Truthwitch

by Susan Dennard

  Evrane. So that was the monk’s name. Evrane. So plain and unassuming.

  “What happened to you, Iz? How did you get hurt?”

  Iseult loosed a ragged breath. “Later,” she murmured. “I’ll explain … later. Tell me how we got here.”

  Safi threw a cautious glance at the door before lowering her voice. “It all started in Veñaza City, right after Habim sent you away.”

  As Safi described what had passed, Iseult found it harder and harder to stay tethered to the real world—to pick out the details that mattered.

  Chocolate strawberries … Not important, she decided hazily. But dancing with Prince Merik of Nubrevna? Important. And being named the betrothed of Henrick fon Cartorra—all because the Emperor might know about Safi’s magic …

  “Wait,” Iseult cut in, blinking against the pain in her arm. “You’re the Emperor’s betrothed? Does that make you the Empress of Cartorra—”

  “No!” Safi blurted. Then more calmly, “Uncle Eron said I wouldn’t have to marry Henrick.”

  “But if Henrick knows about your magic, then what does that mean? Who else knows?”

  “I don’t know.” Safi’s forehead pinched up. Then, in an even faster rush of words, she finished her tale.

  But the second half of the story was more confusing than the first, and Iseult couldn’t seem to move past the betrothal. If Safi became Empress, then Iseult would have nowhere to go.

  The door clicked open. Evrane slipped in with a bowl.

  “Why,” Evrane hissed at Safi, “does my patient look twice as pale as when I left? You have exhausted her, Domna!”

  “I’m always pale as death,” Iseult said, winning a taut smile from Safi.

  When at last Evrane had deemed Iseult sufficiently fed, she eased Iseult onto her back. Then Safi lifted her voice, chains rattling. “I’ll find a Firewitch healer, Iz, all right? I swear to you I will, and I swear that you will get better.”

  “Oath accepted,” Iseult breathed. Her eyes were too heavy to keep open, so she let them flutter shut. “If you don’t find a healer, Saf, and I die, I promise to haunt you for the rest … of your miserable … life.”

  Safi’s laugh burst out, overloud, and Iseult’s eyelids briefly popped wide. Safi’s Threads were hysterically white.

  But, ah, Evrane was smiling. That was nice. It warmed Iseult’s heart ever so slightly.

  Iseult felt the woman’s hand rest upon her brow. A heartbeat passed, and despite the squeaking of the ship’s wood, Evrane’s magic quickly towed Iseult beneath sleeping waves.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  When Merik stepped onto the main deck to send Kullen after Vivia—and to send the Jana surging behind—he found a haze of purple clouds bruising the evening sky.

  Rain would come eventually, but for now, the air was thick and still. The sort of breezeless calm that left witch-less ships stranded.

  As Merik’s crew had done the night before, the sailors of the Jana were organized in rows across the deck—all except Ryber, who stood beside the wind-drum, her gaze anchored on Kullen at the ship’s bow.

  Merik stifled a sigh at seeing Ryber like that. He’d have to remind her to keep such open regard masked. He knew what she and Kullen shared, but the rest of the men didn’t—and couldn’t. Not if Ryber wanted to stay stationed on this ship and in Merik’s crew.

  Merik marched to the quarterdeck to gaze over his men. Unlike the night before, there was no need for silence. So Merik forced a grin—one like he used to flash when it was just he and his tiny crew sailing the soil-bound waters of Nubrevna. “Give us a song to sail by,” he roared. “How about the ‘Ol’ Ailen’ to start?”

  The ‘Ol’ Ailen’ was a favorite, and several of the sailors matched Merik’s smile as he strode to the wind-drum and accepted the unmagicked mallet from Ryber. Neither she nor any of the crew knew what they sailed toward, and as much as Merik would like to think they would oppose Vivia’s piracy, he wasn’t entirely sure.

  Merik hammered the drum four times and, on the fifth beat, the men of the Jana began to sing.

  “Fourteen days did they fight the sto-orm,

  Fourteen days did they brave the wind!

  Fourteen days without oceans calm,

  Saw the men of the ol’ Ailen.

  Hey!

  Thirteen days did they pitch and ya-aw,

  Thirteen days did they pray for end!

  Thirteen days of sailing on,

  Saw the men of the ol’ Ailen.”

