Except Safiya was smiling. “It’s your home,” she said softly. Urgently. “Your god listened to you.”
Merik’s mouth went dry. The breeze, the rattle of branches, the crunch of Evrane’s and Iseult’s feet—it all became a dull, distant roar.
Safiya swung her face away, and her voice dropped to a whisper, almost as if she spoke to herself rather than to Merik. “I can’t believe it, but there it is. Your god actually listened.”
“That He did,” Yoris said.
Merik flinched—he’d forgotten Yoris was there. Forgotten that Evrane and Iseult were climbing up. Everything inside of him had been lost in Safiya’s smile. In the truth of her words. Noden had listened.
“That ship,” Yoris continued, “fell from the sky almost a year ago, somehow carried by a storm. She hit the earth with a shudder like you wouldn’t believe. Upside down, just as you see her, and with food bursting out the windows.”
Merik shook his head, forced his mind back to the present. “And … what about the ship’s sailors?”
“There was no one onboard,” Yoris answered. “There were signs of cleaving, though. A few black stains that we scrubbed away, and some damage on the hull that might’ve been foxes. But that was it.”
A cry sounded behind Merik—he jerked around. Evrane had crested the hill—had seen the forests and the life.
She crumpled to the earth, her palms hitting the dusty soil before Merik could reach her. She just waved him off, a prayer tumbling off her tongue and tears pooling in her eyes. Streaking down her dirty cheeks.
Merik’s own eyes started to burn then because this was what he’d worked for—what he and Evrane and Kullen and Yoris and everyone else from Merik’s childhood had worked for and sweated for and fought for.
“How?” Evrane murmured, hugging her rumpled cloak to her chest and shaking her head. “How?”
Despite Yoris’s long-standing distrust for Evrane, his expression melted. Even he couldn’t deny that Evrane Nihar loved this land.
“The river’s clean,” Yoris said, voice gruff but gentle. “We don’t know why, but we only discovered that—and the start of this new forest around it—when we found the ship. Didn’t take us long after to start a new settlement, and we have more families comin’ in every week.”
Families. For a moment, Merik wasn’t sure what that word meant … Families. Women and children. Was such a thing possible?
A new realization hit then, punching the breath from Merik’s lungs. If Yoris had created this in mere months, then what might happen with a steady supply of food? What more could be built and be grown?
Merik’s fingers moved to his coat, to the agreement there. He glanced at Safiya. She met his gaze and grinned wider.
And Merik forget how to breathe entirely.
Then Safi shifted away to help Iseult climb the rest of the hill, and Merik’s lungs regained their function. His mind regained clarity, and after a sharp tug at his collar, he offered a hand to Evrane.
“Come, Aunt. We’re almost there.”
Evrane dabbed at her cheek, smearing the dirt and tears more than wiping them away. Then she bared a tentative grin, as if she’d forgotten how to smile.
Actually, Merik couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his aunt smile.
“We are not simply ‘almost there,’ Merik.” She took his hand and clambered to her feet. “My dear, dear nephew, we are almost home.”
THIRTY-ONE
Noden’s Gift was easily the happiest village Safi had ever seen. She and Iseult followed Yoris, Merik, and Evrane over a crude bridge, the river below a choppy slice in the yellow earth. It led to an outer cluster of wooden huts with rounded thatch roofs and plank walls, as bleached as the trees from which they were hewn. The homes seemed awfully precarious to Safi—like the first big storm would bluster them all into the fast-moving river.
Then again, Nubrevnans were clearly a resilient lot. If a squall stole their homes, they would simply start over again. And again and again.
A sparrow plunged over the bridge, a raven croaked from a rooftop, and fat fern leaves shivered up from the steep riverbanks.
And everyone—everyone Safi passed—was smiling.
Not at Safi—she just earned curious stares. And definitely not at Iseult, who was hooked on Safi’s arm and slouched deeply within Evrane’s cloak. But Merik … When the people caught sight of their prince, Safi had never seen such brilliant smiles. Never felt such a burn of her witchery at the truth behind them.
These people loved him.
