A rough jump later and Iseult latched on to the flagstone stairs. None of the fishermen offered to help—they only shuddered back. One even stabbed at her with his fishing pole, his Threads a terrified gray.
Iseult grabbed the end of the pole. The man’s Threads blazed brighter, and he tried to yank the pole back—but proceeded to yank up Iseult instead. Thank you, she thought, straggling up the stairs. She glanced back once and saw blood streaked on the stones. Her palm was gushing a lot more than the distant pain warranted.
She reached the street. Traffic swarmed past, and she scrambled for some strategy. All of her plans were falling through the hell-gates, but surely Iseult could take a moment to think. She was crap at running pell-mell—it was why Safi was the leader in these situations. Without time to strategize, Iseult always ran herself into corners.
But as she stood there, slinking alongside the canal and clutching her bleeding hand in her cloak, she got the moment she needed.
Wide road, she thought. A main artery from town, likely alongside this canal the whole way. Traffic organized in two directions, and a man leading a saddled brindle mare. No sweat darkening the mare’s shoulders. If I take her, I can flee the city entirely and hide overnight with the tribe.
Though returning to the home she’d spent most of her life avoiding was hardly Iseult’s ideal solution, the Midenzi settlement was the only place she knew of that wouldn’t kick her out at first sight of her skin.
It was also the only place she felt certain the Bloodwitch—even if he hunted her by sight and by blood—couldn’t follow. The lands around the settlement were riddled with traps that no non-Midenzi could navigate.
So in a flurry of speed, Iseult shrugged off her cloak, tossed it over the man’s head, and then vaulted into the mare’s saddle—praying all the while that the mare’s flattening ears were a sign she was ready to ride.
“I’m so sorry,” she shouted as the man flailed beneath the salamander cloak. “I’ll send her back!” Then she dug in her heels and left the man behind.
As the mare launched into a fast trot through traffic, Iseult flung her gaze across the canal. And found the Bloodwitch watching her. There were gaps in the boats now; he couldn’t cross the water as she had.
But he could smirk at her—and wave too. A flicker of his right fingers and then a tapping of his right palm.
He knew her hand was bleeding, and he was telling her he could follow. That he would follow, and likely be smiling that terrifying smile all the way.
Iseult tore her gaze from his face, forcing her attention ahead. As she pressed low onto the mare’s back and kicked the horse even faster, she prayed that the Moon Mother—or Noden or any other god that might be watching—would help her get out of this city alive.
* * *
Merik stared at the miniature Dalmotti ship gliding over the chart of the Jadansi Sea. It showed that the corresponding trade ship was just hauling wind from the Veñaza City harbors—and Merik wanted to fling the cursed miniature out the window.
The Jana’s Voicewitch, Hermin, sat at the head of the table. Though by no means common, Voicewitches were the most common Aetherwitch, and since they could find and communicate with fellow Voicewitches over vast distances, every ship in the Nubrevnan Royal Navy had one onboard—including Vivia, with whom Voicewitch Hermin was now connected.
Hermin’s eyes glowed pink—a sign he was tapped into the Voicewitch Threads—and afternoon light flickered over his wrinkled face. Distant voices, rattling carts, and clopping hooves drifted in through open windows.
Merik knew he should shut them, but it was too sticky and too hot without the breeze. Plus, the tallow in the lanterns smoked and stank—an even fouler stench than the sewage on the Veñaza City canals.
But Merik thought it was worth saving money with smelly animal fat rather than paying heaps for smokeless Firewitch lanterns. And of course, that was a point upon which he and Vivia disagreed.
One of many.
“I don’t think you understand, Merry.” Though Hermin spoke with his own gravelly voice, he spoke in Vivia’s exact style—all drawled words and condescending emphasis. “The Foxes strike instant fear in foreign navies. Hoisting that flag now will give us a strong advantage when the Great War resumes.”
“Except,” Merik said with no inflection, “we’re here to negotiate peace. And though I agree Fox flags were once effective for intimidation, that was centuries ago. Before the empires had navies to crush ours.”
