Truthwitch

by Susan Dennard

  “The Empress,” Aeduan said once the Hell-Bard Commander had vanished belowdecks, “lied about having Tidewitches onboard.”

  “I assumed so.” Leopold scowled at an invisible mark on his cuff. “She also lied about not wanting Safiya fon Hasstrel. But”—Leopold glanced up—“I have one advantage over the Empress.”

  Aeduan’s eyebrows lifted.

  “I have you, Monk Aeduan, and trust me when I say that that has the Empress of Marstok now sailing scared.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  “Keep the light steady!” Merik bellowed from the tiller. Two sailors aimed the Jana’s spotlights on the waves. The moon gave some light when the clouds bothered to part, but it wasn’t enough—especially not with the lingering rain.

  Without Kullen to fill the Jana’s sails or Merik’s witches to carry her hull, Merik had to push his meager crew hard—and push himself hard too.

  But he had no other choice, and time was short.

  He needed to find that one jagged peak—the Lonely Bastard, as he and Kullen had always called it—before the tide swallowed it whole. Behind it was a hidden cove. A family secret that would allow Merik’s crew to rest in safety.

  If the Jana missed the tide, though, Merik would be forced to wait until tomorrow afternoon—allowing the Marstoks or the sea foxes to catch up.

  Merik’s gaze snapped to the domna and Evrane, still chained. Safiya’s golden hair was damp and hanging, his aunt’s white cloak soaked to gray. For once, Iseult was nowhere to be seen. She’d checked on Safiya and Evrane a hundred times during the first four hours of their punishment. In the last two chimes, though, the girl had stayed belowdecks. Sleeping, probably.

  Merik was glad for it. Each time Iseult had come to beg for Safi’s release, the muscles in his neck had hardened. His shoulders had strained toward his ears, and he’d patted his pocket—checking that the Hasstrel agreement was still tucked inside. Those pages had become his last hope for salvation, so he kept them close.

  He checked the document for the thousandth time now, the pages flattened and rain-splattered …

  The signatures were intact, so Merik would leave Safiya in her chains a bit longer. He might not be Vivia when it came to discipline, but there were consequences for disobedience. Merik’s crew knew that—expected it, even—so Merik couldn’t suddenly go soft. Even if there might be long-term repercussions for binding a woman who could one day be Empress of Cartorra … Even if Safiya and her betrothed, Henrick, could make Merik pay for this sort of treatment … Merik didn’t care. He’d rather keep his crew’s respect than worry over what some idiot emperor could do to a country that was already crippled.

  Henrick. Merik had always disliked that foul old man. To think that Safiya was his betrothed. To think she would marry—would bed—a man three times her age …

  Merik couldn’t reconcile that thought. He’d believed Safiya was different from other nobility. Impulsive, yes, but loyal too. And perhaps as alone as Merik was in a world of cutthroat political games.

  But it turned out Safiya was just like the rest of the Cartorran doms and domnas. She lived with blinders on, attuned only to those she’d deemed worthy.

  Yet even as Merik nursed his fury, even as he told himself he loathed Safiya, he couldn’t keep the “buts” from churning in his stomach.

  But you would have done the same for Kullen. You would have risked lives to save him.

  But maybe she doesn’t want to marry Henrick or be Empress. Maybe she is on the run to avoid it.

  Merik shoved aside those arguments. The simple fact remained that if Safiya had only told Merik of her betrothal from the beginning, he could have returned her to Dalmotti and been done with her immediately. He never would have been on this side of Jadansi where he’d been forced to fight a sea fox, battle the Marstoks, and ultimately push Kullen too hard.

  “Admiral?” Hermin hobbled onto the quarterdeck, expression bleak. “I still can’t make a connection with the Lovats Voicewitches.”

  “Oh.” Mechanically, Merik brushed rain off his coat. Hermin had been linked into the Voicewitch Threads for hours, trying to get through to Lovats. To King Serafin.

  “Might be,” Hermin mused, tipping his voice over the waves and rain, the squeak of ropes and the grunts of seamen, “that all the Voicewitches are busy.”

  “In the middle of the night?” Merik frowned.

  “Or maybe,” Hermin went on, “my magic is the problem. Maybe I’m too old.”