“You’re impressed,” Iseult said, her cloak’s hood pulled low so that no one could see the pallor of her skin, the pitch of her hair. She was walking slowly, breathing heavily on Safi’s arm, but she seemed determined to make it all the way to Yoris’s base before she acknowledged any sort of pain or exhaustion.
“Your Threads are bright enough to give sight to a blind man,” Iseult continued. “Do you mind reining it in? I might get the wrong idea.”
“The wrong idea?” Safi snorted. “In what way? Aren’t you impressed?” Safi jerked her chin toward a gnarled grandma in the doorway of a windowless lean-to. “That woman is actually sobbing at the sight of her prince.”
“That baby’s crying too.” Iseult waved to a wide-hipped woman who held a toddler at her hip. “Clearly the youths of Nubrevna adore their prince.”
“Ha-ha,” Safi said dryly. “I’m serious, Iseult. Did you ever see people react like this to the Guildmasters in Dalmotti? Because I didn’t. And the people in Praga certainly never fawned over their Cartorran doms and domnas.” She shook her head, pushing aside thoughts of her own estate, where no one had ever—ever—looked at Uncle Eron in this way.
Or at Safi. Her whole life, she’d told herself she didn’t care. That she didn’t want the villagers or farmers to like her—or even notice her. So what if they blamed Safi for her drunken uncle, as if she were supposed to stop his debauchery somehow.
Yet seeing how the people of the Nihar lands felt about Merik—seeing a devotion like she’d never had … Perhaps there was something to be said for investing yourself in your people.
Of course, Safi had no people anymore. Returning to Cartorra would be suicide—or at least guaranteed enslavement as Henrick’s personal Truthwitch.
Since Merik was lingering at the garden, a knot of admirers gathering around, Safi let her own feet slow to a stop.
Iseult wheezed a tired, grateful sigh beside her and angled toward the river. “They’re building a mill over there.”
Sure enough, across the rapids men shouted and towed, hammered and heaved at the frame of a new structure. They were dressed like the soldiers from earlier, and behind them, pines—living pines—swayed on the breeze.
“They look like more of Yoris’s men,” Safi said, heel drumming on the dirt. “It seems like a lot of them, doesn’t it? There were at least twenty to corner us this morning—and those were just the ones stationed near the cove. There are even more here.” She motioned to two soldiers now stamping across the bridge. “They can’t all be men at arms from the Nihar estate. Even when my parents were alive and the Hasstrel lands were in top shape, Habim said there were never more than fifty men.”
“We’re right on the border with Dalmotti.” Iseult scratched her chin thoughtfully. “Which makes this prime fighting territory.”
Safi nodded slowly. “And since it’s already crippled, then it’s the perfect battleground for when the war resumes.”
“Resumes?” Iseult shot a narrow-eyed glance at Safi. “Do you know for certain that the Truce won’t be extended?”
“No … but I’m pretty sure.” Absently, Safi watched a dog trot by the construction site. It had something small and furry in its mouth—and looked immensely pleased by its catch. “When I was in Veñaza City,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “Uncle Eron said that war was coming, but that he hoped to stop it. And Mathew mentioned something about the Truce dissolving early.”
�
��But why have the Truce Summit if no one plans to negotiate peace?”
“I’m not sure—though I do know Henrick wanted to use the Summit as a stage for announcing my … betrothal.” Safi could barely choke out that word. “And that announcement threw a kink in Uncle Eron’s plan.”
“Hmmm.” Iseult’s cloak rustled as she shifted her weight. “Well, since the Marstoks know you’re with Prince Merik, then Emperor Henrick must know too. I would think that means both empires might show up here at any moment.”
The hair on Safi’s arms sprang up. “Good point,” she murmured, and there was no ignoring the sandstone grit of fear along her spine—nor the certainty in her gut that Cartorra and Marstok would show up here.
And that they wouldn’t care at all about breaking the Truce if it meant getting their hands on a Truthwitch.
