Truthwitch

  “I didn’t mean to,” Safi said, eyes on Merik. “I never meant to hurt you or Kullen or … or Nubrevna. I didn’t know about the Marstoks—I swear it, Admiral. My uncle told me no one would follow!”

  Iseult’s jaw slackened as she watched on. The Threads over Safi’s—and Merik’s heads—throbbed with a harsh, urgent need. Safi’s Threads grabbed for Merik’s, and his wrapped and twined into hers.

  Right before Iseult’s eyes, Safi’s Threads were changing from those that build into those that bind.

  In two long steps, Merik was back to Safi’s side and crouching down. He stared hard into her eyes; she stared back.

  “If not for Kullen’s magic, we would all be dead right now, and it was your impulsive disobedience that almost killed us. That cannot go unpunished. There is still a contract with your family, and one way or another, I will get you to Lejna. Then I will feed my country.”

  For a heartbeat … then two, the space between Merik and Safi—the Threads burning between them—ignited into a full flaming Thread of scarlet.

  But Iseult had no time to distinguish the exact shade—if it was a growing Thread of love or one of unforgiving hate—before the color was gone again and she was left wondering if she hadn’t imagined the entire thing.

  * * *

  It was almost funny how fast Safi went from standing upright to being locked, like a battered dog, in the irons. Stuck. Trapped. Unmoving.

  And she hadn’t fought at all. She’d just given in, wondering why she was accepting these fetters so easily. Wondering when she’d lost her ability to attack. To run. If she couldn’t run properly, then what did she have left from her old life? Her happy life full of taro and coffee and daydreams.

  All of her hopes for freedom had scorched away. No place of her own with Iseult. No escaping Emperor Henrick’s court or her uncle Eron’s schemes or a life as a fugitive Truthwitch.

  But Iseult would live. Her wound was healed and she would live. That made it all worth it, didn’t it?

  Safi watched her Threadsister, who was scrambling after Merik across the deck—pleading with him, her face blank despite the sailors recoiling from her path. Merik ignored her and climbed to the quarterdeck. He took his spot at the helm and ordered the wind-drum to resume.

  And Iseult gave up. She stopped her chase at the companionway and twisted around to meet Safi’s eyes, looking even more helpless than she had when she’d been dying.

  Rain started to fall. A gentle whisper on Safi’s skin that should have soothed, but felt like acid instead. Safi was falling into herself. The world was pulsing at her. She couldn’t move her legs. She was trapped here, inside herself. Forever, she would be this person. Stuck within this body and this mind. Tied down by her own mistakes and broken promises.

  This is why they all leave you. Your parents. Your uncle. Habim and Mathew. Merik.

  The prince’s name pounded in Safi’s ears. Roared with her blood in time to the rain. In time to the drum.

  He only wanted to save his homeland, yet Safi hadn’t cared—not about Merik, not about all the lives depending on him.

  Iseult stumbled over the deck toward Safi, her face pinched and pale. She was the only person Safi had left, the only piece from her old life. But how long before Iseult gave up too?

  Iseult reached Safi and dropped to her knees. “He won’t listen to me.”

  “You need rest,” Evrane said. “Go to the cabin.”

  Safi flinched; her chains rattled. She’d forgotten the monk was fettered beside her. She’d been so caged in her own skin, she’d forgotten everyone else.

  Like she always did.

  It was Safi’s selfish greed that had put a price on Iseult’s head. That had forced Iseult to leave Veñaza City—and somehow earned a cursed arrow in the arm too. Then, when Safi had fought for Iseult—had done everything she could to compensate and to save her other half from the damage she’d wrought—Safi had ended up hurting someone else. Lots of someones. Her tunnel vision had led her down a broken path. Now Merik, Kullen, and his entire crew were paying for it.

  With that thought, Uncle Eron’s words from Veñaza City settled over Safi’s heart.

  When the chimes toll midnight, you can do whatever you please and live out the same unambitious existence you’ve always enjoyed.

  She had done just that, hadn’t she? At midnight, she had dropped the act of domna. She’d resumed her old impulsive, oblivious existence.

  But … Safi refused to accept that. She refused to be what Eron—or anyone else—expected her to be. She was stuck in this body, with this mind, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t reach outside. It didn’t mean she couldn’t change.

