He did not search for Prince Leopold.
Now, he didn’t care who the prince was working with, he didn’t care whose blood sang with frozen winters and crystal lakes. And Aeduan no longer cared who’d helped Leopold escape in the Nubrevnan jungles, stolen Aeduan’s lockbox of silver talers, and then led him on a fruitless chase across the Witchlands.
If that person had not done so, Aeduan would never have joined with Iseult. He would never have found Owl, and the wish that he had made upon the fireflies would never have come true.
He was a Bloodwitch, he was a monster, and this hunger in his gut that had tried to trick him into believing he was something else—he was a fool for ever listening to it. He was good for only one thing.
Best he never forget that again.
* * *
When dawn began to stain the sky, Aeduan found the man who owed money, a shepherd with two small children and a wife sick with fever. He had bought a blade to defend his family against the raiders everyone said were coming. A blade he could not pay for.
It was so easy to frighten the man. So easy for Aeduan to send blood swirling around his eyes. To shut off all thought, all expression, all inflection. It was another man drawing his sword. Another man watching as the shepherd sank to his knees, trembling and begging for more time.
Aeduan felt nothing. He cared none. He took the only coins the man had, and he left.
* * *
On his second contract, the tier four, Aeduan felt the Painstone begin to fail.
He was supposed to report to a small iron mine in Marstok, east of Tirla. They would soon transport a shipment west; they needed protection. Likely it was not a legal delivery, or they would have hired true soldiers.
Legality mattered none to Aeduan. Coin was coin, contracts were contracts. He simply walked east, the sun rising overhead. Then burning down. It was not a hot day, but he grew hot. Miserably so. Unbearably so. Until it was too much. He had to stop beside a creek. Barely a trickle over the mountain rocks.
He removed his cloak. He drank his fill, the water gritty, and he splashed the sweat from his face. Then he sat on a rock and waited for the last of the Painstone’s power to creep away.
It was worse than he expected. If he had thought that the sudden absence of pain yesterday was a clear indicator of how much he’d felt before, it was nothing compared to the sudden return of it. He had anticipated a slow cascade, like standing in a river as it slowly rose around you.
The pain was a tidal wave instead. It plowed into him, flame and violence to boil his blood. To cook off all thought, until he was nothing but shadows closing in and a body shutting down.
He collapsed into the stream.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Vivia stared into her lukewarm porridge, knowing she ought to eat. Instead, her gaze shot to the empty seat beside her and its untouched porridge growing colder by the second.
It would seem Serafin was not coming to breakfast. Which could mean only one thing: he had heard about Vivia’s trip to Marstok, and he disapproved.
A sigh slid between her teeth, like steam released from a bubbling pot, except that her exhale did nothing to ease the boil in her belly. She would have to deal with her father—have to apologize, perhaps even grovel. Though for what, precisely, she did not know. Sometimes, she never learned what she had done to awaken his Nihar rage.
Vivia hugged her arms to her chest. She should apologize now. Any delay and the storm would only stew and strengthen. Until eventually he would explode. Then no amount of apologies would calm him.
But what of Stix? The question tickled across her mind, and with it, Vivia found herself rising. Turning toward the door. Stix ought to be in the Battle Room by now, waiting to give Vivia her morning briefing. Surely taking a few minutes to speak to her best friend—and to bolster her resolve before facing Serafin—would be all right. Besides, she desperately wanted to tell Stix about Marstok, about the Empress, about the Wordwitched paper now tucked into her frock coat. Stix would know what to make of it all. Stix would know how Vivia should proceed.
Except that Stix was not waiting for Vivia in the Battle Room. Worse, none of the servants nearby had seen her that morning. There was no note on the table, no message sent by courier, and no sign at all that anything in the room had been touched since Vivia had last entered yesterday. And certainly no sign of Stix.
