Truthwitch

by Susan Dennard

  Safi sucked in tiredly; her chains shook with the movement. “I’m from the Orhin Mountains—in central Cartorra. It was cold and wet and I hated it.”

  “And Iseult is from the Midenzi settlement?” Evrane laid the new linen over Iseult’s arm and, with almost painful slowness, eased it around her bicep. “I remember it now.”

  Safi’s lungs compressed. Silver hair. A healer monk. “You,” Safi exhaled. “You were the monk who found her.”

  “Hye,” Evrane answered simply, “and that is a very significant thing.” Evrane angled a grim look Safi’s way. “Do you know why it is significant?”

  Safi wagged her head slowly. “It’s … an incredible coincidence?”

  “Not coincidence, Domna, but Lady Fate at work. Do you know ‘Eridysi’s Lament’?”

  “You mean the song that drunken sailors sing?”

  Evrane chuckled softly. “That is the one, though it is actually part of a much longer poem. An epic, really, that the Carawen monks believe to be…” She paused, her gaze unfocusing as if she searched for the right word. “A foretelling,” she finally said with a nod, “for Eridysi was a Sightwitch, you see, and many of her visions eventually came to pass.

  “Ever since I joined the Monastery, I have felt, Domna, that I was part of that Lament.”

  Safi turned a skeptical eye on Evrane. From what she knew of the song’s lyrics, it was all about betrayel, death, and eternal loss. Hardly the sort of thing one would want to be real—much less a prophecy of one’s own personal path.

  Yet when Evrane spoke again, it was not of Lady Fate or foretellings, and her attention had returned to Iseult’s delicate face. “Iseult is very sick,” she murmured, “but I swear by the Origin Wells that she will not die. I will die before I let that happen.”

  Those words shook through Safi, resonating with such intense truth that Safi could only nod in return. For she would do the same for Iseult, just as she knew Iseult would always do for her.

  * * *

  Merik stared at the table of charts before him—at the Aetherwitched miniature Vivia had procured. Kullen leaned against the wall nearby, stiff and expressionless. The cold in the air was the only sign of his anxiety.

  Sunlight peeked through the clouds, and the Jana dipped and rose with the ocean’s roll. On the map, the miniature Jana cruised smoothly onward … But not the Dalmotti trade ship. It had slowed significantly and would soon reach the exact place Merik had told Vivia it would be—and it would arrive at the exact moment he’d told her as well.

  Merik’s lies were becoming truth right before his eyes.

  He supposed he could try to stop his sister with some new tale about the trade ship abruptly changing course … But he doubted she would believe him. In all likelihood, she was already in position, waiting for her unsuspecting prey to sail past.

  “I have dug us a deep grave,” Merik said, voice rough.

  “But you’ll dig us back out again.” Kullen spread his hands. “You always do.”

  Merik tugged at his collar. “I was careless. Blinded by my excitement over a thrice-damned contract, and now…” He exhaled sharply and turned to Kullen. “Now I need to know if you can do what needs doing.”

  “If you mean,” Kullen said impatiently, “how are my lungs? Then they are perfectly fine.” The temperature dropped further; snow flickered around Kullen’s head. “I’ve had no issues in weeks. So I promise”—Kullen placed a fist over his heart—“that I can fly to Vivia’s ship and keep her from piracy. At least until you arrive.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me.” Kullen shook his head. “It is sheer luck that we are here and not in Veñaza City. If we were still on the other side of the sea, then we wouldn’t be able to intervene at all.” A pause. Then the air warmed slightly. “There is something else we should discuss before I go.”

  Merik didn’t like the sound of that.

  “The ’Matsi girl belowdecks,” Kullen went on. “Do you have a plan for her?”

  Merik inhaled wearily and checked his shirt—still tucked in. “I’m working on it, Kullen. I won’t let her die, all right? But the Jana and our people must come first.”

  Kullen nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Then I will do what needs doing.”

  “As will I,” Merik said. “Now gather the crew and summon the Tidewitches. It’s time to haul wind.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  It was nearing sunset, and Evrane had departed to find food, leaving Safi to contemplate Iseult and Lady Fate all alone. Surely the odds of Iseult encountering the same monk who’d helped her were high—after all, how many Carawen monks could there possibly be on the continent?

