Truthwitch

by Susan Dennard

Until at last the ship’s heaving settled down. Until at last Safi could scrabble to Iseult and drag her Threadsister upright. “How are you? Where does it hurt?”

  “Everywhere.” Iseult cracked a smile. “It’s not a strong Painstone.”

  Before Safi could yell for Evrane’s help, Merik bellowed, “Don’t celebrate yet!” His feet pounded over the deck and a wind spiraled faster and faster around him. Evrane raced just behind.

  “The thing’s still not dead.” Merik reached Safi. His wind grabbed her clothes, her hair. “It’ll be back.”

  “And,” Evrane inserted, motioning at the horizon, “we still have a fleet of Marstoks coming our way.”

  “Not to mention the second sea fox.” Iseult grabbed Safi by the sleeve and tugged her away from the rail. “It’s coming, fast. And for the front this time.”

  “Brace yourselves,” Merik roared. “I’ll use the power to carry us—”

  The sea fox hit. The ship rocketed skyward, and as Safi’s feet left the deck—as the world became glowing clouds and purple haze—Merik’s wind engulfed them. In a tumble of air, Merik flew the four of them to the Jana. They crashed to the forecastle with no grace and copious pain. But Safi didn’t have time to check for injury. When she searched for Iseult—and found her clutching her arm several paces away—Safi also caught sight of a fire.

  No, four fires. The barrels of chum were aloft and aflame. Heat rolled off them—as did the stench of roasting fish, and nearby was Kullen. His breath came in punctuated gasps and his eyes bulged from his head. But he kept his hands out, the barrels aloft, and his magic true.

  “Kullen,” Merik yelled, already on his feet and sprinting for the drum. “Get the first barrel in position!” He yanked up a mallet and then waited while the closest flaming barrel flipped and floated before the drum.

  Merik pounded the mallet. Air punched out and grabbed hold of the barrel. It sped over the water, still burning bright. Then it splashed down, before the nearest Marstoki galleon.

  “Next barrel!” Merik called, and moments later, the second one launched out. Then the third and the fourth. Each one splashed in front of the Marstoks.

  “It’s leaving,” Iseult said. Her gaze followed under the ship and then beyond—toward the now-sunken chum. “It’s chasing the barrels.”

  “They are creatures of carnage,” Evrane said, and Safi jumped. She’d forgotten all about the monk, who slouched wearily nearby. “They like the taste of charred flesh.”

  Safi kept her eyes on the water, watching as two black shadows sped away from the boat, then erupted from the waves in the distance. They attacked the flaming barrels; tangled and fought for the chum.

  All the while, the Marstoki galleons sailed closer—right for the sea foxes. For a brief second, Safi almost pitied the Marstoks, whom she doubted had chum to catapult away for distraction.

  But the moment passed when she caught sight of Iseult, sweating and wincing. As Safi turned her attention to helping Iseult, a wind—a magicked wind—swept over the Jana and hauled into her sails.

  With a resistant groan, the warship set off to the east.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Despite the tiny Painstone and Firewitch healer’s work, Iseult’s arm pulsed with a low, insistent pain, and she found it hard to remain stoic as the gray Jadansi and distant shore melted past. A magicked wind from the admiral and his first mate practically lifted the Jana off the sea in a race to carry her from the Marstoks.

  Iseult and Safi sat on the forecastle, their lungs billowing for air, and Iseult kept glancing at Evrane beside them. She couldn’t help it. This woman had guided her—saved her, really—six and a half years ago. She was both everything Iseult remembered and nothing at all.

  The Memory-Evrane had been so angelic. And taller. But Real-Evrane was scarred and toughened and textured—not to mention, a whole half a head shorter than Iseult.

  But the monk’s hair—that was as glossy and radiant as Iseult recalled. A halo fit for the Moon Mother.

  Iseult broke her curious gawk—it was hard to stare for long. Evrane and Safi and everyone else wore Threads of a thousand brilliant shades. They pressed down on Iseult no matter where her eyes landed. On sailors who were terrified or triumphant, who were giddy off violence or ready to collapse with exhaustion.

  And then a few nearby Threads shivered with revulsion. Their owners had spotted Iseult’s skin and eyes. None seemed hostile, though, so Iseult blocked them out.