  As the crew’s salt-rusted voices blended into the third verse, Merik handed the mallet to Ryber and moved into position beside the three Tidewitches. Kullen chose that moment to launch himself off the deck, wind roaring in his wake. He was soon nothing but a speck on the horizon.

  The youngest of the Tidewitches offered Merik wind-spectacles, and once Merik had them strapped on—and once the world had become a bubbled, warped place—he barked, “Gather your waters, men!”

  As one, the Tidewitches’ chests expanded. Merik’s too, and with his inhale came the familiar power. No rage sparked beneath it. Merik felt as calm as a tidepool. Then Merik and the Tidewitches exhaled. Wind swirled around Merik’s legs. Waves rippled inward toward the ship.

  “Prepare Tides!” Merik bellowed, and the elemental charge inside him eased out, ignited the air around him.

  “Make way!”

  In a great suction of power, the magic left Merik’s body. A boiling, dry wind gusted over the ship. Snapped into the sails.

  At the same moment, the Tidewitches’ waters thrust against the Jana’s waterline and the ship lurched forward. Merik’s knees wobbled, and he was struck by how much more smoothly these launches went with Kullen in control.

  “Nine days of a sea fox chasin’,

  Nine days of tooth and fin!

  Nine days of jaws a-snappin’,

  Saw the men of the ol’ Ailen.

  Hey!”

  Merik fell into the rhythm of the shanty and the beat of the wind-drum. The power pulsed through him, strangely smooth—uncommonly vast. For once in his life, he felt as if he had more magic than he knew what to do with, and as the Tidewitches sang softly, Merik’s winds filled the Jana’s sails. Soon, he lifted his voice in song.

  “Four days without fresh water,

  Four days with none to drink!

  Four days of salt and hot air,

  Saw the men of the ol’ Ailen.”

  The shanty soon ended, but Ryber kept pounding the drum and hollered, “‘The Maidens North of Lovats!’”—which Merik knew was her favorite song, since she was a maiden from north of Lovats.

  Four beats later, the chorus of sailors resumed, and onward the Jana moved, cutting the seas like a needle through sailcloth and never losing sight of Kullen’s small shape.

  Until Kullen wasn’t small anymore—until he was zooming in so fast that Merik thought they would collide.

  Kullen slowed, slowed and then toppled onto the deck, sailors scattering from his path.

  “It isn’t a Dalmotti ship!” he roared, straggling to his feet. Then he was racing to the tiller to Merik, his face violently red. “Vivia has already attacked and it’s not a trade ship at all.”

  Merik blinked stupidly at those words. They were incomprehensible—gibberish beneath the blood now rushing into his skull. “Not a trade ship?”

  “No,” Kullen panted. “It’s a Marstoki naval galleon, and it’s carrying weapons and Firewitches.”

  * * *

  Safi stared out the window at lavender skies and peaceful seas. Ever since Evrane had stormed into the cabin, snarling about “Vivia, that bitch,” Safi had stretched her chains and moored her attention to the glass. The terrain was changing shape before her eyes—possibly her opponents too. Merik had mentioned fighting, and Safi could only assume they sailed straight for it.

  All the while, Evrane paced—unleashing her worry to no one in particular, yet doing it in time to the pounding drum. Iseult simply slept on.

  At last, Saf
i’s vigil was rewarded: a smear of dark shapes formed on the horizon, eventually solidifying into a Nubrevnan warship like Merik’s and a second ship with a hull so dark it was almost black.

  Safi tugged against her chains, her arms bending back until she was close enough to the window to fully inspect the black ship. Three masts—snapped in half. A flag, falling over the bulwark.

  She caught her breath. There was no mistaking the gold crescent moon on that flag. It was the symbol of the Empire of Marstok, and the green background made it the standard of the Marstoki navy.

  “Oh bat shit,” Safi whispered.

  “Does Vivia think,” Evrane said to no one in particular, “that there will be no retaliation from Dalmotti? Piracy does not go ignored—especially not from a naval empire.”

  “I don’t think Dalmotti will retaliate,” Safi said. Evrane paused midstride, and Safi pointed to the window, chains clattering. “The ship she attacked is from the Marstoki navy.”

  “Wells preserve us,” the monk breathed. Then she lurched to the window and her face paled. “What have you done, Vivia?”

