Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

As with the Paladin of Foxes, the image was nothing like any Witch card Safi had seen.

Ryber tapped the card back into her deck, and Safi returned her gaze to the sailors. One young man had caught her eye, his face sweaty and painfully red—and his skill with a cutlass nonexistent.

In the time it took Safi to crack all of her knuckles, he was disarmed twice by his opponent. The worst of it was that his opponent was not only nearing the age of retirement, but had a crippled leg too.

If Safi needed a cutlass any time soon, then this boy’s was the one to nab. “Your crew,” Safi said, tilting back to catch a fresh scampering of wind, “seems divided. Some can fight, but most can’t.”

Ryber sighed, an acknowledging sound. “We haven’t had much experience. The good ones”—she pointed to the old man with the limp—“fought in the War.”

“Isn’t it your first mate’s duty to make sure you improve?” Safi squinted at the tiller. Wind sent Kullen’s pale hair flying, and he still muttered alongside the other witches. Merik, however, was no longer there. “The mate isn’t even watching the drills.”

“’Cause he’s sailing us. Normally he does push us.”

Something about the defensive way Ryber spoke made Safi inspect the girl more closely. Despite her boyish figure and decidedly unflattering braids, Ryber wasn’t a homely girl. In fact, now that Safi was looking closely, she realized Ryber’s eyes were a brilliant silver. Not gray, but true, shimmery silver.

The First Mate would have to be blind not to fall in love with those eyes.

“So you’re together,” Safi prodded.

“No,” Ryber said quickly—much too quickly. “He’s a good first mate is all. Fair and smart.”

The lie fretted down Safi’s skin, and she had to bite back a smile as she slid her attention to Kullen. All she saw was an enormous man with a powerful witchery—a man who could all too easily take Safi down. Yet perhaps there was more behind his icy exterior.

Ryber heaved a long sigh and plied another card from her deck. The Paladin of Hounds. She stared at the hound-like serpent, also wrapped around a sword, and there was an emptiness in her eyes that spoke of things best forgotten. But then her gaze settled on Kullen; the lines on her face relaxed.

Ryber and the first mate were together, and it was more than just a dalliance. It was serious and it ran deep.

True.

Safi’s lips pursed. She and Ryber seemed to be around the same age, yet here was something Safi knew little about. She’d had romances in Veñaza City. Flirtations with young men like the Chiseled Cheater, but those encounters had always ended in quick kisses and even quicker goodbyes.

“Does the prince,” she asked absently, “have relations with anyone?” Safi tensed, instantly wishing she could snatch back those words. She didn’t know where they’d come from. “I mean, is it allowed for Prince Merik’s crew to have relations?”

“Not with each other,” Ryber answered. “Also, we’re off Nubrevnan soil, Domna. That makes the prince Admiral Nihar.”

That caught Safi’s attention, and she embraced the distraction wholeheartedly. “The prince’s title changes according to where he is?”

“Sure it does. Doesn’t yours?”

“No.” Safi bit her lip as a fresh burst of salty wind lashed behind the barrels. Rather than cool her, though, it seemed to scald—to make fresh sweat bead on her brow. But this was different heat from before—an angry heat. A frightened heat.

And she only got hotter as Ryber went on to describe how Merik’s rationing of meals had upset a lot of men and only widened the gap between those who supported Merik and those in favor of Princess Vivia. How dirty and overcrowded the capital city had become since the Great War.

The potent truth behind these stories made Safi’s ankles bounce and her fingers curl. The world that Ryber described was nothing like the one Safi had left behind. There was poverty in the Dalmotti Empire—of course there was—but there wasn’t starvation.

Perhaps … perhaps Merik did need trade—even with a cursed estate like the Hasstrels.

Just as Safi towed in her leg to stand—to return to the cabin and check on Iseult—Evrane’s voice hit her ears.

“So you will let the girl die?” Evrane’s shouts swept up from the nearby ladder. Louder than the drilling sailors. Louder than the pounding drum. “You must take us ashore!”

Ice slid down Safi’s spine. Splintered through every piece of her. She rolled onto her knees, onto her feet. Then she stood, ignoring Ryber’s whispers to stay hidden. Just as she lifted above the barrels, Merik’s dark head appeared on the ladder. He climbed deftly onto the deck, his aunt’s cloaked figure behind.

Merik strode several paces forward, head swiveling as if he searched for someone, and sailors cleared aside.

Evrane stalked to his side. “That girl needs a Firewitch healer, Merik! She will die without one!”

Merik didn’t answer—even when Evrane’s voice lifted with fury and she demanded that Merik take them ashore.

Safi’s fingers flexed. Her toes, her calves, her gut—everything tensed for action.

If Merik wasn’t willing to save Iseult’s life, then that simply confirmed he wasn’t Safi’s ally. So, contract or not, enemy sailors or not, Admiral Nihar was now Safi’s opponent and this ship was her battleground.