Truthwitch

  “Dismount!” Iseult screamed, pulling the reins with far more force than was fair. She scrabbled off the horse and with hands that were almost shaking, she unstrapped the cutlass. Beside her, Safi splashed into the ankle-deep waves with her pitchfork gripped tight.

  Then without another word, the girls settled into defensive stances, their backs to the tower, and waited for the four monks to gallop across the beach toward them.

  FOURTEEN

  The Jana slipped through coastal waters with barely a peep from her usually groaning wood. Merik stood at the weatherworn tiller, gripping it tight and steering the warship, while beside him on the quarterdeck were Kullen and three Tidewitch officers.

  As one, Kullen and the officers chanted below their breaths, their eyes wide behind wind-spectacles. The lenses protected them from the bewitched air while the sea shanty on their tongues kept them focused. Normally Ryber would pound the wind-drum—with the unbewitched mallet—to give the men a beat to sing by. And normally, the entire crew would bellow a shanty.

  But tonight, quiet and stealth were required, so the four men sang alone while the wind and tides they summoned hauled the ship onward. The remainder of Merik’s crew sat across the main deck, nothing to do when magic did all the work for them.

  Merik glanced at Kullen every few moments, though he knew his Threadbrother hated it. Yet Merik hated seeing Kullen’s lungs seize up and his mouth bob like a fish—and the attacks always seemed to happen when Kullen summoned more magic than he ought.

  Right now, the way the Jana skimmed across the sea’s surface, Merik had no doubt Kullen was calling on heaps of power.

  Merik and his men had left the Doge’s palace earlier than planned. After the disastrous Nubrevnan four-step, Merik had wanted to be anywhere but the party. His magic had been out of control, his temper exploding in his veins—and it was all because of that stormy-eyed Cartorran.

  Not that he would ever admit that, of course. Instead, he’d blamed the early departure on his new job for Dom Eron fon Hasstrel.

  That man had arrived at the perfect moment, and the conversation that had followed had been more fruitful than Merik could have dared hope.

  Dom Eron was a soldier—everything in his bearing and gruff voice had indicated that, and Merik had instantly liked him.

  What Eron was not was a keen businessman, and for all that Merik might’ve warmed to the man, he was hardly going to point out that Dom Eron’s proposal was heavily in Merik’s favor.

  All Merik had to do was carry a single passenger—Dom Eron’s niece or daughter or something like that—to an abandoned port city at the westernmost tip of the Hundred Isles. As long as the woman reached Lejna unharmed (he’d been especially emphatic about the “unharmed” part), then the bewitched document now sitting on Merik’s table would be considered fulfilled. Negotiations for trade could begin with the Hasstrel farmers.

  It was a miracle. Trade would change everything for his nation—from how many people died of starvation to how negotiations at the Truce Summit went. Merik didn’t even mind that he would have to sail right back to Veñaza City after dropping this Hasstrel girl off on the Lejna pier. What were Tide and Windwitches for, if not crossing the Jadansi in days?

  So Merik had signed the contract alongside Dom Eron, and then the instant the man was gone, Merik had summoned Hermin back to his cabin. “Inform Vivia that the piracy endeavor is no more—and also mention that the Dalmotti trade ship is only just leaving the Veñazan harbor. Just in case she decides she won’t back down.”

  As Merik had anticipated, Vivia wasn’t ready to give up her scheme—but that was fine. Merik could continue to lie. Soon enough he would have trade with someone, and that was all that mattered.

  “Admiral!” Ryber’s high-pitched voice cut through Merik’s thoughts.

  Kullen and the other witches flinched—and Merik swore. He had ordered silence, and his crew knew how he punished disobedience.

  “Don’t stop,” Merik muttered to Kullen, and with his fingers fidgeting with his shirttails, he marched around the steering wheel and off the quarterdeck. Wide-eyed sailors gawked as he stomped past. Several men ogled up at the crow’s nest, where Ryber was waving her arms frantically—as if Merik didn’t know exactly where the ship’s girl was stationed.

  Oh, Merik would most certainly put Ryber in the leg irons tomorrow. He didn’t care if she and Kullen were Heart-Threads so long as Ryber remained a reliable sailor. This, however, was direct disobedience, and it would earn her six hours strapped in the irons with no water, food, or shade.