  Safi pressed her face to the glass beside Evrane. Nubrevnan sailors marched men in Marstoki green across a gangway. The Marstoks’ wrists were bound, and they were near enough for Safi to see solid triangles on more than a few hands.

  Witchmarks. Firewitch marks. “Why are none of the Firewitches fighting back?” Safi would never not use her magic to save herself or her friends. Her leg started bouncing, more questions flying through her mind. “And why are the Marstoks being led off their ship?”

  “I assume,” Evrane said, resuming her frantic pacing, “that Vivia intends to claim the Marstoki vessel and all its contents—then abandon her own ship. Because of the Truce, she cannot kill the Marstoks outright.”

  Nodding slowly, Safi thought back to Uncle Eron and his enormous plan to stop the Great War. Was this the sort of act that would dissolve the Truce early? Was this what he’d hoped to prevent?

  Safi had no idea and no way of knowing, so she shifted her attention back to the Marstoks shambling onto Vivia’s ship. There weren’t many Firewitches, but enough to easily fight back against the princess’s crew.

  In fact, one bearded man seemed vicious enough to save his whole ship. He snarled and snapped at every Nubrevnan prodding him over the gangway. Then Safi caught sight of his triangular Witchmark—there was a hollow circle at the center.

  “They have a Firewitch healer,” she said, voice husky with shock.

  “Perhaps,” Evrane murmured.

  “Not perhaps,” Safi insisted. “I see the mark on his hand. He just crossed the gangway onto the other ship.”

  Evrane rounded on Safi, eyes wide. “You are sure of what you saw?”

  “Hye.” Safi slouched back from the window, her chains slackening. She suddenly saw what she needed to do. The plan was all there before her. She knew where to walk belowdecks, how to sneak about topside, and which sailors to avoid. “We can get to the Firewitch,” she said. “While everyone is distracted, we can bring him here.”

  “No.” Evrane’s lips puckered into a grim line. “We cannot bring an enemy sailor onto this ship. That goes too far—even for me. Yet we can reverse your plan and bring Iseult to the healer.” The monk withdrew a key from her cloak and held it up.

  Safi gasped. “How did you get that?”

  “I stole it from Merik.” She flashed a humorless grin and pushed to her feet. “Unlock yourself, and then wake up Iseult. While I ensure the coast is clear, you need to get her standing. We will have only one chance to make a run for it.”

  Safi nodded, release winding through her shoulders. Through her legs. She was finally acting—and even better, she was running. That was something she knew how to do well.

  In the back of her mind, though, something poked and scratched: Merik would be furious over this. After all, she was putting his contract at risk, and he’d already chained her up for that.

  But the consequences were worth it—Iseult was worth it.

  So, with a bolstering breath, Safi plucked the key from Evrane’s hand. Then, as the monk darted from the cabin, Safi slipped the key into her first manacle. It opened with a satisfying clink.

  * * *

  Merik flew to the Marstoki war galley, moving so fast that he left his stomach behind. Kullen soared beside him, almost invisible in the wildness of their winds. Yet through it all, Merik still managed to pick out Vivia.

  Stocky and dark-haired like Merik, she roared orders beside a gangway connecting the Marstoki galleon to her ship. Nubrevnan sailors led submissive Marstoks across and then organized them in seated rows across the main deck.

  Merik’s feet touched down, yet he didn’t tow in his magic. Instead, he spun once and lashed it across the deck.

  It spun around his sister, yanking her to Merik. But she only grinned, landing gracefully beside her brother.

  “You lied,” he growled, tearing off his wind-spectacles, “about what the miniature was.”

  “And you lied about where it was.”

  Dimly, Merik was aware of sailors fleeing—as if a giant wave might be spiraling toward him. But Vivia’s magic was slow and Merik’s rage all-consuming. He freed his pistol and pressed it to her head.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” she snarled. Water splashed as she abandoned her wave. “I am your sister and your future queen.”

  “You aren’t queen yet. Return these men to their ship.”

  “No.” The word was almost lost to the wind, the voices. “Nubrevna needs weapons, Merry.”

  “Nubrevna needs food.”

  Vivia only laughed—a crowing sound that had mocked Merik his entire life. “There is a war coming. Stop being so naïve and start caring about your countryme—” Her words broke off as Merik cocked his pistol, readying the Firewitch spell within.

