Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

“Lie.” Merik leaned in close, his face inches from Safi’s. “Your magic knows when I speak the truth, Domna, and I told you I never intended harm. All I want is to get food to my people. Why is that so hard for anyone?…” His voice cracked. He paused, his Threads melting from crimson rage to deep blue sadness. “I’ve lost my Tidewitches now, Domna, and the Marstoks hunt me. All I have left are my ship, my loyal sailors, and my first mate. But you almost took them away from me too.” Safi’s mouth opened as if to argue, but Merik wasn’t finished. “We could have escaped as soon as the sea foxes arrived. Instead, we almost died because you were not in your cabin like you should’ve been. I had to find you, and that left us as bait for the foxes. Your recklessness almost killed my crew.”

“But Iseult—”

“Would have been fine.” Merik dipped her back—and Safi’s posture wilted. “I planned to get your friend a Firewitch healer as soon as we hit Nubrevnan soil. You know this is true, don’t you? Your witchery must tell you so.”

Safi met Merik’s gaze. Then, Threads burning with brilliant blue regret and guilty red, she nodded. “I see it.”

Merik’s temper erupted once more. He seized Safi and ordered, “Move.”

To Iseult’s complete shock, Safi did move, her Threads melting into Merik’s and shimmering with hints of a brighter red.

Iseult’s lips parted, her foot rising to charge after Safi. To stop Merik from doing whatever it was he’d planned.

A hand clasped her wrist. “Don’t.”

She jerked her head around and found the girl with the braids shaking her head. “Don’t interfere,” she said in a hollow voice. “A few hours in the irons won’t kill her.”

“In the what?” Iseult whipped around—and nausea swelled in her stomach at the sight of Merik pushing Safi down, yanking out her legs …

And locking her ankles in straps of iron.

The enormous fetters groaned shut, locks clicked, and Safi could do nothing but stare across the ship at Iseult.

Again, Iseult lurched forward, but this time an older sailor sidestepped her. “Leave ’er there, girl. Or you’ll be locked in ’em too.”

As if to prove the point, Evrane shot forward, roaring, “You cannot do this to her, Merik! She is a Domna of Cartorra! Not a Nubrevnan!”

Merik straightened and motioned vaguely at his sailors—though his eyes stayed on his aunt. “You are a Nubrevnan, though, and your disobedience will not go unpunished either.”

Evrane’s Threads turned turquoise with surprise as two sailors jostled her to a second set of leg irons. While the sailors pushed down Evrane and tightened the manacles, Merik turned as if to walk away.

“You would resort to torturing a domna?” Evrane shouted. “You will harm her, Merik! You will ruin your own contract!”

Merik paused, glancing back at his aunt. “I resort to punishment, not torture. She knew the consequences for disobedience. And,” he added, lethally calm now, “what sort of admiral—what sort of prince—would I be if I didn’t uphold my own laws? The domna has survived a sea fox attack unscathed, so a few hours in the irons will cause no damage. But it will give her time to consider the Hell she has brought here.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Safi said, eyes on Merik. “I never meant to hurt you or Kullen or … or Nubrevna. I didn’t know about the Marstoks—I swear it, Admiral. My uncle told me no one would follow!”

Iseult’s jaw slackened as she watched on. The Threads over Safi’s—and Merik’s heads—throbbed with a harsh, urgent need. Safi’s Threads grabbed for Merik’s, and his wrapped and twined into hers.

Right before Iseult’s eyes, Safi’s Threads were changing from those that build into those that bind.

In two long steps, Merik was back to Safi’s side and crouching down. He stared hard into her eyes; she stared back.

“If not for Kullen’s magic, we would all be dead right now, and it was your impulsive disobedience that almost killed us. That cannot go unpunished. There is still a contract with your family, and one way or another, I will get you to Lejna. Then I will feed my country.”

For a heartbeat … then two, the space between Merik and Safi—the Threads burning between them—ignited into a full flaming Thread of scarlet.

But Iseult had no time to distinguish the exact shade—if it was a growing Thread of love or one of unforgiving hate—before the color was gone again and she was left wondering if she hadn’t imagined the entire thing.

* * *

It was almost funny how fast Safi went from standing upright to being locked, like a battered dog, in the irons. Stuck. Trapped. Unmoving.

And she hadn’t fought at all. She’d just given in, wondering why she was accepting these fetters so easily. Wondering when she’d lost her ability to attack. To run. If she couldn’t run properly, then what did she have left from her old life? Her happy life full of taro and coffee and daydreams.

All of her hopes for freedom had scorched away. No place of her own with Iseult. No escaping Emperor Henrick’s court or her uncle Eron’s schemes or a life as a fugitive Truthwitch.

But Iseult would live. Her wound was healed and she would live. That made it all worth it, didn’t it?

Safi watched her Threadsister, who was scrambling after Merik across the deck—pleading with him, her face blank despite the sailors recoiling from her path. Merik ignored her and climbed to the quarterdeck. He took his spot at the helm and ordered the wind-drum to resume.