  “Admiral!” A new voice rattled over the deck. It was a salt-wasted sound—Hermin. “Admiral!” he bellowed again.

  And Merik almost lost control of his own voice. Two of his best sailors breaking the rules? Ten hours in the leg irons. For each of them.

  Ryber’s bare feet hit the deck. “There’s a battle going on, sir! At an old lighthouse nearby.”

  Merik didn’t care about old lighthouses. Whatever battle Ryber had seen was not his problem.

  “Sir,” Hermin huffed as he hobbled toward Merik. The Voicewitch’s lame foot could barely keep up with his good one, yet he pushed himself as fast as he could. “Sir, we got a message from Eron fon Hasstrel’s Voicewitch.” He gulped in air. “Our passenger is on the run. Last seen on horseback north of the city and aiming for an old lighthouse. The Hasstrel’s men can’t get to the domna in time. So it’s up to us.”

  “Carawen monks?” Ryber asked Hermin. Then she turned back to Merik. “Because that’s what I saw through the spyglass, Admiral. Two people standing off against four monks.”

  “Hye, it’s the Carawens,” Hermin admitted with a nod. “And if we don’t get this passenger away, then whatever binding agreement you’ve got is considered null.”

  For half a breath, Merik merely stared at Hermin. At Ryber. Then the Nihar rage got the best of him. He tipped back his head and gave a fist-clenching roar.

  It would seem the old lighthouse battle was his problem, and there was absolutely no reason for stealth now. He needed this Hasstrel document untainted. It was Wordwitched, so if Merik didn’t meet the contracted requirements, his signature would simply vanish from the page.

  An unsigned trade agreement was useless.

  Bellowing for his oarsmen to get in position, Merik spun on his heel and strode back toward his officers and first mate. They hadn’t paused their concentrated magic—though they had changed course. The Jana now sailed west, toward shore. Toward the lighthouse.

  “Stop,” Merik ordered.

  Four mouths broke off mid-shanty. The wind gusted down … and vanished. The Jana drifted onward, but her pace slowed instantly.

  Merik eyed Kullen. Sweat shone above the first mate’s lip, but he showed no signs of exhaustion. “I’m going ashore,” Merik said. “The ship falls under your command. I want you to bring the Jana as close to the lighthouse as the depths will allow.”

  Kullen bowed his head, fist over heart. “Have Ryber keep her eye to the spyglass,” Merik went on. “Once I get the passenger away from these monks, I’ll give the wind-flourish. Then I want you to carry the passenger here. As soon as her feet hit the deck, you’ll order the oarsmen and the Tidewitches to make sail.”

  Merik didn’t wait for confirmation before marching to the bulwark. Behind him, the Tidewitches and Kullen resumed the sea shanty. The wind and currents picked up once more.

  Merik leaned against the waist-high railing, chest puffing full. Then came a sharp exhale and a second lung-expanding inhale.

  Air spiraled around his legs, and his magic focused inward. The air streams picked up speed and power.

  Merik took off.

  His eyes teared up. Salty wind was forced into his nose and down his throat. His heart soared straight into his skull.

  For that brief second when all of his Windwitchery was focused into a single funnel below him—when he shot through the air as easily as a petrel on a wave—he was invincible. A creature of joy
and strength and power.

  And then his height would plummet. He would drop low to the water and conserve his energy by feeding off the natural skip of air—for his powers were limited and his magic quickly tapped. He couldn’t maintain flight for long.

  The lighthouse zoomed closer. Closer. The water turned shallow, the waves white-tipped.

  Then he was close enough to the tower to see two girls burst around the side. They hopped up steps Merik hadn’t seen were there.

  One was a girl in black with a short blade.

  And the other was a girl in silvery white …

  A girl Merik recognized instantly, even from this distance. Even with half her gown slashed off. He had just enough time to curse Noden—and His coral throne too—before all his attention went into slowing his descent …

  And crushing any blighted monk who dared get near his passenger.

