Truthwitch

  And it wasn’t as if they knew about the Hasstrel contract.

  Which meant Merik was going to have to fight Safiya fon Hasstrel, and he would have to do it without spilling her blood.

  Merik’s feet touched down, and there was the girl, hurtling toward him with her braid flying behind. Sailors dispersed from her path, their attention on what would come next.

  Then Safiya was before him, cutlass arching out. Merik met it with his own. Sparks blazed along the steel—this girl was strong. He needed to get the blades out of this fight as soon as possible. Even the slightest nick could be too much for the contract.

  Another hacking blow from the girl. Merik parried, but his back was against his cabin. Worse, the world was angling sharply left, and the ship was in that pausing stillness between heaves.

  The girl used that inertia, and by the Wells, she was fast. One slash became two. Three. Four—

  But there. The ship lurched the other way, and her knees wobbled. She had to widen her stance before unfurling her next attack.

  Merik was ready. When her blade swung high, he ducked low. Her sword thunked into the wall, and Merik tackled her. Yet the instant she was over his shoulder, her fists hammered into his kidneys. Into his spine.

  His grip loosened, and the ship rocked. He felt his balance go. She’d hit the deck headfirst.

  So he tapped into his Windwitchery. Air gusted beneath the girl, flinging her torso high and returning Merik’s balance … until she wrestled fully upright onto his shoulder and kneed him in the ribs.

  He doubled over—he couldn’t help it. Planks zoomed toward his face.

  His magic exploded. In a cyclone of power, he and the domna blasted off the deck. They spun. They tumbled. The world blurred until they were above the masts. Wind whipped around them, under them. Safiya hardly seemed to notice how high they were.

  Merik tried to control the power beneath his skin. In his lungs. But there was no denying that the girl awakened this rage inside him. His witchery no longer responded to him but to her.

  Her fist launched at Merik’s face. He had just enough time to block it before her foot hooked behind his ankle. She whipped him backward—her body spinning with his until they were upside down. Until all he saw was sailcloth and rigging and Safiya’s fists thrashing in.

  Merik countered, but he pushed too hard—or maybe his witchery did. Either way, she went twirling out and away from the sails. Then she left Merik’s winds entirely and plummeted, headfirst, toward a hundred gaping sailors.

  Merik thrust a magicked wind beneath her, propelling her back his way. Flipping her—and himself—right side up. The ocean and the rigging streamed through his vision.

  Then Safiya kicked him. Right in the gut.

  His breath thundered out. His magic choked off.

  He and the domna fell.

  Merik had just enough time to angle his body beneath her and think, This will hurt, when his back hit the deck.

  No … that wasn’t the deck. That was a swirl of wind. Kullen was slowing their speed, before—

  Merik slammed onto the wood with a brain-rattling crack! The girl toppled onto him, crushing his lungs and ribs.

  Despite the pain and the shock, Merik took his chance while he had it. He hooked his knees into hers and flipped her beneath him. Then he planted his hands on either side of her head and glared down. “Are you finished?”

  Her chest heaved. Her cheeks were sunset red, but her eyes were gleaming and sharp. “Never,” she panted. “Not until you go ashore.”

  “Then I will put you in chains.” Merik shifted as if to rise, but she clutched his shirt and yanked. His elbows caved; he fell flat against her, noses almost touching.

  “You don’t … fight fair.” Her ribs bowed into his with each gasping breath. “Fight me … again. Without magic.”

  “Did I hurt your pride?” He chuckled roughly and dipped his mouth toward her ear. His nose grazed down her cheek. “Even without my winds,” he whispered, “you would lose.”

  Before she could respond, Merik rolled off her and shoved to his feet. “Take her below and chain her!”

  Safiya tried to scramble up, but two sailors—men from Merik’s original, loyal crew—were already upon her. She wrestled and roared, but when Kullen stepped stonily to her side, she stopped fighting—although she didn’t stop shouting. “I hope you burn in hell! Your first mate and your crew—I hope you all burn!”

  Merik turned away, pretending not to hear. Not to care. But the truth was, he did hear and he did care.

  TWENTY-ONE

  It took Aeduan mere minutes to get Emperor Henrick to hire him, but any time saved was lost while getting his new companion, the foppish Prince Leopold—as well as eight Hell-Bard escorts—out of the palace.

