With a steeling breath, Iseult knelt beside him. Her gloves, stolen from camp, were intended for a larger person, but it was better to be clumsy than risk touching the chain before she was ready.

Touching it not only hurt, but it connected her in ways she didn’t understand to Emperor Henrick. She’d discovered that entirely by accident after a Hell-Bard kill one week ago. And since, in theory, all Hell-Bards were bound to Henrick, and Henrick was bound to Safi, then perhaps …

Please, Iseult prayed as she slipped her fingers around the gold chain. The corpse’s skin was stiff behind it. With a small knife from a thigh holster she’d found at camp, she set to sawing. She sawed and sawed and sawed. She yanked, she twisted, she pulled. But to no avail. The noose was like the wooden heretic’s collar: it could not be removed.

Iseult had known this might be a possibility, even if she’d fervently hoped otherwise. And she could not let a squeamish stomach get in her way. Qualms and regrets belonged to the old Iseult. The one who had hidden within scarves and hoods. The one who’d let everyone else decide who she was, who she should be.

That old Iseult had ruined countless lives. Whatever she’d touched had unraveled. Whomever she’d loved had been cleft in two.

But no more. She was the Puppeteer now, and Puppeteers felt no regret. Now Iseult unraveled what she wanted. Now she chose whom to cleave in two.

Sever, sever, twist and sever.

Yes, the weasel purred in her mind, and for once, Iseult did not push her out.

After replacing the knife at her thigh, Iseult unsheathed her sword. His sword. A few cautious swings to line up her aim … Then she swung with all her might at his neck.

Shock waves boomed up Iseult’s arms, but she managed to sever the spine and get the blade almost out the other side. His head flopped sideways and hung upside down with eyes staring. Only a few strands of muscle and sinew held it on.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, though she didn’t know why. She’d killed the man, after all, and had not apologized then.

Two more practice swings, then she arced the blade through once more. It slid easily this time. The head finished its gruesome fall beside the Hell-Bard’s thighs, and he did not look like he was sleeping now.

Iseult stoutly avoided his dead stare while she hooked her thumb beneath his noose. It slid upward, past the tattered edges of his neck, past the pointed remnant of his spine. Then it was off completely. After scrubbing away blood with her gloves, Iseult tucked the chain into her cloak’s pocket and set off for camp.

She did not look back.