Learn your opponents. Learn your terrain. Choose your battlefields when you can. Habim’s second lesson tickled in Iseult’s ear as if her mentor stood right beside her. Iseult didn’t know this city, though, so learning her terrain and choosing a battlefield was impossible. For now, simple escape would have to be her aim.
Rather than calm her, though, having a plan seemed to stir her blood faster. There was only one person who had any desire to hunt her—and he had already hired men to do so. Likely, he was near Tirla too, since his arrows had cursed Aeduan only yesterday.
Corlant. This person following Iseult might not be that Purist priest, but she had no doubt her pursuer worked for him.
No, no, no. He had not gotten her at the Midenzi tribe. He had not gotten her in the Contested Lands. He would not get her now.
With a sudden twist, Iseult ducked down a side street. Wind-flags whipped overhead. As she’d expected, the man’s Threads gave pursuit. Three steps, and her pursuer turned too—but Iseult did not run. She did not shove at the crowds. Soldiers lurked on every corner in Tirla, and their uniforms mottled the evening traffic to green.
Her skin, her hair … she couldn’t risk drawing attention.
She reached another street and spun around a wagon of cabbages, then hurried—faster, faster—across a blacksmith’s front stoop. Heat billowed out from the open double doors. A woman shouted at her to come see her wares.
That shout—it reminded Iseult of a different chase in a different city. She had leaped from boat to boat to escape Aeduan that day. Perhaps she could do something similar now. No canals here, but there were carriages. And though she could not hop across them, she could use them for escape.
Red-topped carriage to the left. Too fine. Chicken cart to the right. Too foul. Refugee caravan coming behind. Perfect. It had three covered wagons, drawn by mules. Only the second and third wagons, though, had people crowded inside. Their Threads were almost colorless. A sign that loss and grief had numbed them to feeling.
Iseult slowed her pace, veering right so she could fall into step beside the caravan. Seconds plodded past; her pulse boomed inside her skull. Threads still following. Almost here, almost here—
The mules reached her, ambling and tired, and Iseult made her move. She circled behind the first wagon. A lift of a canvas flap, and she scrambled inside. Everything these people could carry had been stuffed inside the wagon, leaving Iseult’s body to bulge against the canvas. But the driver of the caravan could not see her, and her hunter did not either.
The person’s Threads had stopped at the edge of the intersection, and tawny confusion was rapidly taking hold. Red frustration too. Then they moved. Then stopped. Then moved. Then spun.
Iseult couldn’t help but grin, her fingers moving to her Threadstone. Safi would have been proud of her. Habim too, although he might have scolded her for not getting a better look at her opponent. Never rely on magic or weapons, he used to say. They can always be taken away.
Fine, fine, she thought, and ever so carefully, she peeled back the canvas and found Threads bright as sunshine.
Their owner was as bright as sunshine too, his skin and curling hair a gleaming gold that Safi would have fallen boots over brains for.
Trickster. The name flitted across Iseult’s mind—the Moon Mother’s youngest, most devious brother, with the coloring of the sun but lucent shimmer of the moon. Like this young man, Trickster always wore pale gray. The color of dawn, of dusk, of the dappled forests in which he hid.
In the stories, Trickster was the most dangerous of the family, his loyalties as fickle as the breezes he loved to ride. Luckily, those were just stories, though—while this man was very real.
Iseult let the flap fall back into place. She would remember that man’s face. She would remember his Threads too.
If they ever met again, she would be ready.
THIRTEEN
Habim Fashayit.
General Habim Fashayit.
Uncle Eron’s man-at-arms, the mentor who had trained Safi to fight and raised her like a father. Who had taught her to be a wolf in a world of rabbits. He was here in Azmir. Here in the imperial palace. And he was a general.
Safi had always known Habim must have been an officer of some kind for the Marstoki armed forces. When, after years of badgering, neither Habim nor Eron nor even Mathew had ever opened up about Habim’s specific past, though—or about how he’d ended up in the employ of a Cartorran dom—Safi had eventually stopped wondering and simply accepted Habim as he was: stern, implacable, a skilled fighter, an even more skilled tactician, and prone to assigning far too many essays on the history of warfare.