It seemed so gallant on the surface—attacking trade ships to feed the poor—and tales of the old Fox navies were still favorites back home. But Merik knew better. Stealing from the more fortunate was still stealing, and promising to avoid violence was easier than actually refraining.
“I have one more meeting,” Merik insisted. “With the Gold Guild.”
“Which will fail as all your other meetings have. I thought you wanted to feed your people, Merry.”
Sparks ignited in his chest. “Never,” he growled, “question my desire to feed Nubrevna.”
“You claim you want it, yet when I give you a way to gather food—a way to teach the empires a lesson—you don’t jump at the chance.”
“Because what you propose is piracy.” Merik found it hard to look at Hermin as the Voicewitch continued to croon Vivia’s words.
“What I propose is evening the odds. And may I remind you, Merry, that unlike you, I’ve attended summit meetings before. I’ve seen how the empires crush us beneath their heels. This Aetherwitched miniature is a means of fighting back. All you have to do is tell me when the trade ship reaches the Nubrevnan coast, and then I’ll do all the dirty work.”
All the killing, you mean. It took every piece of Merik’s fragile self-control not to shout that at Vivia … But there was no point. Not when two Voicewitches and a hundred leagues stood between them.
He rolled his shoulders once. Twice. “What,” he finally continued, “does Father say about this?”
“Nothing.” Hermin drawled that word exactly as Vivia would. “Father is on the verge of death, and he stays as silent as when you left. Why he roused himself to name you as envoy and admiral, I’ll never understand … Yet it seems to be working in our favor, for we have an opportunity here, Merry.”
“One that fits very neatly into your strategy for an empire of your own, you mean.”
A pause. “Justice must be served, little brother.” An edge coated Vivia’s words now. “Or have you forgotten what the empires did to our home? The Great War ended for them, but not for us. The least we can do is pay back the empires in kind—starting with a bit of noble piracy.”
At those words, the heat in Merik’s chest lanced outward. Coiled into his fists. Were he with Vivia, he would let this storm loose—after all, she had the same rage simmering in her veins.
When Merik was a boy, his father had been certain that Merik was a powerful witch like his sister, that Merik’s tantrums had been manifestations of a great power within. So at seven years old, King Serafin had forced Merik into the Witchery Examination.
Yet Merik’s tantrums hadn’t been a sign of power at all. Merik had barely been deemed strong enough for a Witchmark, and King Serafin had barely been able to hide his disgust in front of the Examination Board.
That same morning, on the carriage ride back to the royal palace and with Merik’s new diamond tattoo burning on the back of his hand, Merik had learned in sharp, unyielding detail how deep his father’s distaste ran. How a weak prince served no purpose to his family. Merik would be joining his aunt, the Nihar outcast, on the family lands in the southwest.
“You forget,” Hermin said, still articulating Vivia, “who will lead when Father dies. You may have authority right now, but you are only a temporary admiral. I will be queen and admiral when the watery sleep finally claims Father.”
“I know what you will be,” Merik said softly, his anger falling back in the face of cold fear.
Vivia as queen. Vivia as admiral. Vi
via sending Nubrevnans like lambs to the slaughter. The farmers and the soldiers, the merchants and the miners, the shepherds and the bakers—they would die on Cartorran swords or in Marstoki flames. All while Vivia watched on.
And Merik’s one solution—rebuilding trade and proving to Vivia that there were peaceful ways to keep Nubrevnans fed … That plan had failed.
The worst of it, though, was that even if he refused to help Vivia in this piracy endeavor, Merik knew she would find another way. Somehow, she would hoist the Fox flag—and somehow, she would condemn all of their homeland to Noden’s Hell.
In the momentary pause while Merik struggled for some solution out of this nightmare, a knock sounded at the cabin door.
Ryber, the ship’s girl and Kullen’s Heart-Thread, poked her head in. “Admiral? I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but it’s urgent. There’s a man here to see you. He says his name is fon…” Her dark face scrunched up. “Fon Hasstrel—that was it. From Cartorra. And he wants to discuss possible trade with you.”
Merik felt his jaw drop. Trade … with Cartorra. It seemed impossible, yet Ryber’s earnest expression wasn’t changing.