  FIFTEEN

  As Lady Fate would have it, Aeduan was the only Carawen who couldn’t find a horse. His magic had led him and the other Carawens to the outskirts of Veñaza City. Then, at a cluster of inns, the Truthwitch had ridden into the street ahead. With a simple point of Aeduan’s finger, the four monks moved into formation and the real pursuit had begun—or it had for the other Carawens who’d easily found “borrowed” steeds at the first two inns.

  By the time Aeduan finally found a piebald mare outside a tavern, he was at least five minutes behind the others. Fortunately, Aeduan was a good rider, and the piebald trusted him. Horses always did.

  Soon enough, he was galloping down the long coastal highway, the arrows in his chest bouncing uncomfortably. They were barbed, and if he removed them, he would only shred his flesh further—and then his body would automatically heal. A waste of energy better used in this chase.

  Aeduan caught up to a cart barreling north at wheel-shattering speed. It smelled faintly of the Truthwitch, and Aeduan glimpsed a blanket beneath sunflower stalks.

  A satisfied smirk pulled at his lips. It was a blanket made of salamander fiber, and if the girl had only remained beneath the blanket, Aeduan might never have caught her scent again.

  Her mistake.

  Soon Aeduan was past the cart and the panicked driver, and it was only he and the piebald for several minutes of maximum, exhilarating speed.

  Then a tower appeared, a dark blotch against a night sky. Aeduan would have missed it were it not for the four white figures beside the stone ruins—or the riderless horses galloping toward him.

  Just as Aeduan aimed into the waves, his mare decided the other horses had the right idea. Aeduan gave up on her. With a splash, his boots hit the water and he kicked into a jog.

  Yet he only made it halfway to the tower before the four Carawens wheeled around it and out of sight. Moments later, a figure plummeted from the sky. Windwitch.

  Aeduan rounded the tower … and a gale slammed into him. He barely managed to grab hold of the lighthouse stones before two monks hurled past in a tornado of air and water. Twenty paces, fifty … They crashed limply to the beach—and they probably wouldn’t rise for a long while.

  As the wind died down, swirling over the shallow waves, Aeduan clawed himself back to his feet and sprinted onward, to a set of steps. The Truthwitch’s scent had ascended, so Aeduan would as well.

  But he’d only circled one set of barnacle-laden stairs when two monks staggered into his path. Aeduan grabbed at the first man’s cloak. “What is it?”

  The monk jolted, as if woken from a daze. “Cahr Awen,” he rasped. “I saw them. We must stand down.”

  “What?” Aeduan reared back. “That’s impossible—”

  “Cahr Awen,” the monk insisted. Then in a bellow that blasted over Aeduan, over the sounds of winds and waves, “Stand down, men!” The monk wrenched his cloak from Aeduan’s grasp and pushed down the remaining steps.

  Aeduan watched in horror as the second monk followed.

  “Fools,” Aeduan growled. “Fools!” He leaped up the last few steps, reached the top floor … and skittered to a stop.

  The Nomatsi girl was there, dressed in black and sunk low in her stance. She held a cutlass, arced up in a stream of silver steel, while her black Threadwitch gown swept in the same direction … And beside her, standing tall, was the white-gowned Safiya with a pitchfork swooping in a blur of dark iron, her white, shorn skirts swinging downward.

  It was the circle of perfect motion. Of the light-bringer and dark-giver, the world-starter and shadow-ender. Of initiation and completion.

  It was the symbol of the Cahr Awen.

  Cahr Awen.

  In that tenth of a frozen heartbeat as all the images clamored for space in Aeduan’s brain, he allowed himself to wonder if it was possible—if these two girls of moonlight and sunshine could be the mythical pair that his Monastery had once protected.

  But then the girls moved apart—and a Windwitch appeared behind them. The man, wearing a Nubrevnan naval uniform, was hunched over as if too exhausted to fight. His face was hidden in shadows, his fingers flexed, and wind gathered slowly toward him.

  Aeduan cursed himself. Of course these girls would look like the Cahr Awen with air currents spiraling around them.

  “Stay back!” the Truthwitch shouted. “Don’t move!”

  “Or what?” Aeduan muttered. He lifted his foot to move forward—

  But the Nomatsi girl actually answered. “Or we will decapitate you, Bloodwitch.”

  “Good luck with that.” He stepped forward, and Safiya darted at him, pitchfork out. “Get away from us—”

  Her voice ripped off as Aeduan took control of her blood.

