When at last the sun was setting, the horses carried them into a small clearing surrounded by old growth. Here, Aeduan called a halt. He pulled down Iseult, rough in a way the true Aeduan never was, and tied her to an ancient ash. Moments later, Owl was bound beside Iseult, and while Evrane and Aeduan built a cooking fire, the child pressed in as closely as she could. Her collar bumped Iseult’s hip bone. Shivers racked her tiny body.

Which was why the first thing Iseult said when at last Aeduan removed her gag was “The child needs a blanket.” Her voice was rusted, her mouth painfully dry. Still she repeated her words: “The child needs a blanket.”

It was the first clear thought she’d had all evening: Owl is too cold. And it carried with it the first streaks of anger. She clung to that. “She is freezing and must be warmed.”

Aeduan glanced at Owl, his Threads calculating. “Yes,” he said at last. Then he grabbed Iseult’s biceps and pushed her toward the campfire, where Evrane stirred halfheartedly at an iron pot and watched Iseult from across the flames. “Sit,” Aeduan ordered before turning back to untie the child.

“You look worse than when I saw you last.” Evrane grinned, a hateful look that did not belong on her face. “And you were quite broken then, surrounded by monks who wished you dead.”

Iseult didn’t react, even as she stoked the fire in her chest a bit hotter. “Who are you?” she asked as Evrane approached with a bowl of soup.

The woman smiled again, her eyes crinkling this time and her Threads pink with pleasure. “Ask the little one.” She waved at Owl, who sank clumsily to a cross-legged seat beside Iseult. “Do you remember us, Saria?” Evrane looked at Owl as she asked this. “Do you remember what you did?”

“Leave her.” Aeduan’s voice was low but commanding. “She’s just a child.”

“That is no child.” Evrane stepped closer. The bowl steamed in her hand. “How many lifetimes have you had since that day? How many lifetimes have you enjoyed while we lay trapped in darkness?”

“You talk too much.” Aeduan nudged Evrane with his boot, and the older woman did not resist. Her expression smug, her Threads satisfied, she offered Iseult the bowl. Iseult tried to accept it, but she was awkward with her wrists bound. Oily liquid sloshed.

And Evrane laughed. A hideous, brain-scratching sound while she returned to her place beside the fire.

Aeduan passed the second bowl to Owl, but the child only looked at Iseult with confusion. She had a bruise on her left cheek. New and purple. More fury swept through Iseult.

“Drink it,” she whispered. Then she demonstrated, sipping as best she could. Some leaked down her left cheek. Greasy from whatever fish had been boiled.