  Two hours after leaving the Doge’s personal office, Aeduan finally found himself jogging beside Leopold’s carriage and heading to the Southern Wharf District. Traffic was dense. People had come from all corners of Veñaza City to see “the Doge’s burned-down palace.” Or to see, as most people referred to it, “what the thrice-damned fire-eating Marstoks had done.”

  Aeduan had no idea how that rumor had started, but he suspected it had been started. Perhaps a loudmouthed palace guard had blabbed or some war-hungry diplomat had intentionally let the rumor slip. Either way, animosities for the Marstoks were high as Aeduan jogged the streets and bridges of Veñaza City—a bad sign for the Twenty Year Truce renewal—and everything about the situation felt guided. Strategized. Someone wanted Marstok as the enemy.

  Aeduan filed that away to tell his father.

  He also filed away the fact that, of the eight Hell-Bards in Leopold’s employ, only the commander was still breathing normally inside his helm after two blocks of jogging.

  So much for an elite fighting force.

  Then again, Aeduan was shamefully exhausted himself by the time Leopold’s carriage clattered into the Southern Wharf District, where the Cartorran warships creaked.

  It was almost evening—and Aeduan’s newly healed muscles burned from the exertion, his fresh skin was overheated from the crowded streets, and his old scars wept blood once more—which meant his only clean shirt was now stained through.

  Oh, Aeduan couldn’t wait to exact revenge—somehow—when he saw that Threadwitch again.

  Leopold staggered out of his carriage into the hot sunset. He wore a teal velvet suit that was far too fine for sailing, and at his hip was a cutting-rapier with a gold cage-hilt—more for flash than use.

  But money was money, and Aeduan’s new lockbox of silver talers inside the carriage was easily worth baking in the sun and listening to this foppish prince’s endless stream of complaints.

  “What,” the prince called out, a gloved hand over his mouth, “is that stench?”

  When none of the Hell-Bards stepped forward to answer—when in fact they all stepped just out of earshot, as if intentionally avoiding conversation with their prince—the duty of a response fell to Aeduan.

  “That stench,” he said flatly, “is fish.”

  “And the feces of filthy Dalmottis,” hollered a bearded man striding down the pier. He wore the emerald green coat of the Cartorran navy and, judging by his high chin and the three men scurrying at his heels, he was the admiral that Leopold was supposed to meet.

  The four officers formed a line before Leopold and popped curt bows along with four rounds of “Your Imperial Highness.”

  Leopold smirked like a boy with a new toy, and as he adjusted his sword, he declared in Cartorran, “Board your ships, men. The fleet sets out with the tide and, according to this monk, it is a Nubrevnan that we hunt.”

  The admiral shifted his weight, the captains traded glances, and somehow, the Hell-Bards slunk even farther away. For of course, there would be no sailing with the tide. A single ship sailing to Nubrevna was risky at best. An entire fleet was a suicide mission. Everyone here knew that except the one man who ought to: the imperial heir to Cartorra.

  Ye
t none of the officers seemed inclined to speak up—not even the admiral. Inwardly, Aeduan groaned. Surely these people did not fear this vapid prince. Aeduan could understand fearing Emperor Henrick, but the Emperor was not here to loose his waggle-toothed ire.

  Aeduan turned sharply to the prince and said in Dalmotti, “You cannot bring a fleet to Nubrevna.”

  “Oh?” Leopold blinked. “Why not?”

  “Because it would be useless.”

  Leopold flinched, and his cheeks flared red—the first sign of a temper. So, though it killed Aeduan to do it, he tacked on a brusque, “Your Imperial Highness.”

  “Useless, is it?” Leopold thumbed the edge of his lips. “Am I missing something then?” He twisted to the admiral, and in clipped Cartorran, he asked, “Isn’t this what navies are for? Reclaiming things that warmongering Nubrevnans take from you?” Leopold’s cheeks twitched as he spoke, and Aeduan amended his earlier thought.

  Leopold might indeed possess a terrifying temper—particularly if one’s admiralty depended on his ignorant princely whim.

  So with a harsh exhale, Aeduan spoke up once more. He had no admiralty to lose, after all. “Navies are for sea battles, Your Imperial Highness. Meaning at sea. Yet we do not go to Nubrevna for battles, because the domna will likely be in Lovats by the time your warships can even reach the Nubrevnan coast. Were I this Nubrevnan Windwitch, that is where I would take her.”

