Windwitch

  “Hell-Bard,” she said.

  “Hmm?” He set her arm, palm up, over his knee. Then he reached for his needle and a fresh length of hemp.

  “Did you tell the emperor what I am? What my magic is?”

  “I did not.” The answer came without hesitation as he threaded the needle, the copper winking in the sunset. “But I did confirm for the emperor what he’d already heard from other sources.”

  “Ah.” Safi exhaled roughly, and her muscles weakened. She slouched back, watching as Caden cleaned the long cut with a water-soaked linen. Fresh blood welled, and fresh pain with it.

  Safi forced herself to keep speaking. “How can you tell what my magic is? What is it that Hell-Bards do? You told me if we survived that you would explain.”

  “I was hoping you would forget that.” His eyes flicked up. “Can’t trick a Truthwitch, I suppose.”

  “Answer the question.”

  “Let’s just say…” He chewed his lip for a moment. “Let’s just say that we Hell-Bards were once heretics too. Just like you.” Here he paused to set aside the bloodied linen and grasp the needle once more. “Our magics were taken away from us, Domna, as punishment. Now we serve the man who took them from us. To remove the noose is to die.”

  Safi gasped. Her eyes winced shut as pain barked from the needle’s stab—and a memory formed. Of Uncle Eron removing his chain, his noose—though only for a few breaths at a time. Long enough for Safi to read his truths.

  Then Eron had always slipped it back on.

  She opened her eyes to find the top of Caden’s head so near. He had freckles on his forehead. She hadn’t noticed them until now.

  “When the noose is on, you’re protected against magic. How?”

  “I can’t tell you all my secrets, Domna. Otherwise, you’ll run off and then the emperor will hang use all—and with a real noose this time.” He laughed, but it was edged with sadness.

  Before Safi could demand more answers, hinges sang.

  The Empress of Marstok swept in, her stained mustard gown swishing. Like everyone else, she wore what she’d fled Saldonica in. Admiral Kahina had left nothing on board beyond barrels of fresh water and furniture.

  Vaness positioned herself between Safi and the window. Her face was serene—falsely serene. For though there was no sign of the blood sickness from earlier and though the cutter was indeed sailing them all straight for Marstok, the truth was that the empress never relaxed her guard. Ever.

  “How much longer here, Hell-Bard?” Vaness asked.

  “A few more minutes.”

  “Then I will have this conversation with you present.”

  “Good enough.” Caden moved no more quickly, no more slowly than before. Just his usual cautious concentration, and the usual steady swipes of pain.

  “We will reach Marstoki shores in the morning, Safi. As an expression of my gratitude for all you have done since we left Nubrevna, I wish to give you a choice.

  “You may either remain in the care of the Hell-Bards and return to your homeland, or you may go with me to Azmir. Once you have helped me purge my court, you will be free to leave. And I…” She paused here, and for a fraction of a breath, the cool mask faltered. Earnest hope shone through. “I will gift you with enough funds to travel wherever you wish. To start a new life somewhere.”

  The statement—the offer—settled through the cabin like a sheet billows atop a mattress before it finally sinks down. Before it finally connects.

  “A … choice,” Safi repeated, and there was no missing how Caden’s careful movements did slow now.

  With her left hand, Safi gripped her Threadstone. Her bruised, cracked knuckles brushed against the steel chain Vaness had first looped there seventeen days ago.

  So much had happened in that time. With Vaness. With the Hell-Bards. Neither were her enemies any longer.

  True, true. Safi’s throat pinched tight at that thought, and chills raced down her torn flesh. If she went to Cartorra, she would lose her freedom, and then Iseult might never find her again, never see her again. Safi would be trapped as the emperor’s bride, trapped as the emperor’s Truthwitch, and trapped in a cold castle she could never escape.

  But in Marstok … In Azmir … Safi stood a chance. Once she was done weeding out corruption in the court, she could leave. Better yet, she could leave with money to sustain her, and she and Iseult could finally—finally—start their lives somewhere new.

  What of the Hell Bards, though? To return to Cartorra without Safi was a death sentence—Caden had just revealed as much. And Safi hadn’t saved their wretched skins just so Henrick could kill them off.

