Instead, Gretchya asked a question that somehow, despite the lack of inflection, still held enough accusation to fill a galleon. Why have you come? Gone was the woman beside the willow tree, who had seemed, if only for a few moments, to have real emotions.

“I did not come here by choice,” Iseult responded, her own tone just as flat. Her own expression just as cool. Her tongue was not fattening behind her teeth. Her throat was not clenching shut at the sight of her mother’s emotionless eyes. “We were … hunted. By a Carawen monk.”

She had to speak slowly, but she was proud when no stutter marked her words. Control your tongue. Control your mind. A Threadwitch never stammers.

“And this child”—Iseult pulled Owl gently in front of her—“needs a healer. Her wrist is hurt. Sprained, I believe.”

Gretchya blinked as if only just noticing Owl. It was the closest thing to emotion that crossed her face; Iseult didn’t know what it meant. “What is your name?” Gretchya asked.

To Iseult’s shock and to her … her something else—something hot that wrinkled down her spine—Owl answered: “Dirdra det Allaeli.”

Now it was Iseult’s turn to blink. A month and a half she had been with this child, and only now was she learning her true name. Only now was Iseult’s mother so deftly plucking it out of her.

Iseult had no time to dwell on this information, nor time to assess what this new heat might mean, for now her mother was sharing a look with Alma, as if that name meant something. And Iseult felt as if she were falling in the river from two days ago, but instead of ice to dunk her, it was flames. Because Iseult knew the look that passed between Gretchya and Alma. Gods curse her, she knew it well because she’d spent years watching them make it. But only to each other. Never to her.

Her fingers flexed taut at her side, her breaths grew shallow. And there, in the pit of her belly, was the anger again. Yes, she coaxed it. Grow. Expand. She had no trouble keeping her expression immobile when kindling burned inside. Even her nose, which usually twitched and gave her away, was as still as the stones surrounding the firepit.

“Iseult told us others hunt her.” Alma folded her hands behind her back—perfect, perfect—and Gretchya’s attention sharpened onto Iseult once more. “Who?”

“Corlant,” Iseult replied.

At once, all Threads in the tent flashed with slate fear. All bodies stiffened, even Alma, even Gretchya.

And Iseult couldn’t help but delight in those reactions. “There are Hell-Bards too,” she said. “Because of Owl … Dirdra’s collar. They have hunted us for days.” To prove her point, she withdrew the map. “This shows where they are. None are near for now.”