Vivia left the palace, barking at her guards to leave her be! before retracing her steps from the night before. No amount of knocking at Stix’s apartment earned an answer, though, and the cobweb between the door and the ceiling suggested the door hadn’t been opened in quite some time.
Vivia’s stomach spun all the harder, pressing against her lungs now. Stix wasn’t where she ought to be, and she’d not come home in at least a day. The latter part was not unusual—Stix was, in her own words, “a restless soul.”
Maybe she is at the barracks.
Except Stix was not there either, and none of the sailors or officers had seen her. Nor had anyone at Pin’s Keep, the Cleaved Man, or Stix’s father’s house on Queen’s Hill. Not since two whole blighted days before. It wasn’t until Vivia decided to sail herself out to the Sentries of Noden that she got any clue to where Stix might have gone.
Their skiff was missing. And sure enough, when Vivia questioned a fisherman named Aben—a young fellow who spent every morning anchored to the dock with his line plunked into the murky waters and from whom Vivia and Stix received regular updates on the health of the local fishes—he said, “Hye, I saw her take the boat out yesterday. Didn’t say where she was going, but she looked none too pleased.”
“Which way did she go?”
He waved south. “I lost sight of her before she hit the bridge.”
Vivia huffed a thank-you, already scooting off. She could borrow a skiff at the wharf, and from there she could get to the southern Sentry. For surely, Stix would be there.
The morning shadows were long, the waters crowded, yet even with her mind racing over and over—where was Stix?—sailing came as naturally to Vivia as walking. She slipped past every vessel in the harbor before coasting onto the southern water-bridge.
The Water-Bridges of Stefin-Eckart carried the River Timetz across the valley of farmland surrounding the Lovats plateau. So high were they that clouds drifted alongside the ships fighting to enter the city. Racing to evade the war everyone knew was coming—and all in need of housing that Vivia was racing to provide. The ninth chime was already humming by the time the Sentries of Noden took shape, their weathered faces as large as warships, their stone helms adorned by plumes the size of pine trees. Long, rounded parapets jutted out in gradually widening levels from their stone-cloaked lower halves, while their towering torsos were packed with narrow windows and arrow slats. On either side of the river, where it carved into the mountains, wide inlets climbed upward, carried by magic. They carried naval vessels into a gaping hole at the Sentries’ bases.
These ancient guardians of the city were also the primary home of the Royal Nubrevnan Navy and Royal Nubrevnan Soil-Bound. Brilliant blue banners hung from the battlements, flapping on the morning winds.
Vivia scarcely had to enter the hive-like hallways of the eastern Sentry before she had an answer regarding Stix. No one, military, civilian, or passing refugee, had seen anyone at all matching her description.
Stix was gone. She was missing.
As Vivia sailed numbly back, she could do nothing but stare with unseeing eyes. Even the barn swallows that swooped across her view, riding the warm currents carried up from the valley, could not distract her. They made their nests beneath the water-bridges, and normally, she and Stix would call out to them, some silly refrain about safe harbors and sprightly winds.
That thought only served to make Vivia ill now.
This was all her fault.
She had been so self-absorbed. So stupidly, stupidly naive as to think she could leave this city for a day with no consequences. If she had just stayed here, then
Stix would not have left—at least not without some kind of explanation. And if Vivia had just blighting stayed here, then she would know where to begin searching.
Vivia suddenly knew all too keenly how Merik had felt a year before. His Threadbrother Kullen had vanished in the Sirmayans while building watchtowers, and Merik had stretched resources to obscene lengths trying to find him.
Those lengths seemed absolutely reasonable now. Paltry, even. Now, Vivia would do whatever it took and use whatever she could to find out where her best friend had disappeared to.
So many regrets, but she just had to keep moving, keep searching.
Stix was somewhere. Vivia would find her.
* * *
It was nearing midday by the time Vivia reached Queen’s Hill once more. She was aimed for the Sotar estate at the top of the hill; perhaps the vizer himself would know where his daughter had gone. And if not … well, he needed to know she was missing.