* * *
“We need to hurry,” Safi told Merik as he bowed over a map of the Hundred Isles. They stood several paces apart in a windowed cabin similar to Merik’s on the Jana—except that everything was upside down. The walls curved inward instead of out, and the door hung a foot off the floor, requiring a long-legged step to climb through.
After Safi had urged Merik and Yoris to move faster through Noden’s Gift—Merik could greet his people later—Yoris had guided everyone to the galleon, where even Iseult had mustered a grin at the sight.
The ship rested on its quarterdeck while support had been added beneath the forecastle to allow the galleon to lay flat. An open passage ran through the ship’s middle, the main deck now a ceiling. Ladders slung down to allow access to the hold, and a rough set of stairs had been built up to what had once been the captain’s cabin.
While Yoris had grudgingly taken Evrane and Iseult to get food, Safi had followed Merik into the captain’s cabin and over to a table of charts—also like the one on the Jana—at the center of the room. There was no glass in the windows now, but the open slats of the shutters let the sound of everyday bustle slide through—as well as a welcome breeze. The ship was thick-walled, the midmorning heat oppressive, and Safi found herself wiping away more sweat indoors than she had outside. Even fussy Merik had his jacket off and shirtsleeves rolled up.
“The Cartorrans likely follow me,” Safi said, when Merik refused to look up from his careful scrutiny of the map. She planted her hands on the table. “We need to leave for Lejna as soon as possible, Prince. How far is it?”
“A full day if we stop for the night.”
“Then let’s not stop.”
Merik’s jaw clenched, and he finally fixed his gaze on Safi. “We have no choice, Domna. Yoris can only spare two horses, which means if Iseult joins—”
“Which she absolutely will.”
“—and Evrane joins us too, which I’m certain she’ll do, then we’ll have to ride two people per horse. And that means we’ll need to stop for the night so our steeds can rest. Besides, no one can find the Nihar cove, so no one will be able to go ashore anywhere near us.” Merik snagged his jacket off a nearby stool and rummaged inside before pulling out a familiar document—now flattened and creased.
With infuriating slowness, he unfolded the document beside the map. Then he snagged a piece of dry bread from a bowl at the center of the table and took off a fat, mocking bite.
Safi bristled. “I suppose you’re still mad at me.”
Merik’s only response was to chew faster and stare harder at the map and contract.
“I deserve it,” she added, dragging a step closer and thrusting away her temper’s desire for ignition. Now was her chance to talk to Merik alone—to finally apologize for … for everything. He couldn’t flee and there was no one to interrupt. “I made a mistake,” she added, hoping her expression looked as sincere as it felt.
Merik gulped back a glass of water and wiped his mouth in a most un-Merik-like way. Then he finally hauled his gaze to Safi. “A ‘mistake’ makes it sound like it was an accident, Domna. What you did to my crew and my first mate was calculated malice.”
“Calculated what?” Indignation towed at Safi’s jaw. “That’s not true, Prince. I never meant to endanger Kullen or your men—and my power says that you don’t even believe what you’re saying.”
That shut him up—although his nostrils did stay flared and Safi thought he might choke if he guzzled his water any faster.
She scooted around the stool that held his jacket.
He immediately stepped away two feet. The chart and agreement rustled over the wood.
Safi thrust out her chin, and this time she advanced three more steps—right up to his side.
And with a harsh exhale, he stomped all the way around to the opposite side of the table.
“Really?” she cried. “Am I that awful to be around?”
“You are.”
“I just want to look at the agreement!” She tossed her hands high. “Shouldn’t I know what my uncle expects from you? Expects from me?”
Merik’s posture turned stony, but at last he offered a resigned sigh—and when Safi strode around the table, he stayed firmly in place. Though his shoulders did rise to his ears, and Safi didn’t think she imagined how quickly his breaths came.
“Relax,” she muttered, bowing over the contract. “I’m not going to bite.”
“Has the feral lion been tamed, then?”
“Look at that,” Safi purred, sharing her most feline sideways grin. “It has a sense of humor.”
“Look at that,” he retorted, “it’s trying to change the subject.” He dug a pointed finger into the agreement. “Read the cursed contract, Domna, and go away.”