  She had already lost Merik Nihar. She would not lose more people if she could help it.

  “I will go with you to Azmir,” Safi said, trying to pump authority into her words, “and the Hell-Bards will go with me. As my personal guards.”

  The words echoed in the small cabin. Vaness looked puzzled, while Caden stopped stitching. He regarded Safi with wide eyes, something almost like a frown playing on his lips.

  The silence dragged on for several heartbeats. Until at last, Vaness sniffed. “I accept your terms, Safi. And…” She bowed her head, her face relaxing into real, honest serenity. “Thank you for staying by my side.”

  The Empress of Marstok strode out exactly as she had come in. It wasn’t until the door had clicked shut and the ship had swayed—left, right—four times that Caden finally spoke.

  For some reason, heat flamed up Safi’s cheeks as he did so.

  “Why do you want us with you?” His voice was so low. “You know that ultimately we must take you back to Cartorra.”

  “I know.” Safi bounced her left shoulder and tried to look casual as her grip finally fell from her Threadstone. “But you know the old saying, Though we are safe with our friends near…”

  “I see.” He snorted. The needle lifted. Copper flashed. “Though we are safe with our friends near, we are safest with our enemies nearer.”

  “No.” Safi tensed, waiting for the needle’s bite to come. “Just the friends part, Hell-Bard. Not enemies. Not anymore.” She smiled, if strained, and he smiled back.

  Then he stabbed her with the needle. Once. Twice. The final beats of pain before her wound was patched up.

  * * *

  Iseult waited until the sun had set and the stars had risen before she made her move.

  They’d found a clearing, uphill and beside a creek that burbled down to the pond. It was wildly indefensible to Iseult’s eyes, and Aeduan’s—for he’d said as much when Owl had led them up here. The trees groaned too loudly, and the water trickling past wouldn’t deter a flea.

  Yet here the girl had sat, cross-legged and stubborn. Then here the mountain bat had lumbered, before heaving its massive body down behind Owl. Its silver Threads had dimmed then, as if sleepiness muted its ferocity, and soon it was snoring.

  It ought to be incredible, Iseult thought—exactly the sort of tale she’d want to tell Safi once they were together again. Except that the bat stank, and flies buzzed across its thick fur. It ruined some of the wonderment.

  Not that Owl seemed to notice the stench or care, for as soon as the beast had curled into a ball on the rocky shore, Owl had hunkered beside it and fallen asleep.

  Leaving Iseult to finally, finally claim a moment of peace to herself.

  “Where are you going?” Aeduan asked as she skirted past him, heading back toward the pond.

  “Not far.” She motioned vaguely ahead. “I need … a drink from the pond. I’ll be back soon.”

  He frowned, and though he didn’t argue, it was also clear he didn’t approve—and heat flushed in Iseult’s cheeks. They had come far in this odd partnership to now be holding to each other accountable.

  Iseult reached the pond, breathing heavier than she ought. But at least there was no one to disturb her. No one to hear her creep to the pond’s edge and crouch above the water.

  Her reflection stretched across the surface. It wo
bbled ever so slightly at the edges, as if it didn’t know who it was.

  Sever, sever, twist and sever.

  Iseult looked away, fingers rising to her Threadstone.

  She looped off the leather thong and peered at the ruby. It rested atop the silver taler, in her palm.

  “Safi,” she whispered. Her other hand clamped over the stone. “Safi,” she repeated, straining. Stretching. Feeling for Threads.

  Safi was out there, and this stone was bound to her. If Esme could do this dream-walking, and if …

  Well, if Iseult was truly like Esme, then she could perhaps dream-walk too.

  But nothing came. Nothing, nothing, thrice-damned nothing. “Weasels piss on you,” Iseult whispered, and heat plucked at her eyes. She sniffed, and held the stone tighter. “Where the rut are you, Safi?”

  Swearing doesn’t suit you, Iz. You are simply too poised to pull it off.

  “Safi?” Iseult fell to her haunches. A rock pierced her thigh. “Is that you?”

  Who else would it be? It’s my dream.

  It was working. Iseult couldn’t believe it, but it was working.