  And surely this reunion was more akin to chance and probability—like Ryber drawing the Paladin of Foxes from the taro deck—than it was to some ancient poem steering the monk’s life.

  At the sound of approaching footsteps, Safi’s thoughts scattered. The cabin door creaked open to reveal Merik, a wooden bowl in hand.

  Her lips curled back. “Come to fight me again?” It was a churlish comment, but Safi couldn’t bring herself to care.

  “Should I?” He strode into the cabin and toed the door shut. “You don’t seem to be misbehaving.”

  “I’m not,” she grumbled—and it was true. Despite wanting to snarl and shout and make him regret ever puting iron against her skin, she wasn’t stupid enough to waste the energy. Now, more than ever, she needed a plan.

  “Good.” Merik marched over and set the bowl within grabbing distance—though he wisely stayed back.

  Chains jangling, Safi peeked into the bowl. Pale soup with a dry roll floating on top. “What is it?”

  “What we always have.” Merik sank into a crouch. Their eyes met. His were a rich, dark brown. Yet he seemed distracted, the triangle on his forehead sunk to a frown. “It’s mostly bone broth, and whatever else we can find for the pot.”

  “Sounds … delicious.”

  “It isn’t.” He shrugged. “But look, I’ll even break your bread.” He plucked the roll from the bowl and, with an almost apologetic smile, he ripped it apart and dropped each bite-size chunk into the broth.

  Safi watched him through half-lowered lashes. “Is this some trick? Why are you being nice to me?”

  “No trick.” More bread plopped into the bowl. “I want you to know that I understand why you … attacked me.” Slowly, he pulled his gaze back to Safi’s. It was somber now. Bleak even. “I would have done the same thing in your position.”

  “Then why don’t you stop? If you understand, why don’t you take Iseult ashore?”

  Merik’s only response was to grunt noncommittally and drop the last of the bread into the bowl. Safi stared at it, bobbing in the broth, and frustration boiled up her shoulders.

  “If,” she said quietly, “you expect me to be grateful for soup—”

  “I do,” he interrupted. “We don’t have much food on this ship, Domna, and you’re eating my dinner ration. So yes, a bit of gratitude would be nice.”

  Safi had no retort for that. In fact, she had absolutely no words at all—and her wariness suddenly doubled. What did Merik want from her? Her magic sensed no deception.

  Merik nudged the bowl. “Eat, Domna … oh, wait! I almost forgot!” He withdrew a spoon from his coat. “How is that for service? Do you know how many men onboard would kill for the use of a spoon?”

  “And do you know,” she retorted, “how many men I can kill with a spoon?”

  That earned her a lazy smile, but when she reached for the spoon, Merik didn’t release it. Their fingers touched …

  And heat coiled up Safi’s arm. She flinched, her hand and the spoon shooting back.

  “We’ll be stopping soon,” Merik said, seemingly unaware of her reaction. “There might be fighting, and … I wanted to warn you.”

  “Who will be fighting?” Safi’s voice was oddly high-pitched, her fingers still humming as she gripped the spoon. “Are Iseult and I in danger?”

 
“No.” Merik’s head shook once, but the word—and the movement—frizzed against Safi’s power. False. “I will keep you safe,” he added, almost as an afterthought. Safi’s magic purred, True.

  Frowning, she sipped the soup. It was disgusting—even as hungry as she was. Bland to the point of tasteless and cold to the point of congealed.

  “Don’t watch me eat,” she huffed. “I won’t actually kill anyone with the spoon.”

  “Thank Noden.” His lips twitched up. “I was worried for the entire crew.” A pause, then a curt wag of his head, as if he shook off some dark cloud that plagued him.

  When Merik met Safi’s gaze, his eyes were sharp—the sharpest she’d ever seen them—and she had the uncomfortable sense that he saw her. Not just the surface of her, but all her secrets too.

  “In all honesty,” he said at last, “you are a threat, Domna. That’s why I have to keep you in chains. You would do anything for your Threadsister, and I would do the same for Kullen.”