  Merik’s frown deepened to a scowl. Age didn’t diminish a witchery. Hermin knew it and Merik knew it too, so if the old man was trying to soften what was obviously going on—that the Voicewitches in Lovats were ignoring Merik’s calls—then there was no point.

  If Vivia’s words turned out to be true and Merik’s father really had ordered the Aetherwitched miniature, then Merik would deal with that later. For now, he just had to get his men ashore and away from Marstoki flames.

  He glanced at the leg irons—at Safiya—only to find Ryber crouched beside her.

  “Take the helm,” Merik snarled, already stalking for the companionway. Then he lifted his voice in a roar. “Ryber! Get away from there!”

  The ship’s girl jerked to attention, yet Safiya kept her head bowed as Merik slammed onto the main deck and advanced on Ryber. “You,” he growled, “should be swabbing.” He thrust a finger at the nearby new recruit, who diligently scrubbed water off the deck. “That is your duty, Ryber, so if I catch you shirking again, you’ll be whipped. Understand?”

  The domna lifted her chin. “I called Ryber over here,” she rasped.

  “Someone needs to check on Iseult,” Evrane inserted, her voice hoarse. “The girl is still healing.”

  Merik ignored Safiya and Evrane, his fingers reaching for his collar. “Swab the deck,” he told Ryber. “Now.”

  Ryber saluted, and once she was out of sight, Merik wheeled toward the domna, ready to shout that she leave his sailors alone.

  But her head was tipped back, her eyes closed and mouth open. Even with only lantern light to shine on her skin, there was no missing the wobble in her throat. The flick of her tongue.

  She was drinking the rain.

  Merik’s rage vanished. Dread swallowed it whole, and he tore out the Hasstrel agreement. The signatures were still there.

  Of course they are, he thought, annoyed with himself for caring. Safiya isn’t bleeding. Yet his fingers trembled—and distantly he wondered why that might be. Perhaps this fear had nothing to do with the contract.

  That thought tickled at the base of his skull—and he hastily tamped it down, buried it deep, and returned the contract to his pocket. Then he dug out the leg-iron keys. Whatever the reason for this hollow fear, Merik would dwell on it later—along with his unshakable worry over King Serafin, Vivia, and Kullen.

  Right now, though, this punishment had to end.

  Crouching beside Safiya, Merik unlocked the first fetter. She seemed wearily surprised. “I am free?”

  “Free to stay locked in your cabin.” Merik undid the remaining irons and then stood. “Get up.”

  She drew in her soaked legs and tried to rise. The ship rocked. She toppled forward.

  Merik lunged for her.

  Her skin was slick and cold, her body shivering. With a grunt, he hefted her up, cradled her close. His men watched on, and Merik didn’t miss the nod of approval from Hermin as he strode toward the ladder belowdecks.

  The domna had served her punishment; the men respected that.

  Safiya’s face was near, her eyelashes thick and wet. Her damp clothes rubbed against Merik’s skin, and her breaths were shallow. Merik firmly ignored it all, focusing on getting one foot in front of the next until at last he pushed into the darkened passenger room. Iseult slept, shuddering on her pallet.

  “Iz,” Safiya murmured, shifting in Merik’s arms and straining for her Threadsister. Merik carried her to the pallet, bent slightly, and then dropped her. She fell beside Iseult, who shook awake.
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  As Iseult scrambled to help Safiya, Merik whirled about and left the room, telling himself that Safiya was taken care of. That he wouldn’t think of her now. That he wouldn’t think of her ever again.

  Yet when at last he reached the tiller of his father’s ship and caught sight of the Lonely Bastard piercing the horizon ahead, his arms were still warm—his neck still humming from Safiya’s grip.

  * * *

  Before Safi had returned, Iseult had been trapped in her nightmares again …

  Sever, sever, twist and sever.

  Fingers tore at Iseult. Yanked at her hair, her dress, her flesh.

  Threads that break, Threads that die!

  An arrow ripped through her arm; pain exploded through her entire being. And magic, magic—black, festering magic—

  “Nasty dream you’re having.” The shadow’s voice jolted Iseult from the nightmare.

  “You tremble and quake so much today,” the shadow continued, a syrup on its voice that was overly gleeful. “What upsets you? It wasn’t just the dream—you have that one all the time.”

