“A lover,” Henrick said quietly, “and training with Hell-Bards. If I did not know better, my Empress, I would think you intended to overthrow me. Fortunately…” His lip quirked sideways, his tooth jutted out. “I do know better.”

He stroked the chain on his belt, and cold lanced through Safi. Down her spine, into her abdomen. It took all her self-control not to chatter her teeth or curl into a quaking ball. But he would not cow her. He would not win.

“Yes, my Emperor,” she gritted out. “You … do know better.”

He nodded, seemingly satisfied with her words—and with her pain. Then he released the golden chain and turned his attention to the man now kneeling before him. “Ah, the blacksmith from Haemersmeid. I remember you. Is the dam still hurting your forge?”

They rode for hours. Owl sat with Evrane on Lady Sea Fox; Iseult on Lord Storm Hound with Aeduan. His Threads never veered from concentration. The Aeduan Iseult had saved from death at the Aether Well was gone. And just as shadow birds winged across Evrane’s Threads, the same shapes now galloped across his.

Iseult had no idea what they meant.

Aeduan was a stranger now. He did not notice that Iseult shivered against him—still so wet and so cold from the river. He did not notice against the wool scraping the roof of her mouth, or when she choked and her eyes streamed.

Or perhaps he did notice, but did not care.

They followed the river west, Aeduan leading the way until they reached a spot where the water was shallow enough for the horses to cross. Iseult’s earlier search had been such a waste. Such a pointless, stupid endeavor by a foolish girl who never seemed to learn. If only she and Owl had never stopped to rest. If only she’d never crossed that river.

If only, if only, if only. She had enough of them to fill an ocean, and not a one could actually help her.

Except she wasn’t totally alone. The weasel was still out there somewhere. Iseult had seen no sign of the creature, and each of her attempts to reach the weasel’s mind had yielded no results. Which surely was a good thing—it had to be a good thing.

Owl’s Threads meanwhile had been trapped in white terror, pure and unchanging for hours. Iseult did her best to comfort the child by twisting around to look at Owl, but it was a useless endeavor. Owl would not meet her eyes, and Aeduan always shoved Iseult’s head forward again.

To think that only yesterday Iseult had been the Puppeteer, reveling in her own strength. Now she was nothing except a prisoner to people she’d once loved. She would’ve laughed at that, if wool did not gag her, for this was how it always went: she ruined everything around her. She hurt whomever came near.