Iseult crept closer to Esme, her eyes bouncing from whatever it was the Puppeteer inspected to her own sleeping self. Wrong.

Iseult’s body never stirred, and Esme’s pages made no sound. Wrong, wrong. In fact, nothing but Esme’s voice carried here.

“I don’t see this place,” Esme said, sitting cross-legged. “Eridysi’s notes don’t mention it.”

“Eridysi?” The name blurted out before Iseult could stop it. Before she could even let the name sink in—for of course Esme couldn’t be referring to Eridysi the Sightwitch who’d written the famous “Lament” centuries before. Just as Iseult’s old rag doll hadn’t been named after that Eridysi either but had merely been a name she’d found pretty as a little girl.

Except that Esme did indeed mean the famed Sightwitch. “Yes,” she said simply. “Ragnor gave me the old Sightwitch Sister’s journal a few years ago.” She tossed a sideways smile at Iseult. Almost coy. “Everything I know is from these pages. From cleaving to reanimating to binding puppets to the Loom. And you can learn it all too, Iseult.”

Or maybe I could unlearn it. Before Iseult could ask how to avoid this … this dream-walking, Aeduan entered the room.

He prowled like a caged animal, passing directly through Esme. His nostrils fluttered as he sniffed, yet whatever he might have sensed, it was obvious that he could not see Esme or Iseult hovering like ghosts in the middle of the ruins.

Esme pushed to her feet, glaring knives at Iseult. “You’re still with him. I told you he was dangerous, Iseult.”

“He saved my life.” Iseult scarcely heard her own words. Her attention was captured by the Bloodwitch—whose attention was captured by the sleeping Iseult.

No sniffing. No prowling. Just staring at her, expression unreadable.

“He saved your life from what?” Esme demanded. She pushed in front of Iseult, blocking the view of Aeduan. When Iseult still didn’t answer, she repeated, “Saved your life from what?”

Esme’s free hand swept up, fingers splayed, and she charged it into Iseult’s skull.

The Dreaming took hold. No more ruins, no more shadow selves, no more Bloodwitch. Iseult was trapped, and Esme controlled her mind once more.

Nothing was private. In seconds, Esme had the memory she sought. Oh, goddess bless me. Her words echoed within Iseult’s skull. Those men almost caught you—and the Bloodwitch did save you.

More rummaging. Worms in Iseult’s brain. Nine times four, thirty-six. Nine times fifteen, one hundred and thirty-five …

Iseult’s multiplication didn’t stop Esme.

These men work for … Corlant? Who is he? A Purist priest, but … Esme trailed off, and hints of blue understanding lanced through the Dreaming. I know that man, she continued at last. But by a different name. If he hunts you, Iseult, then that means you … It means he … Esme’s surprise kicked over Iseult. Oh, this is unexpected. And surely a mistake! You cannot possibly be the Cahr Awen, can you?

NO! Iseult squeezed out. With far too much emphasis. But striking a balance was always so hard in the Dreaming. Especially after the ease of the ghost ruins.

A long pause settled then, suggesting Esme pondered and mused. The seconds blended into minutes, and all Iseult could do was wait. Alone. In a world of endless, choking shadows.

Until at last, Esme spoke again—and Iseult’s traitorous dream-lungs shuddered with relief.

Perhaps you are the Cahr Awen, Iseult. Or perhaps you are not. Either way, you should not need the Bloodwitch to save you anymore. Four men is easy for the likes of us. Simply cleave them and be done.

Look, I will show you how.

A flash of light. Then they were back in Esme’s tower, but this time Iseult was trapped in Esme’s mind. Forced to see through Esme’s eyes.

The girl was at her window, seemingly unconcerned by the candle flames winking so near or the wax melting onto her gown. She pointed into the darkness, squinting until the rows of the Cleaved—the same rows Iseult had seen two weeks before—came into focus. Shady silhouettes in the darkness.

“There is a man in the front,” Esme said. “Do you see him, with the apron? He used to be a blacksmith.”

Iseult did see the man—there was no way to avoid it when Esme fixed her eyes on him. The man’s gray apron was stained black with blood.

“He was a weak Ironwitch,” the Puppeteer explained, her voice quite cool. Quite calm. “In his village, he had a Threadbrother. An elementally powerless man. When I cleaved the blacksmith, the Threadbrother tried to intervene. I don’t know what he thought he could do. When a man is cleaving, there is little to heal him save the Moon Mother … and me, of course.” Esme spoke matter-of-factly—no sign of vanity as she declared her power equal to that of their goddess.

“For some reason, though,” Esme continued, fatigue creeping into her tone, “I didn’t let the blacksmith attack his Threadbrother. I suppose I still felt generous in those days, and I called the blacksmith away before he could kill anyone. But look—do you see the pink Threads? They shimmer inside the Severed Threads. They still remain even when all other Threads have vanished.” Esme scrutinized the Threads spinning over the cleric’s body, waiting for Iseult to answer.

So Iseult made her Dreaming self say, Yes, Esme. I see the Threads of friendship.

“That is how I control them. I sever all their Threads save one, then I bind that final Thread to the Loom. But that is complicated. A technique I will teach you another night. For now, all you need to know is how to kill them.”