  Iseult tried to turn away, but every direction she shifted, the shadow followed. Every kick or mental thrust, the shadow avoided. Every desperate retreat, the shadow dug its talons in deeper.

  And on and on the shadow babbled—or rather she babbled, for the shadow was a woman. A fellow Threadwitch, convinced that she and Iseult were somehow alike.

  It was that talk that frightened Iseult the most. The possibility that this strange voice was like her. That maybe the shadow understood Iseult’s private pains more than anyone else.

  Which of course made Iseult wonder if she wasn’t just imagining the entire thing. Going crazy while all of her hopes for the future trickled away between her fingers.

  Or maybe Iseult was finally buckling beneath the Threads of the world—her ordinary heart pounded to dust.

  “You are upset about your tribe,” the shadow declared matter-of-factly, stumbling on Iseult’s most recent memories. “My tribe pushed me out too, you know, because I wasn’t like the other Threadwitches. I couldn’t make Threadstones or control my feelings, so the tribe didn’t want me. That’s why you left yours, isn’t it?”

  The curiosity on the shadow’s voice was double edged. Iseult knew she shouldn’t answer … yet she couldn’t help it when the shadow asked again: “That’s why you left, isn’t it?”

  The urge to tell the truth—about her shame with Gretchya, her jealousy of Alma—tickled Iseult’s throat. Why couldn’t she fight this shadow? Use that frustration, she told herself almost frantically. Use that to fight her.

  Iseult ripped her dream body sideways and latched on to the first mindless memory she could find: her multiplication tables. Nine times one equals nine. Nine times two equals eighteen—

  But the shadow simply laughed.

  “It’s silly that we’re expected to feel nothing,” the shadow continued, her tone dulcet once more. “I don’t believe the stories—the ones that say we don’t have Heart-Threads and Thread-families. Of course we do! We just can’t see them is all. Why would the Moon Mother give all of her children such powerful bonds, but then exclude us?”

  “I don’t know.” Iseult was grateful for that easy question. If she answered it—if she seemed to cooperate—maybe the shadow would leave.

  She didn’t. Instead, the shadow laughed her gleeful laugh and cried, “Why, look! Talking of Thread-families upsets you, Iseult. Why? Why?”

  Nine times four equals thirty-six. Nine times five—

  “Oh, it’s your mother! And her apprentice. They have left you hurt and broken. Goodness, Iseult, you are so easy to read. All your fears gather at the surface, and I can skim them off like fat from a borgsha pot. Here, I see that you couldn’t make Threadstones, so your mother sent you away. And, oh—what is this?” The shadow was exultant now, and no matter how wildly Iseult fought, she couldn’t keep her thoughts locked away.

  “Gretchya and Alma planned their escape before you were even gone! And Iseult, look here—she tried to claim she loved you. Well, she obviously didn’t love you enough to take you with her. She manipulated you quite well, Iseult, just as her job entailed. Just as our job entails. We must weave Threads when we can—and break them when we have to. It’s the only way to untangle the loom.”

  The shadow’s voice lowered to a whisper. A sound like wind through a graveyard. “Mark my words, Iseult: Your mother will never love you. And that monk you admire so much? She will never understand you. And Safiya—oh, Safiya! She will leave you one day. One day soon, I think. But you can change that.” The shadow dragged out a pause, and Iseult imagined she was smiling as she did so. “You can change the very weave of the world. Grab hold of Safi’s Threads, Iseult. Break them before they hurt you—”

  “No,” Iseult hissed. “I’ve had enough of you. I’ve had … enough.” With every ounce of power in her muscles and her mind, Iseult opened her mouth—in the real world—and said, “Nine times eight equals seventy-two.”

  The world plowed into her, carrying pain from her arm and the sound of footsteps—of Safi’s voice.

  Iseult opened her eyes, and Safi toppled into her.

  * * *

  Safi shivered from the rain, and try as she might, she couldn’t seem to analyze her terrain, to evaluate her opponents—and there was something about strategy she was supposed to consider too.

  “You’re freezing,” Iseult said. “Get under the blanket.”

  “I’m fine.” Safi forced a smile. “Really. It’s just a bruised ego and some rain. But are you all right? How’s your arm?”