  She met Iseult’s eyes, sagging and overbright in the twilight. “Go to the cabin,” she ordered. “You need to get out of the rain.”

  “But you…” Iseult scooted closer, gooseflesh on her rain-slick arms. “I can’t leave you like this.”

  “Please, Iz. If you don’t heal, then all of this will have been for nothing.” Safi forced a laugh. “I’ll be fine. This is nothing compared to Habim’s jab drills.”

  Iseult didn’t offer the smile Safi had hoped for, but she did nod and unsteadily push to her feet. “I’ll check on you at the next chime.” She looked at Evrane and lifted her wrist. “Do you want the Painstone back?”

  Evrane gave a tiny shake of her head. “You’ll need it to fall asleep.

  “Thank you.” Iseult looked once more at Safi—stared hard into Safi’s eyes. “It’ll be all right,” she said simply. “We’ll make it all right again. I promise.” Then she hugged her arms to her chest and walked away, leaving Safi with the rising tide of her Truthwitchery.

  Because somehow they would make it all right again.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  In the seven hours since the Cartorran cutter had set sail from Veñaza City, the sun had set, the moon had risen, and Aeduan had not stopped puking. His only consolation was that this misery had sparked a story among the Void-fearing sailors on board: Bloodwitches can’t cross water.

  Yes, let them spread that rumor at every port they visited.

  It was just as Aeduan had transitioned into welcome dry heaves that the cutter came upon four destroyed naval vessels—three of them Marstoki and one Nubrevnan. Despite Aeduan’s most snarling protests that Safiya fon Hasstrel was not upon these ships, Prince Leopold insisted on stopping anyway.

  For it would seem that the Empress of Marstok was onboard—and Leopold wanted Aeduan to join him on that ship. When none of the Hell-Bards opposed this madness—not even the Commander, a lazy, irreverent young man named Fitz Grieg—Aeduan soon found himself flying to the Empress’s galleon via Windwitch. There, ten Adders gave him and Leopold a casual once-over. They Adders made no move to claim any weapons, though, before leading their visitors to the Empress’s cabin. Clearly they were confident that neither Leopold nor Aeduan stood any chance against their Poisonwitch darts.

  Aeduan recognized some of the Adders—by blood-smell alone, though, since he could see no faces behind their headscarves. Their zigzagged swords, like flames of steel, flickered in the Firewitch lamps across the deck.

  Stupid weapons. They were unwieldy and unnecessary—especially when an Adder’s best advantage was his or her Poisonwitchery.

  Their power over poison was such a dark subset of Waterwitchery—a corruption of Waterwitch healers, Aeduan had once heard—yet it was Aeduan’s power that was considered Void magic. Aeduan was the one called demon.

  It had always struck him as … unfair.

  Then again, it also worked in his favor.

  Once inside the Empress’s cabin, the Adders settled evenly around the room and against the walls. A low, unadorned table and two benches were at the room’s center, and beside one stood the Empress of Marstok.

  She was smaller than Aeduan had realized, having only seen her from afar, yet despite her delicate bones, her blood-scent was unyielding. Desert sage and sandstone walls. The blacksmith’s anvil and gal
l ink. It was the scent of an Ironwitch—a powerful one—as well as a woman of education. And despite the fact that Vaness’s fleet was in shambles, she wore a fresh white gown, and her expression was coolly civil.

  Aeduan settled into a wide-legged stance behind the second bench, calculating the best exits from the cabin as he did so—and the Empress smiled. It breezed over her lips—as if she and Leopold were merely meeting on the dance floor.

  The Empress must have known who—and what—Aeduan was, yet she made no comment on his presence. Gave no indication that she found it odd Leopold lacked any sort of Hell-Bard escort.

  Clearly, she was an expert at appearances, each expression a careful mask designed to keep the power of the room in her slender hands.

  But why bother? Aeduan wondered. If she was as powerful an Ironwitch as the stories claimed, then she didn’t need tricks to get her way. The older Carawen monks still spoke of the day she destroyed Kendura Pass—the day she tapped into a magic so vast and so fearless, that she toppled an entire mountain.

  And she’d only been seven years old.

  Aeduan took that as a sign this meeting was peacefully intended.