  After what might have been hours or minutes, the Jana began to slow. The magical wind stopped entirely, leaving a hole in Iseult’s ears where it had roared. A tenderness on her skin where it had kicked. Only a natural breeze carried the ship now, and a full moon shone overhead.

  “Welcome to Nubrevna,” Evrane murmured.

  Iseult pushed to her feet, the Painstone briefly flaming bright, and shuffled to the bulwark. Safi and Evrane followed.

  The land was not so different from the coast north of Veñaza City—rocky, jagged, pounded by wild waves. But in place of forests, large, white boulders dotted the cliff tops.

  “Where are all the trees?” Iseult asked.

  “The trees are there,” Evrane answered tiredly. “But they do not look like trees anymore.” With a snap, she unbuckled her cleaver’s sheath. Then she plucked an oily cloth from her cloak.

  Safi’s breath hitched. “Those aren’t boulders, are they?” She turned to Evrane. “They’re tree stumps.”

  “Hye,” the monk answered. “Dead trees do not stand for long when a storm blows through.”

  “Why … why are they dead?” Iseult asked.

  Evrane seemed briefly surprised, and she glanced from Safi to Iseult, as if to verify the question was genuine.

  Upon seeing it was, Evrane frowned. “All of this coast was razed in the Great War. Cartorran Earthwitches poisoned the soils from the western border to the mouth of the River Timetz.”

  Cold sank into Iseult’s lungs. She glanced at Safi, whose horrified Threads were shrinking inward.

  “Why,” Safi asked Evrane, “have we never heard that before? We’ve studied Nubrevna, but … our history books always described this land as vibrant and alive.”

  “Because,” Evrane said, “those who win wars are those who write history.”

  “Still,” Safi said, voice rising, Threads scattering outward, “if it was all a lie, I should’ve known it.” She grabbed hold of Iseult’s hand, clenching so tight that it hurt through Iseult’s Painstone. Throbbed into Iseult’s wound.

  But the pain was refreshing. Iseult embraced it, glad that it made her spine straighten and her throat open. Her gaze settled on Evrane’s saintly, concentrated face as the monk cleaned her cleaving knife—the one Iseult had used. Sea fox blood still crusted the swirling steel.

  As Evrane scrubbed, her movements practiced and sure, Iseult was suddenly struck by how many knives Evrane must have wiped clean in her lifetime. She was a healer monk, but she was a fighter too—and she’d lived at least half of her life during the Great War.

  When Iseult and Safi oiled their blades, they wiped away fingerprints and sweat—protected the steel against everyday handling.

  But when Evrane—and when Habim and Mathew … and even Gretchya too—polished their swords, they scraped away blood and death and a past Iseult couldn’t imagine.

  “Tell us,” she said softly, “what happened to Nubrevna.”

  “It started with the Cartorrans,” Evrane said simply, her words dancing away on the breeze. “Their Earthwitches tainted the soil. A week later, the Dalmotti Empire sent its Waterwitches to poison the coast and the rivers. Last, but hardly least, the Marstoki Firewitches burned our entire eastern border to the ground.

  “It was clearly a concerted effort, for you must understand: Lovats has never fallen. In all the centuries of war, the Sentries of Noden and the Water-Bridges of Stefin-Ekart have kept us safe. So I suppose the empires thought that if they briefly allied, they might topple us once and for all.”

 
; “But it didn’t work,” Iseult said.

  “Not right away, no.” Evrane’s cleaning paused, and she stared into the middle distance. “The empires focused their final attacks during the months leading up to the Truce. Then, when their armies and navies were forced to withdraw, their magic was left behind to finish us off. The poison spread through the soil, moved upstream, while the Marstoki flames burned whole forests to the ground.

  “Peasants and farmers were forced inland. As close as they could get to Lovats. But the city was already too crowded. Many died, and many more have died since. Our people are starving, girls, and the empires are very close to toppling us once and for all.”

  Iseult blinked. There was finality in Evrane’s voice, a rose-colored acceptance in her Threads.

  Beside her, Safi’s breath slithered out. “Merik truly needs this contract,” she whispered, her voice devoid of emotion. Her Threads muted and frozen—as if she were too shocked to feel. “Yet my uncle has made it impossible for him to claim. It’s too specific—no spilled blood…”

  A pause hung in the air. The wind and the shouts of the sailors dulled. Then suddenly, it all snapped forward—too fast. Too bright.