Noden Himself was interfering on Merik’s behalf—and He did so right when Merik needed it most.
Merik wouldn’t ignore a gift like that, so he rounded back to Hermin. “Vivia,” he barked, “I’ll help you, but on one condition.”
“I’m listening.”
“If I can negotiate a single line of trade for Nubrevna, then you’ll stop your piracy. Immediately.”
A pause. Then a slow, “Perhaps, Merry. If you do somehow establish trade, I’ll … consider lowering the Fox flag. Now tell me: Where is the Dalmotti miniature right now?”
Merik couldn’t keep from smiling—a sly thing—as he glanced at the map. The miniature was just leaving the marshy edge of the Veñaza City bay.
“It hasn’t set sail,” he declared, something buoyant and hopeful rising in his chest. “But I’ll inform you the instant that it does. Hermin”—Merik clapped his hands on the Voicewitch’s shoulder. The old sailor flinched—“You can end the call now. And Ryber?” Merik flung his gaze at the door, smiling all the wider. “Bring in this fon Hasstrel man right away.”
* * *
After washing, Safi followed an unfamiliar coffee-haired maid back to her room, where the woman dressed her in the silvery white gown that Mathew had chosen. Then the maid coaxed Safi’s hair into a series of hanging curls that draped and bounced and glistened in the sunset.
It was strange being dressed and doted upon—Safi hadn’t experienced it in over seven years. Uncle Eron could never afford more than a handful of servants on the Hasstrel estate, so the only time a maid had served Safi had been during the annual trips to Praga.
Uncle Eron might have been a disgraced Hell-Bard, stripped of rank for only the gods knew why—and then appointed as a temporary dom until Safi was deemed fit to take over—but he still paid his tithes exactly as Henrick demanded. Every year, Eron and Safi had gone to the Cartorran capital to hand over their meager funds and swear fealty to Emperor Henrick.
And every year, it had been awful.
Safi had always been taller than the boys, always stronger, while the other girls had always whispered about Safi’s sloshed uncle and snickered at her ancient gowns.
Yet it wasn’t the shame that made the trips miserable. It was the fear.
Fear of the Hell-Bards. Fear that they would see Safi for the heretic she was—for the Truthwitch she was.
In fact, were it not for Prince Leopold—or Polly, as Safi had always called him—taking her under his wing each time she visited, she felt certain the Hell-Bards would have caught her by now. It was the job of the Hell-Bard Brigade, after all, to sniff out unmarked hereitcs.
And by order of the crown, they were allowed to behead those heretics if they seemed dangerous or unwilling to cooperate.
Polly will probably be there tonight, Safi thought as she scrutinized herself in a narrow mirror beside the bed. It had been eight years since she’d last snuck off with him to explore the sprawling imperial library. She couldn’t imagine how his long pale lashes and flopping golden curls would translate into a twenty-one-year-old man.
Safi certainly looked different, and this pale gown accentuated it. The tight bodice emphasized the strength of her waist and abdomen. The fitted long sleeves showed off her corded arms, the tight bodice emphasized what few curves she possessed, and the flowing skirts softened her hips into a feminine roundness. The dangling braids brought out the curves of her jaw. The brightness of her eyes.
Guildmaster Alix and his staff had truly outdone themselves this time.
Once the maid had left—after laying a stunning white cape across the bed—Safi darted for her satchel and yanked out Iseult’s Carawen book. Then she strode to the window, where the canals glowed like flames beneath a setting sun.
Gauzy pink light filtered across the book’s blue cover, and when Safi creaked it back, the pages whispered open to page thirty-seven. A bronze winged lion glimmered up at her, marking the last page Iseult had been reading.
Safi quickly scanned the text—a listing of Carawen monk divisions.
The bedroom door burst wide. Safi had just enough time to stuff the book back into the satchel before her uncle marched into the room.
Dom Eron fon Hasstrel was a tall man—muscled and hard-boned like Safi. Yet unlike Safi, his wheat hair blended into silvery gray and he wore purple bags beneath bloodshot eyes. For all that he’d been a soldier, he was nothing but a drunk now.