  “Never,” he hissed, “say that I don’t care for my countrymen. I fight to keep them alive. But you … You’ll bring the fires of Marstok upon their heads. What you have done here violates the Twenty Year Truce. I will present you to the vizers and King Serafin for punishment—”

  “Except that it doesn’t violate it,” Vivia snapped, lips curling back, “so don’t get all formal on me, Merry. No one is hurt. My crew has peacefully escorted the Marstoks onto my ship—which I will give up to ensure the Truce stays intact.”

  “Your crew will escort the Marstoks right back. We leave this vessel, Vivia, and we leave its contents.” With a final thrust of muscle and magic, Merik spun on his heel, ready to end this “peaceful escort.”

  “So will you tell Father, then?” Vivia shouted. “Will you tell him that you lost the ship he sought?”

  Merik’s feet stopped, and he angled back toward his sister. Her eyes—dark and identical to Merik’s—blazed.

  “What did you say?”

  She bared her teeth in a full smile. “Who do you think ordered that miniature, Merry? This was all Father’s idea and Father’s orders—”

  “Lies.” Merik burst forward, pistol rising—

  A wall of wind blasted him. He stumbled, almost fell, and then hazily thought, Kullen.

  A second wind returned his balance—and his sanity too. His Threadbrother—wherever the Hell he was—was finally putting a stop to something Merik never should’ve begun. Never would’ve begun if there weren’t so much at stake. This was his sister, for Noden’s sake.

  Kullen reeled into Merik’s path, eyes huge and face red. “We have a situation,” Kullen panted. “It’s bad.” He gestured weakly toward the galleon’s mizzen mast and kicked into a jog.

  Merik sprinted after him, all thoughts of Vivia or his father gone, swallowed by a new tide of fear.

  “I thought it … odd,” Kullen yelled between gulps for air, “that there was only a skeleton crew here. There’s no way … this ship could have crossed the Jadansi … with so few men. So I checked belowdecks.” He skirted the ladder, pointing as he passed. “There were more men.”

  “I
don’t understand,” Merik shouted over his pounding feet. “You think what? That some of the crew left?”

  “Exactly.” Kullen slowed to a stop beside the broken mizzen mast. His chest trembled much too fast as he added, “I think … most of this crew boarded … other ships. And then these men … Well, look for yourself.” He pointed to the mast, which was broken at Merik’s chest-level. Then Kullen waved to something else—something resting against the balustrade only a few feet away.

  Two axes.

  Merik’s stomach turned to iron. “They cut the mast themselves. Shit. Shit. Vivia was ambushed, Kull—”

  “Admiral!” Ryber’s voice carried over the still air. “Admiral!” she shouted again, and Merik found he was getting awfully tired of that title. Of the weight that crashed onto him each time someone uttered the word. “We have four warships on the horizon! Hulls up and coming this way!”

  Merik exchanged a single, wide-eyed look with Kullen. Then he launched back to the main deck, back to his sister—who continued to march Marstoks onto her ship.

  But Merik had no time for fury or new orders, for at that moment, Hermin stumbled to the edge of the Jana and roared through cupped hands, “It’s the Marstoks, Admiral! They’re calling for the immediate surrender of Emperor Henrick’s betrothed. Else they’ll sink us!”

  Merik rushed to the railing. “They want who?”

  “They want the Emperor’s betrothed!” Hermin paused, eyes burning pink with his magic. Then he added, “Safiya fon Hasstrel!”

  It was as if the whole world slowed down. As if it sucked in a breath and held tight. The waves rolled sluggishly as mud, the ship rocked at half-speed.

  Safiya fon Hasstrel. Emperor Henrick’s betrothed.

  It made such sudden, clear sense—why she had fled Veñaza City, why her safety was worth a treaty with the Hasstrels, and why a Bloodwitch might be after her.

  Yet Merik couldn’t wrap his mind around it. If she was betrothed to Henrick, then that made her the future Empress of Cartorra. It made her Henrick’s property too.

  And why were Merik’s lungs dropping low at that thought?

  Footsteps hammered on the wood. Kullen appeared, cheeks flushed so red, a breathing attack had to be imminent. With that terrifying realization, the world surged back to its usual speed. Merik grabbed Kullen’s arm. “Are you all right?”