on her face was, Vivia realized, crusted blood.

No time to ask how Vaness had gotten here. No time to prop her up and keep fighting the raiders. Now the men were pouring into the square faster than Vivia’s waters could attack—faster than she could keep track of.

The water, though, did not need her anymore. It had answered Vivia’s call, and now it reigned supreme. A frothy, rising mass that would soon be too high for the raiders to defeat.

So, without another thought, Vivia let her water whips fall. Then she gripped the Empress of Marstok tightly to her—she was so small, so broken—and together, they drove through corpses and water.

Together, they left the underground. Together, they ran for the night.

SIXTY-ONE

Storm and stone, lightning and earthquakes. Iseult’s body was a conduit for noise and electricity. Wind seared against her, rain flayed her skin. She held Leopold, and he held Owl. Their Threads shone, two beacons to guide Iseult home.

She knew that having a child lead her through the end of the world was as impossible as walking through blue light and ending up inside a nightmare. But there was also no other alternative. To release Leopold was to lose her way, and to release Owl was to lose the only anchor they had inside this chaos.

There was no sight in this tumult, no sense of up or down. At any moment, Iseult expected the ice-slick stone beneath her feet to crumble away.

But the ground would never betray an Earthwitch, and Owl led them true.

Once, Iseult thought she heard voices. She thought she saw Threads cresting through the fray, an army of people far, far below. It could have been a mirage, though. Shadows shaped like humans dancing in a storm.

Boulders crashed around them. Never did they hit Iseult or Leopold, though, nor their strange, icy bridge. Always, Owl flicked them away as easily as a girl tosses toys—and for a dragging moment be tween steps, Iseult wondered if Owl had ever had toys. She did not seem like a child now.

Moon Mother’s little sister.

“This way,” Owl called, more a trembling in the stone than actual words, and Iseult realized they had reached a doorway where weak light shimmered through the chaos. It was small, though, and shrinking inward by the second.

Just as she had done above the Monastery, Owl scrabbled through without waiting for Iseult or Leopold.

They followed—of course they followed. Anything to escape this maelstrom. Iseult crawled through first, using Leopold’s grip to drop to her knees and squeeze through. She was battered, she was beat, she was pulled and compressed and broken in two.

Then she keeled out the other side, where cold air and blessed silence dashed against her. Owl squatted just ahead, her Threads a swirling array of pleasure and Earthwitch power. Still on all fours, Iseult dragged herself toward the child … then collapsed atop silty, damp earth. Two heartbeats later, and Leopold landed beside her.

Iseult and the prince sucked in gasps. His Threads radiated with the same wonderment and horror that Iseult felt. Her muscles twitched as if lightning still clashed. Her ears echoed and droned.

“What was that?” he rasped, pushing himself upright with his good arm. “By the Twelve, Iseult, what was that? And what is she?” He edged a wary stare toward Owl, his Threads briefly glimmering with distaste. Or maybe it was disgust. Or just continued horror.

Iseult was too sapped to interpret anything anymore. “I think that the more important question is, where are we now?” They had definitely left the Monastery. It was cold here, but not frozen—and water rushed nearby.

Threads hummed nearby too.

“People,” Iseult said at the same time Owl chirped, “Finished, finished, finished.” Now Iseult was the one to eye her warily. Owl had changed since leaving the mountain. It was as if, after leading them through a world caving in, she had abruptly reverted back to her childish self.

She even drew figures in the soil with a finger—all while singing, “Finished, finished, finished.”

“You stay here,” Iseult said slowly, directing her words to Leopold though her gaze never left Owl. “I’ll go see who’s out there. Maybe they can help us.”

“Or,” he countered, “you stay here, and I go check.”

Iseult glared sideways. “We have no weapons, Prince, and last I checked, I’m the only one here with a magic that can hurt people. Well,” she amended, “there’s Owl. But…” She waved vaguely.

And Owl smiled up from her drawing. “Finished, finished, finished.”

“We could all go?” Leopold suggested, Threads shriveling inward with discomfort.

“And then all risk getting hurt? No.” Using her hands, Iseult foisted herself to her feet. The moonlit pines and beeches briefly hazed together—then quickly slid apart once more. “I can creep up and observe them without being seen. I’ll be back soon.”

Leopold’s only response was a dissatisfied grunt, but he didn’t argue. He was the one with a crown here, but Iseult was the one with the power.

Soon enough, she was tiptoeing into the trees. The landscape reminded her of the Sirmayans, of the forests she’d journeyed through over the past month. This was different, though—and she couldn’t say how she knew, she simply did.

And all of it was so, so different from Ve?aza City. What if, what if, what if.

The Threads brightened ahead, and soon Cartorran voices rippled into Iseult’s ears, tense but not angry. A discussion, she decided, or a debate, for concentrated green wavered across their Threads.

Three of the people, though, had odd Threads. It wasn’t obvious from afar, yet the closer Iseult sidled, the more she noticed black tendrils writhing in their hearts.

Severed Threads, she thought. Except … not. It was unlike anything she’d ever seen, anything she’d ever been taught.

Iseult would have continued to study them, to evaluate safety and intent, but two footsteps later, she was close enough to distinguish individual words. And to hear a voice she had feared she would never hear again.

“Weasels piss on you,” said the only speaker without the darkness in her Threads. “I know more about these mountains than you, Caden. After all, who’s the domna here?”

“You do realize what my last name means. Fitz Grieg?”

A pause. Then: “You bastard!” Safi cried, and a sound like punching filled the forest. “You are literally a bastard! Why the rut didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s implied in the name! I’m sorry if you were too dense and self-absorbed to notice.”

Iseult couldn’t believe it. Her hand shot to her throat, to the Threadstone. Then without a single thought, a single precaution, a single lesson Habim or Mathew had taught her, she broke into a run.

The underbrush thrashed and slapped. She almost tripped on a root. Her elbows cracked against trunks, and ahead, four sets of Threads flashed bright with alarm. Then voices lifted too, and Iseult knew that they heard her—that they were drawing weapons or getting ready for an attack.

But Iseult didn’t care. Her heart was so big, she thought it would pummel through her rib cage. And like before, tears had started to fall—these tears she understood, though. These tears she welcomed.

She reached a clearing. Four shadows glowed in the moonlight, arms high and stances ready. But Iseult had eyes for only one person. How had she not recognized her Threads sooner? So vibrant and alive.