  Safi lurched away from the bulwark, her Threads avalanching outward with more colors than Iseult could follow. Red guilt, orange panic, gray fear, and blue regret. These weren’t the frayed Threads that break but rather the tough, reaching Threads that build. Each emotion, no matter the color, surged out of her, reaching across the deck as if trying to connect with someone—anyone—who might feel as wildly as she.

  Then Safi turned to Iseult and said in a voice made of stone and winter, “I’m so sorry, Iseult.” Her gaze slid to Merik, and she said it again, “I’m so sorry I dragged you into this.”

  Before Iseult could assuage—could argue that none of this was Safi’s fault—a white Thread flared in the corner of her eyes. Terror. She jerked around right as Kullen, standing on the main deck, started to cough. Then doubled over.

  Then fell.

  Iseult ran for him, Safi and Evrane on her heels. They reached Kullen as a girl with braids did too, her skin a stark contrast to Kullen’s deathly pallor. Yet Merik was already there. Already pulling Kullen into a sitting position and massaging the man’s back.

  Massaging his lungs, Iseult realized as she skidded to a stop several paces away. Safi paused beside her. Evrane, however, pushed all the way to Kullen and dropped to a crouch.

  “I’m here, Kullen,” Merik said, voice ragged. His Threads burned with the same white terror as Kullen’s. “I’m here. Relax your lungs and the air will come.”

  The first mate’s mouth worked like a fish, gulping at nothing. Though air seemed to squeak out, he could get no breath in. And each cough that shattered through him was weaker than the last.

  Then, eyes huge and cheeks pale, Kullen turned to Merik and shook his head.

  Safi dropped to the deck beside them. “How can I help?” She looked first at Merik, then to the girl, and finally to Kullen—who stared back at her.

  But the first mate could only wag his head at Safi before his eyes rolled back and he fell forward into Merik’s arms.

  Instantly, Merik and the younger girl flipped him onto his back, and Merik tipped Kullen’s mouth wide. He lowered his lips to Kullen’s, and then exhaled full gusts of magicked air into his Threadbrother’s throat.

  Over and over, he did this. An eternity of puffing and heaving, of urgent, terrified Threads. Sailors gathered around, though they seemed smart enough to hang back. Safi threw a panicked look at Iseult, but Iseult could offer no solutions. She had never seen anything like this before.

  Then a tremble moved through Kullen’s chest. He was breathing.

  Merik gaped for several long seconds at Kullen’s ribs before doubling over in relief. His Threads blazed with the pink light of Threadbrothers—pure and dazzling.

  “Thank you, Noden,” he mumbled into Kullen’s chest. “Oh, Noden, thank you.”

  The same sentiment shimmered through the Threads of every sailor—through Safi’s and Evrane’s as well.

  Yet none were so bright as Merik’s or the girl’s—and the girl’s shone with the pure red of a Heart-Thread.

  “Let me check him,” Evrane said with a gentle hand on Merik’s back. “To be sure he did not damage something.”

  Merik shot up, his face contorted with fury. And his Threads …

  Iseult flinched from the force. “You disobeyed my orders!” he shouted at his aunt. “You jeopardized my ship and my men! The domna was my only bargaining card!”

  Evrane stood still, Threads calm. “We needed a Firewitch healer for Iseult. She would have died without one.”

  “We all would have died!” Merik pushed Evrane again. She didn’t resist. “You abandoned your post with no thought for others!”

  Safi’s Threads blazed into a defensive fury. She sprang to her feet. “It wasn’t her fault—she was only doing what I ordered.”

  Merik swiveled toward Safi. “Is that so, Domna? So you weren’t fleeing your betrothed? You weren’t avoiding capture, Truthwitch?”

  Cold tunneled through Iseult’s stomach. Down her muscles. But how did he know?

  Doesn’t matter, Iseult told herself, already bending her knees to lunge for Safi. To protect her …

  Until Safi’s Threads flared with beige uncertainty—as if she might try to hide this truth from Merik. So Iseult schooled her face into absolute Threadwitch calm. She would not betray Safi’s secret.

  “Where did you hear that rumor?” Safi finally asked, her words careful and even.

