Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

Safi’s laugh burst out, overloud, and Iseult’s eyelids briefly popped wide. Safi’s Threads were hysterically white.

But, ah, Evrane was smiling. That was nice. It warmed Iseult’s heart ever so slightly.

Iseult felt the woman’s hand rest upon her brow. A heartbeat passed, and despite the squeaking of the ship’s wood, Evrane’s magic quickly towed Iseult beneath sleeping waves.

TWENTY-FOUR

When Merik stepped onto the main deck to send Kullen after Vivia—and to send the Jana surging behind—he found a haze of purple clouds bruising the evening sky.

Rain would come eventually, but for now, the air was thick and still. The sort of breezeless calm that left witch-less ships stranded.

As Merik’s crew had done the night before, the sailors of the Jana were organized in rows across the deck—all except Ryber, who stood beside the wind-drum, her gaze anchored on Kullen at the ship’s bow.

Merik stifled a sigh at seeing Ryber like that. He’d have to remind her to keep such open regard masked. He knew what she and Kullen shared, but the rest of the men didn’t—and couldn’t. Not if Ryber wanted to stay stationed on this ship and in Merik’s crew.

Merik marched to the quarterdeck to gaze over his men. Unlike the night before, there was no need for silence. So Merik forced a grin—one like he used to flash when it was just he and his tiny crew sailing the soil-bound waters of Nubrevna. “Give us a song to sail by,” he roared. “How about the ‘Ol’ Ailen’ to start?”

The ‘Ol’ Ailen’ was a favorite, and several of the sailors matched Merik’s smile as he strode to the wind-drum and accepted the unmagicked mallet from Ryber. Neither she nor any of the crew knew what they sailed toward, and as much as Merik would like to think they would oppose Vivia’s piracy, he wasn’t entirely sure.

Merik hammered the drum four times and, on the fifth beat, the men of the Jana began to sing.

“Fourteen days did they fight the sto-orm,

Fourteen days did they brave the wind!

Fourteen days without oceans calm,

Saw the men of the ol’ Ailen.

Hey!

Thirteen days did they pitch and ya-aw,

Thirteen days did they pray for end!

Thirteen days of sailing on,

Saw the men of the ol’ Ailen.”

As the crew’s salt-rusted voices blended into the third verse, Merik handed the mallet to Ryber and moved into position beside the three Tidewitches. Kullen chose that moment to launch himself off the deck, wind roaring in his wake. He was soon nothing but a speck on the horizon.

The youngest of the Tidewitches offered Merik wind-spectacles, and once Merik had them strapped on—and once the world had become a bubbled, warped place—he barked, “Gather your waters, men!”

As one, the Tidewitches’ chests expanded. Merik’s too, and with his inhale came the familiar power. No rage sparked beneath it. Merik felt as calm as a tidepool. Then Merik and the Tidewitches exhaled. Wind swirled around Merik’s legs. Waves rippled inward toward the ship.

“Prepare Tides!” Merik bellowed, and the elemental charge inside him eased out, ignited the air around him.

“Make way!”

In a great suction of power, the magic left Merik’s body. A boiling, dry wind gusted over the ship. Snapped into the sails.

At the same moment, the Tidewitches’ waters thrust against the Jana’s waterline and the ship lurched forward. Merik’s knees wobbled, and he was struck by how much more smoothly these launches went with Kullen in control.

“Nine days of a sea fox chasin’,

Nine days of tooth and fin!

Nine days of jaws a-snappin’,

Saw the men of the ol’ Ailen.

Hey!”

Merik fell into the rhythm of the shanty and the beat of the wind-drum. The power pulsed through him, strangely smooth—uncommonly vast. For once in his life, he felt as if he had more magic than he knew what to do with, and as the Tidewitches sang softly, Merik’s winds filled the Jana’s sails. Soon, he lifted his voice in song.

“Four days without fresh water,

Four days with none to drink!

Four days of salt and hot air,

Saw the men of the ol’ Ailen.”

The shanty soon ended, but Ryber kept pounding the drum and hollered, “‘The Maidens North of Lovats!’”—which Merik knew was her favorite song, since she was a maiden from north of Lovats.

Four beats later, the chorus of sailors resumed, and onward the Jana moved, cutting the seas like a needle through sailcloth and never losing sight of Kullen’s small shape.

Until Kullen wasn’t small anymore—until he was zooming in so fast that Merik thought they would collide.

Kullen slowed, slowed and then toppled onto the deck, sailors scattering from his path.

“It isn’t a Dalmotti ship!” he roared, straggling to his feet. Then he was racing to the tiller to Merik, his face violently red. “Vivia has already attacked and it’s not a trade ship at all.”

Merik blinked stupidly at those words. They were incomprehensible—gibberish beneath the blood now rushing into his skull. “Not a trade ship?”

“No,” Kullen panted. “It’s a Marstoki naval galleon, and it’s carrying weapons and Firewitches.”

* * *

Safi stared out the window at lavender skies and peaceful seas. Ever since Evrane had stormed into the cabin, snarling about “Vivia, that bitch,” Safi had stretched her chains and moored her attention to the glass. The terrain was changing shape before her eyes—possibly her opponents too. Merik had mentioned fighting, and Safi could only assume they sailed straight for it.