  “This isn’t a dream, Saf. I’m really here. I’m really talking to you.”

  Of course it’s a dream. I think I would know, since I’m the one sleeping.

  “Saf, it’s Thread…” Iseult hesitated, cold spiderwebbing through her chest. For this wasn’t Thread magic, was it? This was Esme’s magic, and Esme was not a Threadwitch.

  Whatever it was—whatever this witchery could do—it couldn’t be all bad if Iseult could talk to Safi.

  She swallowed. “It’s magic,” was all she said at last. “And trust me, this is real.”

  A pause stretched between them. Then giddy pink Threads filled Iseult’s mind—and warmth too. A beam of Safi’s sunshine to chase away the cold.

  Goddess, Iseult had missed that feeling.

  And goddess, she had missed her Threadsister.

  Well, weasels piss on me is right! Safi’s dream-voice took on a breathy, elated quality. We’re actually talking right now, Iz! Can you thrice-damned believe it?

  Iseult couldn’t help it. She laughed.

  Safi laughed too, and sunset colors shimmered over their bond. The Threads of friendship.

  Before Iseult could revel in that perfect shade, a figure caught her eye. A shape moving amid the pines.

  No Threads. Her heart jolted. It was Aeduan—of course it was Aeduan, yet why did he have to come this way now?

  Iseult spoke faster. “Where are you, Safi? Are you safe?”

  I’m on a ship to Azmir, and yes. I’m safe. We should arrive at the capital tomorrow. Where are you?

  “I’m c-coming for you.” Iseult’s tongue was turning fat. She had so much to say. This couldn’t be over already. But now Aeduan was almost to the submerged wall. He would be close enough to hear Iseult soon. “I-I won’t be in Azmir for a while, Saf, but I’ll get there as soon as I can. I have to go now.”

  Wait! Stay! Please, Iz!

  “I … can’t,” she gritted out.

  Just tell me, are you safe? And don’t lie, Iz. I’ll know.

  Iseult couldn’t help it. Her stammer slid away, and she smiled. “I’m safe, Safi. We’ll talk again soon. I promise.” Then she lifted her hand from the ruby.

  In two breaths, Safi’s Threads had drifted away. Iseult’s heart was left cold as she slipped the leather back around her neck.

  Then Aeduan stepped onto the shore. He stayed silent as he crossed the rocks, and to Iseult’s surprise, she found her frustration already leaching away.

  For, of course, she could simply dream-walk again. Her time with Safi wasn’t over. It was only just beginning.

  Aeduan stopped nearby and inspected his reflection like Iseult had done. No sitting, of course, for Iseult doubted he ever sat. Or relaxed. Or did anything that normal humans did.

  Then again, Iseult supposed, she wasn’t precisely normal either. Weaverwitch—

  No. She would not think of that.

  Iseult plunked her hands into the water. Its icy grip banished her thoughts. Deeper she dug, until her elbows were under. Her biceps—

  “Fireflies.”

  “What?” Iseult splashed upright. Chill bumps raced down her arms.

  “There.” Aeduan waved across the pond. “Fireflies. They’re good luck in Marstok, I’ve heard. And children make wishes on them.” There was something light to Aeduan’s voice, as if he …

  “Are you making a joke?” Iseult pushed to her feet. Water droplets splattered across the stone.

  “No.”

  Iseult didn’t believe him. Nose twitching with a smile, she slid her own gaze to the lights twinkling among the pines. The air, the sky, the water—it was so much like their encounter two nights ago.

  Yet also nothing like it at all. Iseult and the Bloodwitch had been enemies then, bound only by coins. Tonight, they were allies bound by … Well, Iseult didn’t know precisely. Owl, certainly, and perhaps the mountain bat too.

  Iseult sucked in air, marveling at how her lungs could feel so full against her ribs. Then she closed her eyes. She wanted to make a wish, but there were too many choices. She wished for Safi at her side. She wished for Habim and Mathew too. And, though she couldn’t quite understand why, she wished for her mother.

  More than anything, Iseult wished for answers. About her magic. About the Cahr Awen.

  I wish I could learn what I am.

