Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

Merik slowed—though not by much. So Safi took it upon herself to shorten her stride. Once Merik realized everyone was flagging, he would have no choice but to lag as well.

Soon, Safi’s thighs burned, her ankles stretching as the path rose. “There was an Origin Well on my family’s lands,” she offered once she felt certain Iseult was having no difficulty with the incline. “It wasn’t alive, though.”

“No,” Evrane said. “It wouldn’t have been—there are only two intact Wells left. Of the five, only the Aether Well at the Carawen Monastery and the Fire Well in Azmir still live. Their springs flow, the trees blossom year-round, and the waters can heal you. Though they say—”

“Stairs coming,” Merik barked.

“—that if the Cahr Awen were to return, the other Wells would regain their powers and the springs would flow once more.”

As Safi squinted to see the slick steps that Merik now vaulted up, she tried to recall the stories from her childhood. “How many Cahr Awens were there before the last pair died?”

“We estimate at least ninety,” Evrane said, “but we only have Memory Records for forty pairs.”

“Records,” Merik inserted dismissively, “don’t make them real.”

“Memory Records,” Evrane countered, “make them inarguably real. A Sightwitch Sister transferred the memories directly from the Cahr Awens’ corpses.”

“Unless those Memory Records were faked, Aunt Evrane. Now, if you are done lecturing, we have to be quiet from here on.”

“But there’s nowhere else to go,” Safi said. Thirty steps ahead, lit by a weak beam of sunlight, there was nothing but flat wall. “Good job, Prince.”

He didn’t rise to her jab, so Safi tiptoed behind until she and Merik had both reached the wall—until Merik was finally addressing her, the sun showing only the faintest lines of his face.

“We have to push together,” he whispered, leaning his shoulder against the wall, a hand pressing flat. Safi mimicked his pose with her other shoulder.

“One,” Merik mouthed. “Two … Three.”

Safi pushed. Merik pushed. Then they pushed harder. And then harder again and Safi hissed, “Nothing’s happening!” Of course, as soon as the not-very-quiet words left her mouth, the wall lurched forward in a rush of air and sound.

And Safi toppled into a world of dead trees and pale soil. Merik fell too, but the idiot tried to catch himself—tried to grab hold of the swinging rock-door, which just swung him around so that he fell on his back.

Safi fell on top of him, chests colliding. Merik oomphed—as did she—and emitted a pained moan.

“What?” she demanded, trying to push off of him. Her hand was stuck beneath him and each yank jostled her body against his.

Heat flamed through her. She’d been close to Merik yesterday—during their brawl—yet this felt … different. She was all too aware of Merik’s shape. Of the angle of his hip bones and the muscles in his back—muscles that her fingers insisted on digging into. By accident. Completely by accident.

Safi was also keenly aware of Evrane laughing and Iseult gawping in a most un-Threadwitch way. But before Safi could order them to help, Merik rolled up his head, and his stomach clenched against hers. “Get. Off. Me.”

His growl rumbled through Safi’s rib cage, yet she had no chance to snarl back, for Evrane’s chuckles broke off—and the sound of creaking wood reverberated through the clearing.

Twenty arrowheads peeked out from behind the sun-bleached pines as Iseult murmured, “Oh, Safi. He did say to be quiet.”

THIRTY

Merik had expected the soldiers with bows—he really had. What he hadn’t expected was that it would take so long for their leader, Master Huntsman Yoris, to call them off.

Or that Safiya fon Hasstrel would be on top of him while he waited.

Iseult and Evrane—his aunt’s hood pulled low—stood with their backs against the cave and their hands up, and Merik did everything he could to pretend he wasn’t pinned beneath Safiya. That his legs were not twined in hers, that his chest was not heaving against her much softer chest, and that those were not her nails scratching at his back or her storm blue eyes mere inches away.

It was her eyes that always did it—that pulled the rage to the surface. But he wouldn’t let his magic loose, no matter how much it ached for release. No matter how much he wanted to flip Safiya over and …

Noden save him.

A groan stirred in the back of Merik’s throat, and he prayed the earth would swallow him whole.

Safiya mistook his distress for laughter. “Do you think this is funny? Because I’m not laughing, Prince.”

“Nor am I,” he answered. “And I told you to be quiet.”

“No, you told me to push. Which I did—except that you fell. Where was your wonderful Windwitchery then?”

“I must’ve left it onboard the Jana.” Abdomen tightening, he lifted his face close to hers. “Right next to my patience for your constant harping.” As long as he stayed angry, he wouldn’t have to think about the shape of her mouth. The weight of her hips pressing into his.

Her eyes thinned. “If you think this is harping, you’re in for quite a treat—”

“Your Highness?” a voice boomed. “Is that the royal son of Nubrevna I see cozying up to a lady? Lower your weapons, boys.” As one, the arrows in the forest dropped. Merik immediately shoved Safiya off him and scrambled to his feet.