Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

“If I’m going to be anything feral, it’ll be a cat.” Safi bared her teeth. “A mountain lion, of the Nubrevnan fish-eating variety.”

“Hmm.” Merik tapped his chin. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of such a beast.”

“Then I suppose I am the first.” Safi waved dismissively at him before dropping back to Iseult’s side.

But Evrane lifted a halting hand. “You are too dirty to be here, Domna.” Her voice was husky, yet not unkind. “If you really want to help your friend, then you will get cleaned. Merik, will you see that she is taken care of?” She glanced at her nephew—who was already aiming for the doorway.

“It’s Admiral Nihar,” the prince corrected. “At least while we’re at sea, Aunt Evrane.”

“Is that so?” the monk asked calmly. “In that case, it is Monk Evrane. At least while we are at sea.”

Safi had just enough time to see Merik’s expression turn sour before the prince was out the door—and Safi was scrambling after him.

* * *

Climbing the ladder topside proved harder than Safi anticipated—what with her body sore and the relentless onslaught of an early morning sun. Hissing and rubbing her eyes, she stumbled across the stone-scoured deck. Her legs were numb from disuse, and as soon as she got a solid grip on the wood, the ship would groan and heave the other way.

The prince walked just ahead, deep in conversation with his first mate, Kullen, so Safi angled a hand over her eyes. Learn your terrain. There was little to see beyond rolling waves—only the eastern horizon had a craggy spit of land separating the sea from a cloudless sky.

Safi scooted around sailors. They scrubbed the wood, scurried up the riggings, heaved and towed—all to the hoarse bellows of a limping older man. Though some stopped to salute their prince, not all of them paused. One man in particular caught Safi’s attention, her witchery curdling at the sight of him—as if to say he was untrustworthy. Corrupt.

“’Matsi-loving smut,” the man snarled as Safi passed.

She grinned at him in return, making absolutely certain to memorize his square-jawed face.

Soon she had stumbled to the ship’s stern (she counted thirty paces) and stepped into the welcome shadow of the quarterdeck. Merik opened a door, murmuring something to Kullen. Then the first mate saluted and marched back the way he’d come—his voice rising with surprising ferocity. “Did I say you could take a caulk, Leeri? No naps until you’re dead!”

With her ears ringing from Kullen’s roar and her vision blanketed by the loss of sunlight, Safi paused at the doorway until the room took shape.

It was an elegant cabin and not at all the sort of space she would’ve imagined for a rugged man like Merik. In fact, he seemed rigid and uncomfortable as he waited beside an intricately carved table with high-backed chairs.

“Shut the door,” he ordered. Safi did, but tensed her muscles. She might have danced and fought with this man, but that didn’t mean she trusted him in a room alone.

False, countered her power, a sense of calm winding through her chest. Merik is safe.

Safi relaxed … but only slightly. Perhaps he meant her no physical harm, but she still didn’t know if he was ally or opponent.

Merik pointed vaguely to the back of the room. “There is water for cleaning and a uniform for you.”

Safi followed his finger to a collection of shiny swords on the back wall. Beneath the swords sat a small barrel and some white towels upon a low bed.

She didn’t care about the water or the towels—it was the swords she found intriguing. They were strapped down, yet clearly easy to snap free. Though only if she found she needed one, of course.

Merik seemed to misinterpret Safi’s stare, for his expression softened. “My aunt is a good healer. She will help your Threadsister.”

True. “What about you, though, Prince? Will you kill Iseult for being Nomatsi?”

Merik’s lips bounced open—with shock. With revulsion. “If I hated Nomatsis, Domna, then I would have killed her on sight.”

“What of your men?” Safi pressed. “Will they hurt Iseult?”

“They follow my orders,” he answered.

But Safi didn’t like how her magic winced at that statement. As if it were not quite true. Her foot started tapping. Her bare foot. “Do I get new shoes?”

“I haven’t found any that will fit you.” Merik smoothed at his shirt, pulling cotton against the lines of his chest. “For the time being, you will go barefoot. Will you survive?”

“Yes.” Habim had insisted Safi toughen her feet against the elements. You never know in what condition you’ll find yourself, he always said. Shoes should be a luxury, not a requirement. At least once a month he’d insisted that Safi and Iseult go barefoot for a whole day, and both girls had enough callouses to walk across hot coals. Or … at least very hot sand.

Merik grunted, almost gratefully, and gestured for Safi to join him at the table. She did, though she made sure to stay on the opposite side. Within bolting distance for the swords—just in case the world suddenly went to goat tits (as it had been inclined to do lately) and Safi had to fight her way through the entire ship.

“The Jana is here.” Merik plunked a coin-size replica of the Jana on the map. Like a magnet to a lodestone, the boat slithered over the paper and locked in place near the eastern coast of the narrow Jadansi Sea.

“We are going here.” Merik twirled his fingers—graceful fingers, despite their roughness—and a soft breeze puffed into the miniature Jana’s sails. It slipped over the map, scooting past another tiny vessel before stopping beside a series of islands. “There is a town in the Hundred Isles called Lejna, and I am charged with leaving you there. We should arrive tomorrow.”