Her smile sank into a glare and she bent down, resting her elbows on the table and pretending as if this was the very first time she’d ever read the agreement.
Except, it was a different read-through this time. The language of the contract was unchanged, yet the way Safi felt about it, the way it gnawed at her stomach …
All negotiations on page two of this contract will terminate should Merik Nihar fail to bring the passenger to Lejna, should the passenger spill any blood, or should the passenger die.
Her knee started juddering. She had been so close to spilling blood—or dying—when she’d fought the sea fox. And though she’d do it all again for Iseult, she could have done it differently. Safi could have considered the risks first and thought outside of herself.
But what Safi really hated—what made her itch to draw knives and eviscerate something—was that Uncle Eron had put this requirement in the contract at all.
She swallowed, rage scalding the back of her throat. “My uncle is a real horse’s ass. Spilling blood is ridiculous and could happen from a paper cut. He knows that, and I’m sure he added this on purpose. I’m sorry.”
The room’s sweltering air burned hotter. It practically shimmered with Safi’s apology, and for several long heartbeats, Merik regarded her.
Then a smile brushed over his lips. “I don’t think you’re apologizing for your uncle right now. At least not entirely.”
Safi bit her lip and held his gaze. She wanted him to see what she felt. She needed him to read the regret in her eyes.
His smile crooked higher and with a nod that could almost be interpreted as an acceptance of her apology, he turned back to the contract. “Your uncle simply wants you unharmed. He was quite emphatic on that point, and it’s only natural that he’d be particular about his niece’s health.”
“My uncle,” she said, twirling a careless hand, “would deem me in perfect health even if I’d been stabbed four times and pegged with a hundred arrows. You could probably maim me, Prince, and my uncle wouldn’t bat an eye.”
Merik snorted. “Let’s not try it, all right?” With a sigh, he slanted inward until his left arm rested almost against Safi’s. Until the smell of him expanded in her nose. Saltwater, sweat, and sandalwood.
It wasn’t terribly unpleasant. Not to mention she found she couldn’t look away from his exposed wrists—easily twice the size of hers—or the fi
ne hairs on his forearms.
“What about,” Merik asked softly, carefully, “your betrothed? How would Emperor Henrick feel if you were pegged with a hundred arrows?”
In less than a blink, Safi’s blood hit a boil in her ears. Why was Merik asking her about Henrick? And why did she feel like the fate of the world rested on the answer?
When at last she attempted to speak, her voice was taut as a bowstring. “Henrick isn’t my betrothed. I can’t accept that. I won’t. One moment, I was dancing with you at the ball, and the next…” She gave a harsh laugh. “The next moment, Emperor Henrick was declaring me his future bride.”
Merik’s breath expelled roughly. “You mean you didn’t know before then?”
She shook her head, avoiding Merik’s eyes—though she felt them sear into her. “I didn’t know my uncle would stage this wild escape either. He had mentioned big plans, but never in a million years could I have guessed that I’d be stolen from Veñaza City, hunted by a Bloodwitch, and forced onto your ship. It has been a huge, endless cascade of surprises. At least, though, it keeps me out of Henrick’s clutches.” She gave another tense laugh and tried to lean forward, to pretend to examine the map. But seconds slid past without her absorbing a single river or road. It was as if the power in the room was shifting—tumbling out of her hands and into Merik’s.
Then Merik reached across the map to tap at a snaking line of blue. His arm brushed hers.
It was a seemingly accidental touch, yet Safi knew—knew—from the way Merik moved, confident and determined, that it wasn’t accidental at all.
“We’ll set up camp here,” he said. “Yoris said this stream is clean.”
Safi nodded—or tried to. Her heart was stuck somewhere in her throat, and it made her movements jerky. Frantic, even, and she couldn’t seem to meet his stare. In fact, she stared at every part of his face but his eyes.
He had stubble on his chin, on his jaw, and around the curve of his lips. The triangle between his brows was creased in, but not with a frown. With concentration. It was the hollow of Merik’s throat, though, that grabbed her attention—the pulse that she thought she saw fluttering there.
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