“Oh.” It was an easy answer. One Iseult had not considered. “But then why are you here? In the Solfatarra?”

“For the same reason you are. To escape Corlant. To escape his magic.”

“Oh,” Iseult repeated, and this time, everything settled into place like an anchor on the seafloor. Firewitched lanterns in the tents. Alarm-spells on the trail. Glamours over the camp.

“Everyone here is a witch. This isn’t a true tribe at all, is it? You fled Corlant and have been hiding here.”

“Yes.” Gretchya gestured curtly to a group of Nomatsis collapsing a tent beside the ancient remains of a wall. They moved methodically, disassembling a skeletal wood interior with the silent rhythm of experience. Not only were their Threads briefly bound by the united focus of their task, but now that Iseult was looking—truly looking—she couldn’t miss the hints of power. Faint yellow Threads for a Windwitch, orange Threads for Fire, and even the verdant green of a Plantwitch.

“It is not merely the Purists who have come to hate witches, Iseult. Corlant has drawn many Nomatsis to his cause, and they willingly hand over their family, their friends so that Corlant may, as he calls it, free them.

“A month ago, he began erasing Nomatsi magic. One by one, he took witches into his tent. And one by one, they came out, no longer bound to the elements that they had lived their whole lives by. Then, almost two weeks ago, he went away—and I was ready. I gathered as many Nomatsi witches and their families as I could, and I led them here.”

Ah. Iseult’s breath whispered out. So her mother was a champion of the people. Iseult should be impressed, she supposed. Perhaps even proud. Instead, all she felt was the festering in her chest.

“Where were you before? How did you know this place was here?”

“We were in the Windswept Plains. Corlant works with the Raider King, and the King sent Corlant west. When Alma and I and all the other witches escaped, we found this place by accident. It was safe and contained, so we remained.”

Ah, Iseult thought again, and the festering expanded. It bubbled up her throat. All this time she’d thought her mother and Alma were in Saldonica; all this time, they’d been resisting Corlant in secret.

“So you are a hero then, Mother?” Iseult hated how petulant she sounded. How … how jealous. She was the Cahr Awen, yet here she was whining that Gretchya had become a hero. Or maybe that wasn’t it at all. Maybe she simply wished she’d been a part of it. That it had been her at Gretchya’s side instead of Alma.

How foolish. Iseult really should be used to that old ache by now.