  “I will take some Marstoki dates, if I may,” said Prince Leopold. He hovered beside the table, seemingly more interested in examining his jacket cuffs than in speaking with Vaness.

  Yet the mask Leopold wore was clumsy and overdone. It was like the prince played at being royalty while the Empress simply was.

  Vaness motioned to the bench, the iron of her bracelets rattling. “Have a seat, Prince Leopold. I will have candies brought in.”

  “Thank you, Your Holiest of Holies.” Leopold flashed her a bright grin, and with the sigh of someone who has worked a long, hard day, he sank onto the bench. Its black wood creaked.

  Vaness swept onto the bench opposite him. Her spine straight, she cocked her head to one side, waiting. Her pause was quickly rewarded by a serving boy, who scurried in with a plate of sugared fruit. Leopold snatched up one, moaned his pleasure, and then snapped up two more. Seconds slid into minutes, and though Aeduan had no doubt the prince meant this as some sort of insult, the Empress showed only patience—which was more than Aeduan could lay claim to.

  If Leopold’s point in coming was to offer petty insults, then this detour was an even greater waste of Aeduan’s time than he’d first feared. At this rate, Safiya fon Hasstrel would reach the Sentries of Noden before Leopold even finished downing his candies.

  On the fourth fruit, Vaness’s face slid into a narrow-browed frown. “When I said that my fleet was hurt,” she said politely, “I had hoped for your assistance. Perhaps I was not clear.”

  Leopold bared his usual flash of a grin and wiped a slow thumb over his lips. “But surely Your Most Majestic of Majesties realizes that sugar can improve even the most dire of situations.” He offered her a fig.

  “I am not hungry.”

  “One needn’t be hungry to enjoy these.” Leopold shoved the candy at her once more. “Taste one. They are almost as divine as your beauty.”

  She bowed her head respectfully and, to Aeduan’s surprise, she accepted a sugared fruit. She even went so far as to nibble off a corner.

  Aeduan ran his tongue over his teeth, at a loss for how to interpret this behavior. Leopold clearly wished to anger Vaness, yet she deftly avoided taking his bait. Which meant whatever she wanted was important—and whatever she wanted, she got. So why drag this out? Why keep a veneer of serenity with a power like hers? Aeduan certainly never bothered.

  Leopold seemed to think the same, for on his sixth date, he abandoned his game. With poorly veiled annoyance, he slouched back and crossed his legs.

  “What happened to your fleet, Your Worshipped?”

  “Sea foxes,” she said simply—which earned a laugh from the prince.

  “Sea foxes,” he repeated, eyebrows rising. “You expect me to believe that? Did shadow wyrms and flame hawks get you as well? Or let me guess: the Twelve returned with their wicked swords and bashed a hole in the hull.”

  Vaness showed no reaction, yet the air in the room seemed to contract. The Adders stiffened, and Aeduan’s hand moved to his sword hilt.

  “Flame hawks are still present in Marstok,” Vaness said, her tone as smooth as before. Her mask preserved. “And it would seem that the sea foxes have returned.”

  Aeduan’s eyes flitted to Leopold, trying to gauge the prince’s reaction. Aeduan had heard of sea foxes, yet as far as he knew, there hadn’t been any sightings for decades.

  For once, though, Leopold remained silent and unreadable.

  So Vaness continued. “I am due in Azmir, Your Highness, but I fear it will take my men too long to repair our fleet’s damage. I ask that you lend us Tidewitches from your crew. We have none left.”

  Then why, Aeduan mused wryly, do I detect at least three Tidewitch scents belowdecks? There was no mistaking them. They smelled of high-water marks and river rapids.

  As Aeduan considered how best to inform Leopold of the Empress’s lie, Leopold flourished his hands. “Your Imperial Perfection,” he murmured, “I couldn’t help but notice an intact ship in your fleet. It didn’t match your other ships. In fact it looked—what did we say?” Leopold threw a pointed glance at Aeduan—one that made it clear he didn’t expect a response. Then the prince snapped his fingers. “It looked Nubrevnan. That was it. I wonder, Your Imperial Perfection, how it came to be in your possession?”

  “We found the warship by chance,” Vaness answered smoothly. “It must have been attacked by sea foxes as well.”

  “Then, surely”—Leopold propped his elbows on his knees—“its dead crew will not mind if you take it ashore.”