Between one heartbeat and the next, all of Safi’s childhood questions blazed back to life, a thousand times hotter than they’d ever been ten years ago. Her whole chest felt aflame. She wanted to laugh, she wanted to skip, she wanted to grab her Threadstone and scream at Iseult, wherever she might be, that Habim Fashayit was here! General Habim Fashayit was here in Azmir! In the imperial palace!
Never had Safi been so glad for shadows and solitude. For a moment to react in private before anyone saw her face.
The tiny trapdoor that led into the wall clicked behind Safi. Afternoon air twined against her. She gulped it in, smoothing her face into the same expression she always wore around Rokesh and the Empress: dutiful focus, blank disinterest. After a quick check that her attempted Truthstone was tucked into a pocket, she swiveled toward the Adder.
He said nothing, so she said nothing, and once she was out of the wall, the remainder of her Adder guards stepped into tight formation around her. They crossed into the main garden. Sunshine poured over Safi’s face, and the midday breeze carried the scent of roses, lilac, and honeysuckle. Insects whirred while birds chirruped from the bushes and the trees.
Situated upon three terraced levels, the imperial gardens overlooked Lake Scarza’s glittering blue waters, offering a full view of crowded Azmir on the sunlit shore. Usually, Safi savored these walks—a chance to be outside in the open. Right now, though, she only had space for Habim.
Goat tits, she wished the Adders would walk faster. Habim was so near. Move, Nursemaid, move.
Finally, after crossing the top level, they reached a familiar marble terrace where a fountain bubbled and wind chimes rang. Then they were to the sloping entrance into Vaness’s private library, where Safi had come only a few hours before.
No pause, no break in stride while the Adders—and Safi—coasted inside. Shelves lined the walls, every spine bound in matching garnet leather. Books lay stacked upon desks and honey satin chairs. And of course, iron adorned every spare inch: in the sconces, on the table legs, and around the shelf frames. It was a library fit for an Empress, for an Ironwitch.
Two doors led out of the library. One made of oak carved with sunbursts that fed into Safi’s and Vaness’s quarters. Safi knew this door; she had used it. The other, a simple door barely large enough to duck through, led to the Empress’s personal office. It was a space Safi had been expressly forbidden to enter. Guest status, it would seem, only carried one so far.
It was to this door they now marched, and excitement wound hotter in Safi’s belly. Her hands were sweating too. Stasis, she told herself, just as Iseult always did. Stasis in your fingers and in your toes.
Rokesh moved to the lead, and after he pushed open the simple door and slunk through, Safi was able to follow inside.
It was not what she expected. Where the rest of the Floating Palace was marble or sandstone tile with wide windows to stream in light, this room was paneled with oak stained almost black—and with no windows at all. Candle chandeliers hung from an arched ceiling, their waxes and wicks all perfectly sized and burning with smokeless Firewitched flame.
Then Safi glimpsed Habim across the room, straight-backed and staring at her from familiar line-seamed eyes. He stood opposite a long table, its surface covered by an intricate relief of the Witchlands.
Habim did not meet Safi’s gaze. Ins
tead he strode around the table and declared, “This is not the Empress.”
Safi’s eyes prickled at the sound of his gravelly voice. Gods below, it was good to hear it. Stasis. Do what Iz would do.
“The Empress is detained.” Rokesh bowed low. Then he sidestepped and motioned to Safi.
Habim gave her an appraising glance. “You must be the Truthwitch, then.”
“Yes,” Safi said, though her voice almost cracked. His scrutiny, his eyes raking up, raking down. It was so customary, so Habim. The grim slant to his lips, the slight pucker between his brows. Her whole life, he had looked at her to assess her weaknesses. Right now, though, she felt he was assessing her strengths. Her health, her safety.
No doubt he wondered why she had a new scar above her eyebrow and on her thumb. Or why her hair only reached her shoulders—or why she clearly favored standing on one leg instead of the stable, even stance he’d raised her with. And there was no missing how his eyes caught on the iron belt at her waist and steel chain around her neck.