  Leopold’s cheeks ticked again, and when he spoke, it was in Dalmotti and addressed to Aeduan. “Why does the girl’s arrival in Lovats make a difference? A Nubrevnan kidnapped my uncle’s betrothed. We claim her.”

  “The Twenty Year Truce,” Aeduan said, “does not allow foreign vessels to touch down on a nation’s soil without permission—”

  “I know what the cursed Truce says. But I repeat, they have my uncle’s betrothed. That is already a violation of the Truce.”

  Except that it isn’t, Aeduan thought. But he didn’t feel like arguing, so he only gave a sharp nod. “The only way to access Lovats is to sail past the Sentries of Noden—and those stone monuments are heavily guarded by Nubrevnan soldiers. Assuming your fleet could get by—which they couldn’t—they would still have to contend with the bewitched Water-Bridges of Stefin-Ekart.”

  “So,” Leopold’s voice was lethally devoid of inflection, “what am I supposed to do, then?”

  The admiral, his captains, and the distant Hell-Bards collectively flinched—and Aeduan no longer blamed them. At least Henrick understood war and costs and strategy.

  Not to mention basic history.

  Yet, this was an opportunity for Aeduan. A good one, the likes of which he might never have again. It was a chance to gain the trust of a prince.

  “A single ship,” Aeduan said slowly, twisting his wrists—inward three times, outward three times. “We need the fastest frigate in the fleet as well as every Tide- or Windwitch available. If we can intercept the Nubrevnans before they reach their homeland, we can claim the domna without affecting the Truce … Your Imperial Highness.”

  Leopold eyed Aeduan, the Veñazan breeze lifting his pale curls in all directions. Then, as if coming to some internal decision, he tapped his rapier hilt and nodded at Aeduan. “Make it happen, Monk. Immediately.”

  So Aeduan did just that, smugly pleased to have four officers and eight Hell-Bards—all of them eyeing Aeduan’s bloodied chest warily—now forced to take orders from him.

  The experience was also … disconcerting. People rarely stared at Aeduan directly, much less stood in such close proximity. So when the planning finally ended and the men returned to ignoring him once more, Aeduan found himself relieved.

  It was as he returned to Leopold’s carriage after overseeing the transport of his lockbox onto a Cartorran cutter that a familiar scent wafted into his nose.

  He paused, two steps from the carriage, and sniffed the air.

  Clear lake water and frozen winters.

  Aeduan knew that smell, yet he couldn’t pin down the corresponding blood. Leopold smelled of new leather and smoky hearths; the Hell-Bards stank of the noose and cold iron; and the officers all bore distinctly oceanic blood-scents.

  Whoever had recently passed this pier, Aeduan had met them but had not bothered to record their scent.

  Which meant they were not important.

  So, shrugging aside the smell, Aeduan tugged his hood low. The seventeenth chimes were tolling, which meant Aeduan had just enough time to find 14 Ridensa Street—and to finally update his father on this latest, most lucrative employer.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Manacles rubbed against Safi’s wrists as she watched Iseult’s sleeping face.

  There was an unmistakable line of drool lingering on Iseult’s lips, but Evrane was gone and Safi was chained too far away to do anything.

  She could do nothing that mattered, it seemed. She’d acted like a child by letting her temper explode at Merik—and she didn’t care. What she cared about was that her attack had failed. That she’d only made things worse in the end.

  The room was dim, clouds rolling over the afternoon sun, and water sloshed behind her. The ship was gaining speed, the rocking all but stopped, and the giant drum booming once more. The stomp of sailors’ feet had also resumed.

  Safi drew her knees to her chest. Her chains rattled, a mocking sound.

  “That was quite a display.”

  Safi lurched upright—and found Evrane in the doorway. Light as a mouse, the monk crossed the room to Iseult.

  “How is she?” Safi asked. “What can I do?”

  “You can do nothing chained up,” Evrane dropped to the floor and draped a hand over Iseult’s arm. “She is stable. For now.”

  Safi’s breath burst out.

  For now wasn’t long enough. What if Safi had initiated something she couldn’t complete? What if Iseult never woke up—could never wake up?

