Iseult had heard of Aetherwitched miniatures used in warfare upon a battle map. Small imitations bound by magic to their life-size counterpart. Where the ship or battalion moved, the miniature moved as well. Iseult had also heard of Wordwitched documents—had seen ones crafted by her mentor Mathew. Such pages allowed communication over long distances and contracts bound by deed. Yet she had never heard of a map where the ink symbols moved.

The weasel dug her dark nose into a red X nestled on the eastern side of the Ohrins. Look, she seemed to say in Iseult’s mind.

So Iseult looked … and then found the X on the legend. Heretic Target, it read, referring to witches who’d been caught hiding their magic.

Her stomach bottomed out. While there were other Xs on the map, this X was near a small road. And here is the stream we crossed this morning. There were the falls they’d passed after that. And here was their little shepherd’s hut.

No wonder the Emperor’s soldiers had always seemed to be waiting for Iseult. They knew exactly where she was at all times.

“But how?” she asked, more breath than sound. “How do they know we’re here?”

Owl’s collar. The answer hit her right as the weasel shot her gaze to the child and hissed. The collars must not merely block magic but also allow Hell-Bards to track them, so it was only a matter of time before more soldiers found Owl and Iseult again.

Fortunately, Iseult could see exactly where and when that would happen, thanks to the map. A battalion of Hell-Bards followed from the west—they’d been following since Praga, and they lagged a full day behind. It was more people than she’d realized, though. Tens of them, some on horseback, most on foot. If they caught up to her, she would not be able to fight them.

The weasel twined against Iseult, her fur soft and posture seductive. You could leave the girl, she seemed to say. Then no one could follow us.

Iseult swallowed. Scratched her nose. She hated that temptation even billowed inside her. She hated that her mind instantly raced ahead to how much easier everything would be. She traced her fingers over Praga, so far west now. She’d left Safi there. Abandoned her to save her own neck and Owl’s. If she weren’t slowed by the child, she could return so much sooner.

No. She shook her head, almost frantic. Certainly ashamed. Owl was the only Thread-family she had left. She would never leave her behind.

The weasel seemed to understand, and she gave an almost human shrug—Suit yourself—before moving to the map’s edge, where she sprawled out and began to groom. Somehow, she made each lick across her paws seem thoroughly disdainful, thoroughly bored.