She was stopped halfway up the road when a hand landed on her shoulder. She whirled around, the name “Stix” flaring through her mind—but instead of Stix’s cavalier grin, a scruffy-mustached boy in royal livery faced her.
Rat, her father’s youngest page.
“Highness, your father wishes to see you.” His voice jumped octaves every few words. “He is in his bedroom, too weak to leave.”
Vivia felt the blood drain from her face. First Stix, now Serafin … It was too much for one day. She shoved past Rat and charged up the crowded street. She cared none for the cries or the glares as she elbowed her way into a jog. For once, she would have welcomed her guards to help clear a path.
The King Regent had been healthy and whole only yesterday. He had bellowed with all the force Vivia had grown up with. This is your fault. You left because you were upset, and now he’s sick again. And Stix is gone too. Everything you do is wrong. Selfish, selfish—how could she have been so thrice-damned selfish?
Vivia was panting by the time she reached the royal wing of the palace, sweating through her frock coat, her hair glued to her forehead. Rat, who had scurried behind her the entire way, now scampered in front so he could open the door.
“Your daughter—” he began, but Vivia swept into the room before he could finish.
She had expected darkness, as her father had required at the peak of his illness. Instead, she found sunlight streaming in from the ceiling-high windows. And instead of her father lying in bed, eyes closed and breath wheezing, she found him standing—not even seated in his rolling chair, but standing beside the blazing hearth.
He looked even better than he had yesterday. Shoulders strong, color warm in his cheeks. Even his hair seemed thicker.
Serafin did not react at Vivia’s entrance, nor look away from the fire as she approached. Orange light glittered across him.
“Your Majesty,” she asked hesitantly, “are you ill?”
A muscle feathered along his jaw. “Where have you been? I have been waiting for you since the ninth chimes.”
“You sent no summons.”
“I should not need to.”
At last, he angled away from the hearth, although not toward Vivia. Instead, he crossed to his desk beneath the window. A stiffness marked his movements, and pain flashed across his face.
Vivia’s chest stuttered. “Have the healers come?” She saw no signs of the amber draughts or tubs of salve they usually left behind. “I will fetch them, Your Majesty.” She twisted toward the door.
“Stay.” Heat lightning laced the King Regent’s voice.
Vivia froze.
“We need to discuss my plans for the troops.”
“The … troops?” She angled back. “I don’t understand, sir.”
He snorted, a sound that suggested Vivia was being intentionally obtuse. “As Admiral, I decide when, where, and how we face this Raider King. So I have done just that.” Without waiting for Vivia to respond to such an announcement, he launched into a description of his plans for advancing troops into the Sirmayans—plans he’d made with generals and lower admirals in the Royal Soil-Bound and Navy.
Plans he had apparently made over the last two weeks. Without once consulting her.
And all Vivia could do was stare. Serafin clearly didn’t realize she had gone to Marstok yesterday. In fact, he seemed to have no idea she’d left the city at all.
More importantly, he was not Admiral of the Royal Forces. As Queen-in-Waiting, Vivia was the one who appointed that position. As of yet, she had named no one—and as of yet, she still wore that title herself. Meaning all of these plans he had made were both unwelcome and unhelpful.
She couldn’t say that, though. Not to Serafin. Just the thought of raising such a point made her heart quake like a field mouse. Which was ridiculous, of course. Everything her father did was for her sake.
Is it, though? nudged a new voice. Just because he says that doesn’t make it true. After all, he did steal your speech—
No, no. Vivia snapped her head sideways. She wouldn’t think like that. She had been upset yesterday because she had been surprised. She was better now.
Serafin rambled on, thoroughly oblivious, lifting papers off his desk and rattling them in the air with all the emphasis and power the old Serafin used to command.
“At their current pace, the raiders will reach our borders in four days. His Icewitches are powerful, so we will need to eliminate them first.”