  Her eyelids fluttered open. Aeduan was still observing the fireflies. “Did you make a wish?” she asked, and to her surprise, he nodded. A curt bounce of his head. “What did you wish for?”

  He flexed his hands. Then shrugged. “If it comes true, then maybe one day I will tell you.” He pivoted and set off across the shore, slowing only once at the trees, to call back, “Be careful when you return, for the bat has stretched its tail across your rock.”

  Iseult watched him until he was nothing more than another streak of darkness within the pines.

  She realized she was smiling then—though over Aeduan, over the wish, or over Safi, she couldn’t quite say.

  After easing onto the rocks, Iseult removed her boots and dipped her toes into the pond. The cold braced her. Grounded her, so when she clutched at the Threadstone and whispered to Safi once more, the connection was almost instant.

  The night slid past. Perfect in all its dimensions, while Iseult and Safi giggled and listened and shared every tale that they’d been saving for the past two weeks.

  All the while, the pine trees swayed, the pond rippled, and the fireflies danced.

  FORTY-ONE

  The Battle Room. Yet again, Vivia faced its oak doors—but this time, the footmen hopped too.

  This time, Vivia wheeled her father before her.

  First came the scent of rosemary mingling with sage. Then came the sea of iris-blue robes, with more than thirty faces swimming above. The vizers and their families turned as one at the opening doors. Their murmurs quieted, and a wave rippled out as they collectively rose and bowed.

  Vivia’s dress boots clicked, her own robe swishing in a living counterbeat to the squeak of the wheels on her father’s rolling chair.

  “Highness, Majesty,” Vizer Eltar’s eldest daughter murmured as Vivia approached. She curtsied, and Vivia couldn’t help but smile in return. This was the first time in her memory that other women had joined her in the Battle Room.

  After today, after the memorial, Vivia intended to make it the first time of many.

  Upon reaching the head of the table, she knelt to lock her father’s chair in place.

  It was meant to be a day of grief, yet no one at the table wore sadness on his or her brow. How could they lament, truly, when the city had survived such seafire and storm? When, despite all odds against them, they had come out stronger for the fight?

  The people of Lovats now knew of the under-city, and already engineers and witches combed through the streets to ensure it was habitable. Already, the first shipmen
t of supplies from Hasstrel farms in Cartorra had arrived, and already a new treaty with the Empire of Marstok was being drafted—for now that Vaness apparently lived, she had a very different set of negotiations in mind.

  It was especially hard for Vivia to be anything but buoyant today. She knew something these people did not. While the city believed the Fury had helped her on the water-bridge, she knew it had been Merik.

  Merik lived.

  He had said he would leave the city though. That he and his two friends—the girl Cam and another who’d just arrived named Ryber—would head north into the Sirmayans.

  “Ryber says we can find answers to my … condition.” He’d waved at his face, steeped in the shadow of his hood. “And there is little good I can do here. You have everything well handled.”

  Vivia hadn’t agreed with that sentiment, but she also hadn’t argued. Merik had found her in the main hall of Pin’s Keep, where a hundred other voices competed for space in her brain. Where she hadn’t the time or space to offer him a suitable response.

  Besides, if Merik truly wanted to leave, she felt she had no claims to stop that. So she’d nodded and said, “Please update me when you can, Merry. The royal Voicewitches work all hours.”

  “I’ll try,” had been his only answer. Then he’d ducked deeper into his hood—a new hood, for Vivia had insisted he be well clothed before departing—and sauntered out of Pin’s Keep forever.

  He wouldn’t try to contact her. Vivia had known that at Pin’s Keep, and she knew it now as she tugged at the itchy wool collar on her robe.

  Vivia rose and cleared her throat. The vizerial families all thought her father would speak, now that he was well enough to return. They certainly all stared at him expectantly. Yet Serafin had urged Vivia to “be the queen they need and soon a true crown will follow.”

  She cleared her throat again. All eyes snapped to her. Finally, no resistance.

  “Though we’ve gathered to remember my brother,” she said, using the same forceful boom she’d heard her father use a thousand times, “there are many more we must also honor. Hundreds of Nubrevnans died in the attack three days ago. Soldiers, families, and … one of our own. A member of this very council.”