  True.

  When Safi stayed silent except for her soup-sipping, Merik went on. “Kullen and I have known each other since we were boys—since I went to the Nihar estate, where his mother works. When did you meet Iseult?”

  Safi swallowed her current mouthful, almost choked on the bread, and then croaked, “Why do you want to know?”

  Merik sighed. “Good-natured curiosity.”

  True.

  Safi’s mouth pursed to one side. Merik was being strangely open with her—which he certainly didn’t have to be—and Safi supposed there was no tactical advantage if he found out how she and Iseult had become friends.

  “We met six years ago,” she finally answered. “She works … or worked, I suppose, for my tutor in Veñaza City. Whenever I visited him for a lesson, Iseult was there. I … didn’t like her at first.”

  Merik nodded. “I didn’t like Kullen either. He was so tense and hulking.”

  “He still is.”

  Merik laughed—a full, rich sound that sent warmth cinching around Safi’s stomach. With his eyes crinkled and his face relaxed, Merik was handsome. Disarmingly so, and against her better judgment and strongest wish, Safi found herself relaxing.

  “I thought Iseult was tense too,” she said slowly. “I didn’t understand Threadwitches back then—or Nomatsis. I just thought Iseult was strange. And cold.”

  Merik scratched his chin, rough with stubble. “What changed?”

  “She saved my life from a Cleaved.” Safi looked at Iseult, stiff upon the pallet. And much too pale. “We were only twelve years old, and Iseult saved me without any thought for herself.”

  There had been an Earthwitch near Mathew’s shop. The woman had started to cleave with Safi only paces away, and when the Earthwitch had lunged, Safi’d thought it was all over for her. Hell-flames or Hagfishes, she hadn’t known, but she’d been certain they were coming for her.

  Until Iseult was suddenly there, jumping on the woman’s back and fighting like it was her life trapped in the balance.

  Of course, Iseult hadn’t been strong enough to stop the Earthwitch, so thank the gods Habim had arrived only moments later.

  That was the first day Habim had begun training Iseult to defend herself alongside Safi. More important, it was the first day Safi had seen Iseult as a friend.

  And now this was how Safi repaid her—by sending their lives up in smoke.

  Safi stirred her soup, watching the bread swirl. “How did you and Kullen become friends?”

  “A similar story.” Merik wet his lips and, with a bit too much nonchalance, said, “Kullen has bad lungs. I … don’t know if you’ve noticed. It’s ironic, really—he’s an Airwitch and can control someone else’s lungs, yet not his own.” Merik gave a dry laugh. “Kullen had his first truly bad breathing attack when he was eight, and I used my winds to revive him. Rather straightforward.” Merik nodded to the soup. “How’s the dinner?”

  “I’ve had worse.”

  He bowed his head. “I’ll take that as a compliment. We do what we can here, with what little we have.” He lifted his eyebrows as if he intended a double meaning.

  It was lost on Safi. “What’s your point?”

  “That I think you do the same—make do with what you have. I will help Iseult when I can.”

  “I can’t wait that long. Iseult can’t wait.”

  Merik shrugged one shoulder. “You have no choice, though. You’re the one in chains.”

  Safi flinched as if he’d hit her. She dropped the spoon and thrust away the bowl. Broth sloshed out the sides.

  Let Merik mock her helplessness. Let him laugh at her chains. She had lit this pyre; she would put it out—and she didn’t need his or anyone else’s permission to do that.

  “It tastes like crap,” she said.

  “It does.” Merik gave a knowing nod—which only incensed her more. “But at least I get some dinner now.” He swooped up the bowl and then marched from the room as smoothly as he’d come in.

  * * *

  Iseult was stuck in the half-dreaming again. Voices lingered outside of her awareness, and dreams hovered just beyond. Someone was here.

  It wasn’t the people in the ship’s cabin, of which Iseult could hazily hear. This presence was a different shadow—someone who wriggled and writhed in the back of her mind.

  Wake up, Iseult told herself.

  “Stay asleep,” the shadow murmured. It had a voice she knew: Iseult’s own voice. “Stay asleep but open your eyes…”

  The voice was stronger than Iseult. It coated her mind with a sticky, inescapable syrup, and though Iseult screamed at herself to awaken, all she managed was exactly what the voice wanted.