  “The Marstoks know.” Merik leaned toward her. “Their Voicewitch kindly told mine. Do you deny it?”

  The world dragged, as if Safi’s inner debate spread around her. The breeze became soft and distant. Don’t admit it. Please don’t admit it. It was one thing for Emperor Henrick to possibly know of Safi’s witchery, but there was no reason for the whole world to learn too. What if Merik decided to use her—or to marry her, as Henrick had? Or what if Merik decided to kill Safi instead, before an enemy could lay claim to her?

  Yet as Safi’s Threads melted from gray fear to a lush, determined green, Iseult’s breath rolled out with defeat.

  “So what?” Safi squared her shoulders. “So what if I am a Truthwitch, Admiral? What difference does it make?”

  In a burst of speed, Merik grabbed Safi’s wrists, flipped her around, and wrenched her arms behind her. “It makes all the difference,” he snarled. “You told me no one sought you. You told me you were not important, and yet you’re a Truthwitch betrothed to Emporer Henrick.” He pushed her arms further back.

  Safi’s face tightened, but when Iseult tipped forward to defend—to fight for her Threadsister—Safi shook her head in warning.

  When Safi spoke again, her tone and Threads were shockingly controlled. “I thought that if you knew who I was, you would turn me over to the Cartorrans.”

  “Lie.” Merik leaned in close, his face inches from Safi’s. “Your magic knows when I speak the truth, Domna, and I told you I never intended harm. All I want is to get food to my people. Why is that so hard for anyone?…” His voice cracked. He paused, his Threads melting from crimson rage to deep blue sadness. “I’ve lost my Tidewitches now, Domna, and the Marstoks hunt me. All I have left are my ship, my loyal sailors, and my first mate. But you almost took them away from me too.” Safi’s mouth opened as if to argue, but Merik wasn’t finished. “We could have escaped as soon as the sea foxes arrived. Instead, we almost died because you were not in your cabin like you should’ve been. I had to find you, and that left us as bait for the foxes. Your recklessness almost killed my crew.”

  “But Iseult—”

  “Would have been fine.” Merik dipped her back—and Safi’s posture wilted. “I planned to get your friend a Firewitch healer as soon as we hit Nubrevnan soil. You know this is true, don’t you? Your witchery must tell you so.”

  Safi met Merik’s gaze. Then, Threads
burning with brilliant blue regret and guilty red, she nodded. “I see it.”

  Merik’s temper erupted once more. He seized Safi and ordered, “Move.”

  To Iseult’s complete shock, Safi did move, her Threads melting into Merik’s and shimmering with hints of a brighter red.

  Iseult’s lips parted, her foot rising to charge after Safi. To stop Merik from doing whatever it was he’d planned.

  A hand clasped her wrist. “Don’t.”

  She jerked her head around and found the girl with the braids shaking her head. “Don’t interfere,” she said in a hollow voice. “A few hours in the irons won’t kill her.”

  “In the what?” Iseult whipped around—and nausea swelled in her stomach at the sight of Merik pushing Safi down, yanking out her legs …

  And locking her ankles in straps of iron.

  The enormous fetters groaned shut, locks clicked, and Safi could do nothing but stare across the ship at Iseult.

  Again, Iseult lurched forward, but this time an older sailor sidestepped her. “Leave ’er there, girl. Or you’ll be locked in ’em too.”

  As if to prove the point, Evrane shot forward, roaring, “You cannot do this to her, Merik! She is a Domna of Cartorra! Not a Nubrevnan!”

  Merik straightened and motioned vaguely at his sailors—though his eyes stayed on his aunt. “You are a Nubrevnan, though, and your disobedience will not go unpunished either.”

  Evrane’s Threads turned turquoise with surprise as two sailors jostled her to a second set of leg irons. While the sailors pushed down Evrane and tightened the manacles, Merik turned as if to walk away.

  “You would resort to torturing a domna?” Evrane shouted. “You will harm her, Merik! You will ruin your own contract!”

  Merik paused, glancing back at his aunt. “I resort to punishment, not torture. She knew the consequences for disobedience. And,” he added, lethally calm now, “what sort of admiral—what sort of prince—would I be if I didn’t uphold my own laws? The domna has survived a sea fox attack unscathed, so a few hours in the irons will cause no damage. But it will give her time to consider the Hell she has brought here.”