“Powerful.” His hand slipped into a pocket of his robe, and after fidgeting out a worn tome, he slid it onto the table.

Iseult’s pulse quickened. Her mouth watered.

“I see you recognize the diary.” He smiled. “And I see you want it. Oh, I do not see Threads—not in the way you do, with emotions to shade and define—but hunger … It is a feeling I know well.” He nudged the diary closer to Iseult, so she could clearly read Eridysi’s handwriting scribbled on the spine. The front cover did not match the rest. It was newer, stiffer leather.

“I will give this to you, Iseult.” Corlant’s Threads morphed with sly pink. “If you give me the two rubies your mother stole from me.”

The Threadstones again. Iseult’s hand moved to her collarbone, to the empty expanse there. “I don’t have them.”

“Yes, yes.” Corlant’s fingers tapped across the table. “The one called Aeduan told me you left them in Praga. Unlike him, though, I am not so foolish as to believe you.”

Iseult snorted. “Then I wish you luck finding them.” She patted her collarbone again, this time emphatically. “The Emperor of Cartorra took them off Safi and me, so if you want them, you’ll have to go all the way to Praga to get them.”

“Hmmm.” Corlant eyed Iseult, gaze resting first on her collar. Then on her face. “You must not know what they are, or you would never have left them behind.”

Iseult lowered her hand. “And what are they?”

“Valuable.” He pushed to his feet, table and chair creaking. “And if we must go to Praga to get them, then that is what we will do.”

He turned as if to leave; lilac hope trickled over Owl’s Threads. But Iseult couldn’t let him walk away. “Wait.” She shot up. Corlant paused. “The Loom. I saw you in the Hell-Bard Loom. How?”

There it was again: the smile. The delight to suffuse his Threads. He lifted his chain—the chain he’d worn as long as she’d known him, golden and plain. It glinted in the fragile light. “I was the first she ever claimed, Iseult. And this chain was the first she ever made. But you can learn all about that in here.” He scooped up the diary.

“Not if you don’t let me have it.” She watched him stuff it back into his pocket.

“Oh, but we have a deal. When the Threadstones are in my possession again, then this”—he patted his pocket—“will be yours.” He left the cabin, his Threads grassy green with contemplation.

And a darker, pine green too: the lingering magic claimed from a Herdwitch.

“Gag them,” he ordered once he was outside. “Gag them, tie them to the bed, and let no one in without my approval.”