“Deal.” Iseult’s nostrils flared with triumph as Owl threw back her blankets to reveal a triumphant smile of her own—and Iseult realized she had, in fact, lost Owl’s game.

“Where is the weasel-girl?” Owl asked, flinging a suspicious glower around the hut.

“Scouting ahead. She will find the safest path for us.”

“I don’t like her.”

“I know.” Iseult aimed for the hut’s exit, and Owl shuffled behind.

“She is worse than Wicked Cousin.”

“Yes. I know that too.” Unlike Trickster, who caused trouble because he was bored, the goddess Wicked Cousin caused trouble because she enjoyed pain. Yet it was not Wicked Cousin who betrayed the gods in the end.

“‘Evil is not the enemy,’” Iseult quoted as she stepped into the cold dawn. “‘For without it, there can be no good. Chaos, however, is unstoppable.’”

“Hmph” was all Owl said in response to that, and she kept silent while Iseult made porridge and saddled the horses (whom Owl had named Lady Sea Fox and Lord Storm Hound). On Lady Sea Fox, she loaded sacks filled with dried meats, a cooking pan, a snare, three blankets, and several water bags. On Lord Storm Hound, she placed herself and Owl. Then they set off into a sunrise still hidden behind winter clouds.

It had been the same every day since they had fled Praga: gray, gray, dreary gray. Sometimes there had been rain. Sometimes snow. But never sunshine, never blue skies.

As bargained, Iseult told Owl the required three stories, including the little hedgehog, and eventually, Owl dozed off. Iseult had to fight the urge to do the same. Lord Storm Hound’s gait was soothing and sure, and she’d spent most of the night mapping a route to the large lake. A route without Hell-Bards and Cartorran soldiers along the way.

You’ll just kill them anyway.

No. Iseult snapped her head sideways. She could not change who she was. She’d tried for eighteen years, and it had only led to pain and death. It had only failed Safi in the end. At least now she chose who felt that pain. At least now she chose whose life came to an end.

Threads that break, Threads that die.

Yes, Esme sang, and Iseult almost smiled. One creature in this world understood her. Where are you? she asked, and a moment later, the image of a river filled Iseult’s mind. No people, no signs of travel. A good place for rest.

Wait for us, she ordered, and the weasel agreed.

Time ambled by. The landscape shifted from muddy evergreen to muddy deciduous, branches bare, before Iseult and Owl caught up to the weasel by a wide river. Beyond the main flow lay tens of old oxbows, forgotten by the waters’ changing tread. Pools glittered; the trees whispered. And for the first time in two weeks, as Iseult made a small camp, the clouds parted overhead. Sunshine and blue skies peered down.