  Evrane twisted toward Safi. “I should have kept you in the room. I am sorry for that.”

  “I would have attacked Merik belowdecks or above.”

  Evrane sniffed dryly. “Are you injured from your … sparring?”

  Safi ignored the question. “Tell me what’s wrong with Iseult. Why does she need a Firewitch healer?”

  “Because there is something wrong with Iseult’s muscle, and that is a Firewitch healer’s domain.” Evrane plucked a glass jar from within her cloak. “I am a Waterwitch healer, so I specialize in the fluids of the body. My salves”—she flourished the jar at Safi—“are from Earthwitch healers, so they can only heal skin and bone.” Evrane set the salve on the pallet. “There is inflammation in Iseult’s muscle that is bewitched. Either the cut on her hand or the arrow wound in her arm was cursed. I … cannot tell which, but it is undoubtedly the work of a Cursewitch.”

  “A Cursewitch?” Safi repeated. Then again, “A Cursewitch?”

  “I’ve seen spells like this before,” Evrane continued. “I can keep the curse clear of her blood, but I fear it will still spread through her muscle. As we speak, it moves for her shoulder. If it gets much closer, then I will have to amputate—but that is risky to do on my own. It is best done with an Earthwitch healer and a Firewitch healer to help. Of course, even if we had such witches available, most Earthwitch healers are Cartorran. Most Firewitch healers are Marstoki. Merik would never allow such enemies onboard.”

  “They are not enemies now,” Safi muttered, her mind still reeling from the idea of amputation. That word seemed so strange. So impossible. “The War ended twenty years ago.”

  “Tell that to the men who fought in it.” Evrane gestured toward the main hold. “Tell that to the sailors who lost their families to Marstoki flames.”

  “But healers can’t hurt.” Safi pushed her fingers against the wood until her knuckles cracked. “Isn’t that part of your magic?”

  “Oh, we can hurt,” Evrane answered. “Just not with our power.”

  Safi said nothing. There was nothing to say. Every breath that passed, the deeper into h
ell she tumbled and the less likely Iseult was to survive.

  Yet even though Safi was chained, she wouldn’t give up. Merik’s treaty, her uncle’s plan, and even her own future could be damned and thrice-damned again. Safi would find a way to get off this ship and she would get Iseult to a Firewitch healer.

  “So you are a noblewoman,” Evrane said, “yet you clearly know your way around a blade. I wonder how that happened.” She carefully reached for her healer kit at the foot of the pallet. Then, with precise movements, she untied the bandage on Iseult’s arm. The drum pounded and pounded and pounded.

  “In Nubrevna,” Evrane continued, “we call our doms and domnas ‘vizers,’ and my family’s land—the Nihar holding—was southeast of the capital. A crap holding, to tell you the truth.” Evrane threw Safi a wry smile as she ever-so-carefully peeled back the bandage. “But crap holdings tend to breed the most power-hungry vizers, and my brother was no exception. He eventually won the hand of Queen Jana, and the Nihars were inducted into the royal snakes.”

  The Cartorran nobility is the same, Safi thought. Vicious, cutthroat, lying. While a man like Merik might feel duty-bound to his land and his people, Safi had never suffered that loyalty. The Hasstrel people had never wanted her, nor had her fellow doms and domnas. And as Uncle Eron had so succinctly put it, Safi wasn’t exactly cut out for leadership.

  Evrane set aside the dirty bandages and reached for her jar of salve. “Politics is a world of lies, and the Nubrevnan court is no different. Yet, when my brother became King…” She frowned and opened the jar. “When Serafin became King and Admiral of the Royal Navy, he became the worst snake of them all. He puts vizer against vizer, son against daughter—even his own.

  “I stayed a few years after the family moved to Lovats,” Evrane went on, “but eventually I gave up. I wanted to help people, and I could not do so in the capital.” Evrane replaced the tub in her kit and then waved her Witchmark in Safi’s direction. “It is part of being blessed with Waterwitch healing, I suppose. I need to help and when I am idle, I am unhappy. So years before the Truce began, I gave up my title and traveled to the Sirmayan Mountains to take my Carawen vows. The Wells have always called to me, and I knew that I could help others with a white robe upon my back. Where do you come from, Domna?”