Eron stopped several paces away and scrubbed at the top of his head. It left his hair at all angles. “By the Twelve,” he drawled, “why are you so pale? You look like the Void got you.” Eron lifted his chin—and Safi noticed just the slightest wavering in his posture. “You must be nervous about the ball tonight.”
“As are you,” she said. “Why else would you be this drunk before dinner?”
Eron’s lips eased into a smile—a surprisingly alert smile. “There’s the niece I remember.” He crossed to the window, fixed his gaze outside, and set to toying with a thin gold necklace he always wore.
Safi bit her lip, hating that—as usual—a hole was opening in her chest at the sight of Uncle Eron. Though her blood ran with the same Hasstrel blue as his, she and her uncle were strangers.
And when Eron was drunk—which he was more often than he was not—then Safi’s witchery sensed nothing. No truth, no lies, no reaction whatsoever—as if whatever person he might be was washed away once the wine started flowing.
There had been, and always would be, a wall of stone and silence between them.
Leveling her shoulders, Safi strode to Eron’s side. “So why am I here, Uncle? Mathew said you plan to interfere with the Great War. How exactly do you intend to do that?”
A gruff laugh from Eron. “So Mathew let that slip, did he?”
“Do you need to use my witchery?” Safi pressed. “Is that what this is about? Some drunken scheme to reclaim your Hell-Bard honor—”
“No.” The word snapped out—strong. Unyielding. “This is not a drunken scheme, Safiya. Far from it.” Eron splayed his hands on the glass, and the old burn scars on his fingers and knuckles stretched taut.
Safi hated those scars. She’d stared at the white pocks a million times growing up. Wrapped around a wine jug or pinching a whore’s bottom. Those scars were all Safi really knew of her uncle—the only glimpse she’d had into his past—and whenever she saw them, she couldn’t help but fear that this was the future awaiting her; an insatiable thirst for what could never be.
Eron wanted his honor.
Safi wanted her freedom.
Freedom from her title and her uncle and the frozen, frozen Hasstrel halls. Freedom from the fear of Hell-Bards and beheadings. Freedom from her witchery and the entire Empire of Cartorra.
“You have no idea what war is like,” Eron said, his tone hazy as if his mind also drifted across the old scars. “
Armies razing villages, fleets sinking ships, witches igniting you with a single thought. Everything you love gets taken away, Safiya … and slaughtered. But you will learn soon enough. In all too vivid a detail, you will learn—unless you do as I ask. After tonight, you can leave forever.”
A pause filled the room—then Safi’s jaw slackened. “Wait—I can leave?”
“Yes.” Eron offered an almost sad grin, fidgeting once more with his necklace. When he spoke again, the first sparks of truth—of happy warmth—awakened in Safi’s chest.
“After you play the role of the dancing, drinking domna,” he began, “and you do it for all of the empires to see … Well, after that, you’ll be entirely free to go.”
Free to go. The words reverberated through the air like the final note in an explosive symphony.
Safi swayed back. This was more than her mind could swallow—more than her witchery could swallow. Eron’s words quavered and burned with truth.
“Why,” Safi began carefully, afraid the wrong word would erase everything her uncle had said, “would you let me leave? I’m supposed to be domna of the Hasstrel lands.”
“Not quite.” He raised a single arm over his head and leaned against the glass. Everything about his posture was strangely indulgent, and his necklace, now removed, hung between his fingers. “Titles won’t matter soon, Safiya, and, let’s face it, neither you nor I ever expected you to actually lead the estate. You aren’t exactly cut out for leadership.”
“And you are?” She bristled. “Why did I study my whole life if this was your plan all along? I could have just left—”
“It wasn’t my plan,” he cut in, shoulders tensing. “But things change when war is on the horizon. Besides, do you regret all the tutoring and training you received?” His head tipped to one side. “Your encounter with the Gold Guildmaster almost ruined everything I have planned, but I’ve managed to salvage the evening. Now all you have to do is act like a frivolous domna for a single night, and then your duties will be done. Forever.”
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