Habim had come to Azmir for Safi. That truth swelled inside her chest, and suddenly, Safi’s eyes burned even more. She forced herself to pull back her shoulders and puff out her chest.
“I am the Truthwitch,” she said, louder. Full of the domna training he had instilled in her. “May I ask who you are?”
Habim sniffed, angling back to Rokesh. “This child’s presence means you do not trust me. I expected a better welcome, Adder.”
Rokesh opened his gloved hands. Part apology, part shrug. “Nineteen years in retirement is a long time, General.”
“And it would have been longer if the Twenty Year Truce had not ended so suddenly.” He snapped a hand toward miniature troops, ships, and supply chains placed across the table. “I had thought Her Imperial Majesty possessed a steadier head than her parents, yet breaking the Truce to claim a young woman who is rumored to be a Truthwitch…” His chest expanded with a deep inhale, as if he were tamping down the urge to shout.
A lie, though. It was all a lie, and inwardly, Safi beamed.
Then his breath hissed out from clenched teeth, and he added: “Let us hope you were worth it, child.”
Child. Safi didn’t have to fake her eye roll at that.
Rokesh, however, only laughed. His eyes crinkled in his shroud. “Ask him your questions, Truthwitch, and let the general see your full worth.”
Just like that, Safi’s breath snagged in her throat, for asking those questions was the last thing she wanted to do. Suddenly her hands shook. Suddenly she saw blood and bile and stains along a floor.
She wiped her palms against her thighs, and beside her, Rokesh’s shoulders sank ever so slightly. He eased nearer, until his veiled face was mere inches from hers. “I can ask the questions,” he murmured. “If that would make it easier.”
Safi bit her lip. It would make it easier, but there would also be no point. If she couldn’t do this with Habim—with one of the only men in all the Witchlands she truly trusted—then she would never be able to do it again. And she had to do it again. It was why she was here; it was the only way she could leave.
Unless I can make a Truthstone.
She slipped a shivering hand into her pocket and pinched the quartz between thumb and forefinger. She could embed her magic into this rock. And she could ask Habim her three questions.
Gradually, her lungs relaxed. “Thank you, Nursemaid,” she said at last, “but I can manage.”
There it was again, that smile to crease in Rokesh’s eyes. Then he nodded and backed away.
Safi turned to Habim. She turned to her mentor.
“Are you aware of the peace treaty with the Baedyeds?” The words lobbed out, controlled, and a thousand miles away. Mathew had trained her for this. She wouldn’t let him or Habim down.
“Yes,” Habim answered simply. “I heard rumors from officers with whom I still correspond, and then I heard confirmation of this treaty when I reached the capital.”
To Safi’s surprise, all of these statements rang with honesty. Habim had heard, and he had been in contact with other officers.
Habim wasn’t finished yet, though. “The entire thing was poorly handled.” He directed this to Rokesh. “It was badly negotiated, with no bounds for enforcement. We destroyed the Baedyed way of life. When they would not live in our settlements, we killed their horses. When they would not abide by our rules, we stole their children. They have no reason to work with us, and every reason to hate us. The Empress was a fool to believe otherwise, and the Baedyeds were right to abandon the agreement in favor of a better one.”
No reaction from Rokesh beyond a smooth “You may tell the Empress that yourself.”
“I intend to.” Habim cut his hawkish attention back to Safi. “Next question, Truthwitch?”
Safi notched her chin higher. “Have you heard of a plot to overthrow the Empress and claim her throne?”
Habim sighed, an annoyed sound Safi knew so well—except this time, it was a lie. The falseness fretted down her skin and gathered at the base of her spine.
“No,” Habim snipped. “Next question.”
And the lie strummed harder.
Safi tensed. For half a moment, she thought her magic responded incorrectly. That it reacted to his fake posture and fake expressions … Except there was no truth to buzz with the lies. There were only lies. Which meant he did indeed know of a plot to overthrow the empire.