“Ice … witches?” Vivia heard how stilted she sounded, but she had no idea what her father was talking about. Nor any idea what all these papers he was shaking actually said.
And for the first time since Vivia had entered the room, her father’s expression relaxed. “Of course, of course. You have not read all the missives from the watchtowers.” He smiled, a warm, charming thing that was so different from the man of two weeks ago, still bedridden and scowling.
Vivia ought to love seeing her father smile like that. She ought to love seeing him stand tall and true. Instead, nausea gathered in her chest.
She swallowed. “What missives from the watchtowers? Why have I not seen these?”
“Because I am Admiral.”
“I am Queen-in-Waiting. They should come to me.”
“Hye, Vivia, hye. If you truly wish, I can have them sent to you. I only want what’s best for you.” He flashed that smile again, but now it was tinged with condescension. Like she were a child insisting on eating supper with the adults. “Your mother never did want them, though, so I assumed you wouldn’t either. You are so very like her, you know.”
Her mind blanked out at those words, her throat went dry. She didn’t want to be like her mother, with madness in her brain. She wanted to be sure and strong like Serafin.
Do you, though? the voice persisted. Just because he has always told you that you do, doesn’t make it true. Yet again, Vivia thrust that thought aside. “What,” she forced out, “do all these messages say?”
“That the Raider King has begun his advance.” Again, Serafin shook papers at her. “That his Icewitches freeze the Timetz, and that his forces are vast. However, we Nubrevnans know that terrain better than he or his raiders. But I just said all this—were you not listening, Vivia?”
Hye. She had been listening, and now she had enough information to fill in the gaps and understand the full meaning behind his strategy to topple the Raider King.
He intended to send all of their forces, soil-bound and naval, to the northern borders. He intended to use their knowledge of the terrain against the raiders, stopping them before they ever reached Nubrevna. And on the surface, that strategy was a sound one; Vivia would have expected no less from her father. But there was also one gaping hole in it.
“What happens if you lose? Then there will be no soldiers left to defend the city.”
“That won’t happen.” Serafin chuckled, a sound to make others feel small. “We will face him, and we will win.”
But what if you don’t?
Had this exchange happened two years ago, befo
re the wasting disease had struck, Vivia would have gone right along with her father’s plans, no questions asked vocally or internally. Right now, though, all she could see were the holes.
If all of their troops died, then Lovats would once more be under siege. And while siege had always been Nubrevna’s salvation during wartime, this city was not the city it had been twenty years ago. The storerooms were not the storerooms from twenty years ago.
Vivia knew Lovats, inside and out. From its buildings, stacked atop one another and growing higher every day, to its inner veins and passages and waterways. She had explored and studied every inch, first with her mother as a child, then on her own. And what she had learned after twenty years was that, when Jana had died, any concern for the city’s infrastructure had died too.
Serafin had seen how easily the dam had broken two weeks ago, yet somehow, he still believed these walls and bridges were strong enough to hold back an army. And somehow, he believed these walls and bridges were strong enough to support hundreds of thousands of refugees.
“I have dealt with raiders before, Vivia.” His patronizing smile left his eyes. “I understand exactly what awaits me at the border.”
“What awaits you?” Now she was well and truly shocked.
“Hye. I am Admiral. That means I will lead the forces into battle.”
“You aren’t well enough to lead forces.”
“Excuse me?” His shoulders notched up. His nostrils flared.
“You aren’t well. You only just began walking without the aid of your chair a week ago. How can you expect to lead soldiers into a fight?”
“I have fought—and won—with worse ailments than this disease, Vivia. I fought the Marstoks in the Hundred Isles while a knife wound bled out from my thigh. This disease no longer controls me, so I—”
“No.” The word loosed from Vivia’s throat. Too fast to stop. Too fast to consider. Then she said it again: “No. You didn’t. You didn’t command that battle in the Hundred Isles. You passed out the moment you were struck, and your first mate coordinated the entire thing.”
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