  For half a breath, Vaness froze. She did not speak, blink, or even breathe. Then she shot to her feet, bracelets clattering and a new mask settling into place: anger. Or perhaps it was no mask, for when Aeduan sucked in a full breath, he sensed her pulse was faster. Hotter.

  “You would deny me help?” she said softly. “I, who am the Empress of the Flame Children, the Chosen Daughter of the Fire Well, the Most Worshipped of the Marstoks?” She stretched both her hands on the table with such poise that not a single iron link clanked. “I, who am the Destroyer of Kendura Pass? To deny me is to ignite your own funeral pyre, Prince Leopold. You do not want me as an enemy.”

  “I wasn’t aware we were allies.”

  Vaness’s body tautened like a waiting snake, and Aeduan instinctively summoned his own magic—a mere ripple that would leave his eyes clear of red. If this moment escalated, Aeduan would lock down the Empress in a heartbeat.

  Leopold tipped a single finger at Vaness. “Here is the situation as I see it, Your Highest of Highs. First, I think that you are following my uncle’s betrothed—because why else would you abandon a truce summit at which you are supposed to be?

  “Second”—he unfurled another finger—“I think you met Safiya’s kidnappers here and engaged in a battle that somehow fell between the Truce’s cracks.” Leopold flexed a third finger, frowning now. “I cannot sort out this third finger—which is the reason for it all. Safiya cannot possibly hold any value for you, Your Most Beloved.”

  The air in the room tightened even more. Vaness’s chest expanded … but then Aeduan felt her blood cool, her fury back in control. “I,” she murmured, “do not want your uncle’s betrothed, Prince Leopold.”

  “And I,” Leopold flowed to his feet, towering over the Empress by a full head and a half, “do not believe you, Empress Vaness.”

  Magic rushed out—faster than Aeduan could ever have guessed. It stripped three knives from his baldric, launched them over the bench, and aimed them at Leopold’s neck, heart, and stomach.

  Aeduan’s power roared to life. His blood reached for Vaness. His body tensed for action.

  But in a slippery whisper, ten Adders unholstered their blowguns and aimed them at Aeduan and Leopold.

  Aeduan’s gaze raced back over the room, mind groping for an escape route. He could c
ontrol Vaness, but he’d still end up with a chest full of poison or steel—and although Aeduan would survive, Leopold would not.

  The prince lifted a cool hand, no sign of fear in his voice—or, to Aeduan’s surprise, in his blood. “If you find Safiya fon Hasstrel before I do, Empress, you will return her to me immediately, or you will face the consequences.”

  “Do you love your uncle’s plaything so much?” Vaness flipped up one palm, and the knife at Leopold’s neck drew back several inches. “Do you value her life so highly that you would risk my displeasure?”

  Though the prince’s lips twisted up, there was no amusement in his smile. “I have known Safiya fon Hasstrel my entire life, Your Royal Perfection. She will make an incredible leader when the time comes. The kind who puts her nation before herself.” His eyes flicked significantly to Vaness’s bracelets. “So mark my words, Chosen Daughter of the Fire Well, if you do not give me the future empress, then I will come to Marstok and I will claim her myself. Now lower your blades before I accidentally step into one. That will erase your name from the Twenty Year Truce, I can assure you.”

  A rigid pause stretched through the room, and Aeduan kept his witchery quaking high. Ready … Ready …

  The blades lazily twirled back. Then they slid away and fell.

  Aeduan caught the nearest from the air, but the other two hit the table. The bench. As he snatched them up, Leopold dipped forward to pluck another candied fruit. “Thank you for the treats, Great Destroyer.” He smiled blandly. “It’s always such a pleasure to see you.”

  Without another word, and with the squared shoulders of a man in charge, Leopold the Fourth strode for the door. “Come, Monk,” he called. “We have lost time, and we must now make it up.”

  Aeduan marched after Leopold, his eyes and his power never leaving the Empress or her Adders. Yet no one made any attempt to stop Leopold or Aeduan as they departed, and moments later, the men were rocketing off the splintered Marstoki galleon.

  Once firmly on their cutter again—and with Leopold shouting for Commander Fitz Grieg to fetch him clean breeches—Aeduan watched the prince through slitted, distrustful eyes.