  She cracked open her eyes, and saw the cabin’s oiled bulkhead.

  “A boat,” the shadow murmured. “Now tell me, Threadwitch, what is your name?” The shadow still spoke in Iseult’s voice, though there was a giddy layer over her words, as if she constantly smiled. “And do you travel with another girl? A Truthwitch? You must, for there are only so many Threadwitches at sea right now—three, to be exact, of which only one is the appropriate age.”

  “Who,” Iseult began, though she had to fight to get the single word over her lips. Her voice sounded a million miles away, and she wondered if perhaps she actually spoke in the real world—if that was why her throat seemed to burn with the effort. “Who are you?”

  The shadow’s glee solidified, and an icy trickle slid down Iseult’s spine. “You are the first person to sense me! No one has ever heard what I say or what I command. They simply follow orders. How is it that you know I’m here?”

  Iseult didn’t answer. Just voicing the one question had sent white-hot pain through her body.

  “My, my,” the shadow declared, “you are very ill, and if you die, I won’t learn anything.” The shadow pressed in more closely, and its fingers rummaged through Iseult’s thoughts. “It’s hard to read you anyway—you’re quite closed off. Has anyone ever told you that before?” The shadow didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, a question thundered through Iseult’s mind. “DO YOU TRAVEL WITH A TRUTHWITCH NAMED SAFIYA?”

  Iseult’s gut went tight. The ice along her spine slashed outward. With every bit of strength and training Iseult could muster, she slammed down on her emotions, her thoughts, and every fragment of knowledge that threatened to rise to the surface.

  But she was too slow. The shadow sensed her fear and lunged for it.

  “You do! You do! You must to have such a wild response. Oh, Lady Fate favors me today. This was all so much easier than I expected.” Happiness rippled off the shadow. Iseult imagined it was clapping its delight. “Now, you must stay alive, little Threadwitch, yes? Can you manage that? I will need you again when the time comes.”

  Time? Iseult thought, unable to speak. “Until we meet again!” the shadow trilled. Then the dark presence swept away.

  And Iseult awoke to the real world.

  The next several minutes were a blur of the monk helping Iseult sit up, of Safi�
��s Threads flaring from across the room, of the world spinning and swaying.

  “Safi?”

  “I’m here, Iz.”

  Iseult relaxed slightly—until the monk inspected her bandage. Then it took all of Iseult’s self-control not to shriek at her to get the hell away! Oh, Moon Mother save her, how could there be so much pain?

  You are very ill indeed—that was what the shadow voice had said and, watching the frightened gray Threads that flickered over both the monk and Safi, Iseult had no doubt the voice was right.

  What she didn’t know, though, was whether the voice was real.

  Iseult grabbed for the monk’s wrist. “Will I die?”

  The monk went very still. “You … could die. The muscle is cursed, but I am doing all I can to keep the blood clean.”

  Iseult almost laughed at that. Corlant must have cursed his arrow. No wonder he looked so smug after shooting me. He’d known the wound would kill her in the end.

  Though … why? The reason why Corlant wanted Iseult dead was still lost to her. If he’d truly only craved revenge against Gretchya and Alma, then he wouldn’t have so blatantly aimed his arrow at Iseult.

  It was more than Iseult could sort through right now. Too many thoughts, confusing and contradictory. No mental strength to carry it all.

  “Water will help.” The monk dipped her head to a water bag. “Please try to drink while I find food.” She rolled to her feet and glided from the room.

  Iseult swiveled her head toward Safi. For a flicker of a heartbeat, Iseult almost wished she could cry—could squeeze out a few teardrops as easily as the rest of the world. Just so Safi would know how relieved Iseult was to have her there. “You’re chained up.”

  A wince pulled at Safi’s eyes. “I upset the Admiral.”

  “Of course you did.”

  “It’s not funny.” Safi sank against the wall, her Threads pulsing between the same gray and concerned green. “Things are bad, Iz, but I’ll fix them, all right? I swear, I’ll fix them. Evrane has promised to help us.”