  “Better.” Iseult’s expression didn’t budge—a good sign. “It hurts now that the Painstone is dead.” She jiggled her wrist to show Safi the dull quartz. “But it’s not as bad as before.”

  Nodding, Safi sank onto the mattress. Hay wuffed out the corners. “And how do you feel here?” She thumped her chest. “You were talking in your sleep. Was it … was it the curse?”

  “Nothing so awful.” Iseult settled beside her. “It was just a nightmare, Saf.”

  Gingerly, Safi touched the bandage on Iseult’s right arm. “Tell me what happened.”

  The lines on Iseult’s face smoothed and with her gaze fixed on some middle distance, she explained how—to escape the Bloodwitch—she’d been forced to travel home. Her voice stayed flat and hollow as she went on to describe the settlement, the Cursewitch, the mob.

  Safi’s gut turned harder. Harder still. Guilt stirred up her throat.

  For this was her fault. Like everything else that had gone wrong in the past two days, Iseult’s near-death was Safi’s fault.

  And somehow the lack of inflection—the fact that Safi knew Iseult didn’t blame her—only made it worse.

  Before Safi’s lips could open and apologies scrape out a smile flickered over Iseult’s face. It was so at odds with the tale she’d just told—so startling, too.

  “I almost forgot—I have a gift for you.” Iseult plied a leather cord from her blouse and tugged it over her head.

  Safi’s forehead crinkled, her thoughts and guilt swirling away. “Is this a Threadstone?”

  “Yeah.” Iseult nudged her with her left elbow. “It’s a ruby.”

  “But aren’t Threadstones for finding Heart-Threads?”

  “Not necessarily. They can be used to find anyone in your Thread-family.” Iseult eased a second stone from her dirty blouse. “I have a match, see? Now, when either of us is in danger, the stones will light up. They’ll dim the closer we get to each other.”

  “Wells bless me,” Safi breathed. The stone suddenly felt twice as heavy on her palm. Twice as dazzling beneath the pink threads—and a thousand times more valuable. The power to find Iseult wherever she was—the power to protect Iseult from the hell like she’d experienced last night—that was a gift, indeed. “Where did you get these?”

  Iseult ignored the question. “That stone,” she said, “saved your life. It was how I found you north o
f Veñaza City.”

  North of Veñaza City. Where Iseult had gotten the arrow punched through her arm by her own people. No wonder she didn’t want to talk about it.

  Safi draped the cord around her neck. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “You’ll never have to go back to the Midenzis. Ever.”

  Iseult scratched her collarbone. “I know, but … where will we go, Safi? I don’t think we c-can go back to Veñaza City now.”

  “We’ll go with the prince. To Lejna, so I can fulfill his contract.”

  “With the prince,” Iseult echoed. Though her face stayed smooth, there was the slightest tic in her nose. “And after Lejna?”

  Safi drummed her fingers on her knee. What could she say that would make Iseult smile? Where would her Threadsister possibly feel safe again?

  “How about Saldonica?” She offered her goofiest grin. “We’d make great pirates.”

  Iseult didn’t even ghost a smile back. Instead, her nose twitched more obviously and she glanced at her hands. “My mother is there. I-I … don’t want to see her.”

  Gods thrice-dammit. Of course Safi would pick a place where Gretchya would be. Before she could suggest other options—ones that were guaranteed to make Iseult smile—the cabin door banged open.

  Evrane staggered in, with two sailors prodding her from behind. The monk slammed the door in their faces before stumbling for the girls—and Safi didn’t miss how Iseult’s spine erected. How her shoulders rolled properly back.

  “Let me examine you,” Evrane croaked, sinking onto the floor beside Safi. “You’re bruised, Domna.”

  “It’s nothing.” Safi tucked in her legs.

  “The bruises might not hurt, but this isn’t about you anymore.” Evrane threw a glance at the window—a moonlit shore streamed by. “A bruise is spilled blood beneath the skin. We should not mock the contract’s demands.”

  Safi eased out a long breath, her mind careening back to Merik. The prince. The admiral. He was never far from her thoughts, and she’d barely thought of anything else for all those hours in the irons. She’d barely looked at anything but his rain-slicked hair and hard gaze while he steered the Jana toward his home.