Bayrum of the Shards had known too, though. Such rumors always abound, he’d said before Vaness’s iron disc severed through him. Wherever there is power, flies will clot.
Safi gulped. Whatever Habim had heard, he was not the source of the plots. He had come to Azmir for Safi; not for Empress Vaness.
So she pressed on. “And, General Fashayit,” she finished, “did you know of the explosion on the Empress’s ship before the attack occurred?”
“No. Next question.”
True. Safi’s shoulders relaxed. Fingers she hadn’t realized were fisted now uncurled. “That was the last question.”
“And?” Rokesh asked. “Did the general pass?”
Even if Habim had not passed, there was only one thing Safi would say. But he had passed, so it was easy to speak with conviction. “Yes, the general spoke the truth.”
“Good,” Habim replied before Rokesh could open his mouth. Already Habim twisted toward the table, dismissing Safi and the Adders. Like a chime-piece wound too tightly, he moved to the next second, to the next order of business, and didn’t wait for the world to catch up.
“I will see the Empress now, thank you.” He waved to a contingent of troops along the Marstoki borders. “Tell her there is much to be discussed, and if this is her imperial strategy, then it will be a very short war, indeed.”
* * *
Vivia’s pulse hammered in her ears. Her magic surged in her veins, and beside her, two streams of water hung ready.
“You may lower your water,” Vaness said with a graceful wave.
“Oh may I? I’m so glad to have your permission.”
Vaness huffed a weary, if overdone sigh and swept to a seat. “If I had wanted to kill you, then you would already be dead. Besides, you do not truly feel threatened, or you would have called your officers.”
Ah, the Empress was too sharp. So, with a brazen smile to spread across her mask—what else could Vivia use to keep control?—she eased the water back into its carafe. A slow, slinking coil of power with nary a drip to splatter free.
“If you are needed elsewhere,” Vivia drawled, “then I presume our meeting has come to a close.”
“I apologize.” A bob of Vaness’s dark head. “This was unexpected, and,” she admitted, “unwanted. Here. Before you go.” She slid a rolled paper across the table.
Vivia took it, careful to keep her expression bored while she untied the golden ribbon that bound the thick vellum page.
“There’s nothing here.” The paper was completely blank.
“Not yet.” Vaness pulled a
second rolled paper from her gown, and in seconds she had it stretched over the table—although a pencil toppled out and clattered to the floor.
And for the first time ever, Vivia watched the Empress of Marstok flush. Then, to Vivia’s even greater awe, the Empress’s grace briefly failed her. With an embarrassed, almost agitated speed, she snatched the sheepskin-wrapped graphite off the floor.
Her bracelets clanked, her cheeks burned brighter, and Vivia was forced to admit that Vaness might just be the most beautiful woman who had ever lived. It was almost … well, laughable that anyone could be that pretty.
Vaness regained her poise mere heartbeats later, bending over the table with the same air of purpose she always wore. “These pages are Wordwitched. When I write on one, like so…” She scribbled something and straightened.
“Now, look at your letter.”
Vivia did so, only to find her eyes immediately widening. This is my handwriting was written across the top in smooth, compact Nubrevnan letters.
“You may respond.” Vaness offered Vivia the pencil.
Vivia made no move to take it. “What,” she began slowly, “am I meant to do with this?”
“Respond.” She wagged the pencil at Vivia.
“Why?”
“I would have thought it obvious. You are a busy woman, I am a busy woman. With this, we can negotiate a treaty from afar. When we reach the end of the page, it will clear itself, and we may start our conversation anew.”
“How will I know it’s you?”
“Because that is my script. I can write several more sentences if that would help—”
“No.” Vivia laid the paper on the table. “I have no need for you or your … Or your…” Her eyes met Vaness’s.
And suddenly, just like that, Vivia was too tired to even go on.
Always, she played the part of anger. Always, she maintained the role of power and control, of impatient Nihar rage. Always, she stormed in, she stormed out. She yelled loudest, fought hardest, and kept others—be they friends, be they empires—at bay. Why, though? In all her years of doing this, of mimicking her father and wearing the mask of a bear, it had never served her well.
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