  It was his secret weapon. A blood-manipulation he only used in the most dire of situations. He had to isolate the components of Safiya’s blood—the mountain ranges and the dandelions, the cliffsides and the snowdrifts—and then he had to pin them down. It was exhausting work, and took even more energy and focus than the high-intensity sprint. Aeduan couldn’t maintain this control for long.

  Safiya’s body was stiff, her pitchfork extended like a glaive. She looked trapped in time. Not even her eyes moved.

  In a rush of speed, Aeduan darted toward Safiya. Yet just as he reached her—just as he crouched down to heave her onto his shoulders—the Windwitch burst into action.

  The man’s arms flung upward, and both he and Safiya rocketed off the tower in a roar of wind. It kicked Aeduan backward—propelled him toward the tower’s edge.

  Aeduan lost control of Safiya’s blood.

  He launched into a sprint. Safiya was ten feet high now and flying backward, her body a frantic spin of limbs and skirts. She was screaming over the wind: “Iseult! Iseult!”

  If Aeduan ran, he could leap into the Windwitch’s air-funnel—

  A body hurled into him. He toppled sideways, barely transferring into a roll before the Nomatsi girl thrashed him to the ground.

  Yet Aeduan was already spinning, fingers clawing for any wrists or elbows he could break, his Bloodwitchery grabbing for any blood to lock down.

  But just as Aeduan’s fingers caught empty air, his Bloodwitchery found nothing—the girl was already flipping off him, already charging toward the edge of the tower.

  She would jump. Aeduan knew she would jump.

  So he leaped to his feet too and bolted after the girl named Iseult.

  She hit the edge of the lighthouse; she jumped.

  Aeduan hit the edge too; he jumped.

  And they fell. Together. So close Aeduan could grab her if he wanted to.

  But it was like she knew it. Like she’d planned it that way.

  Midair in a fall that would last barely a second, she swiveled around. Her legs writhed through his and flipped their bodies—

  His back hit the sand. So hard the world went black. Distantly, he felt the girl crash against him. Arrowheads dug even deeper. They smashed his ribs, his lungs. There was pain everywhere. His organs—they were all destroyed.

  And he was pretty certain his spine was broken too.

/>   That was a first.

  Then waves washed over his skin. A breath passed. Aeduan thought he might make it out alive …

  Until he felt a black explosion in his chest.

  It cleared through all the other pains, and his eyes snapped wide. The hilt of his stiletto poked from his heart. His cloak and tunic were too stained to show the blood flowing out—but he knew it was there. Pulsing faster than his power could keep up with.

  Yet he couldn’t withdraw the knife. He couldn’t do anything because he couldn’t move. His spine was definitely broken.

  Aeduan lifted his gaze, the world streaming and blurry … and then morphing into a face.

  A face of shadows and moonlight only a foot away from his. The girl’s lips shuddered with each gasping breath. Her hair flew on the breeze—a natural breeze, Aeduan realized—and her thighs trembled against his broken ribs.

  He saw no one else, heard no one else. For all he knew, they were the only people left alive in this battle.

  In the entire world.

  Then his gaze fell on a Painstone hanging from her neck. Its rosy glow was fading, almost gone, and he could see from the strain on her face that she was hurt. Badly.

  Yet she still managed to unstrap a cleaving knife from Aeduan’s baldric. She still managed to drag it to his neck and hold it there.

  The blade trembled against his skin.

  She had stabbed him in the heart with his stiletto, and now she was going to decapitate him.

  But the cleaver stopped; the girl called Iseult cringed and her Painstone flared a soft pink … before winking out completely.

  A groan erupted from her lips. She almost toppled forward—and Aeduan glimpsed the wound on her right bicep. Bloodstained linens. Blood he should be able to smell.

  “You … have no … scent,” he ground out. He could feel his own hot blood gushing over his teeth, dribbling from the sides of his mouth. “I can’t smell … your blood.”

  She didn’t answer. All of her concentration was on holding the cleaver steady.

  “Why … can’t I smell you? Tell … me.” Aeduan wasn’t sure why he wanted to know. If she cut off his head, he would die. It was the only wound from which a Bloodwitch couldn’t recover.