Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

Safi grabbed Merik’s shoulder, yanked him to a stop. “There.” She pointed south, to where Merik could barely discern gray waves from gray clouds.

He rooted out his spyglass, scanned the water … until he caught sight of the lights—he’d thought them part of the storm, but no. The image sharpened into a Nubrevnan warship. The Jana, with her lanterns and mirrors illuminating the water ahead. The white sails ballooned—Windwitched by Kullen.

The wind-drum pounded on and on, far too loud for such a distance, meaning Ryber used the magicked mallet and had the drum aimed for shore. For Merik.

Kullen was calling him.

So Merik inhaled deeply and gathered his wind. It charged up his skin, burned into his body. “Step back,” he warned Safi. He would need to aim this wind-flourish perfectly—need to hit that tiny speck on the horizon so his crew would know where he was.

He reared back both arms … Then Merik loosed his air. A great funnel of wind erupted outward across the waves.

And Merik waited. Waited and watched with Safi at his side. He was grateful she was there. Her squared shoulders and fearless gaze kept him from thinking too hard. From leaping off the cliff and flying straightaway to his Threadbrother …

The wind-drum stopped, and Merik readied himself for whatever message Kullen would send. When it finally came though—when the combination of beats and pauses finally thrummed into Merik’s ears—he found his teeth grinding and fury rising.

“What is it?” Safi asked, clutching his arm.

“The Bloodwitch follows,” he croaked.

Safi’s grip tightened on his arm. “We’ll go back to Noden’s Gift—”

“Except he follows us from behind. And the Marstoks sail to Lejna—ahead of us.” At those words, Merik’s rage flamed into being—real anger, that sent him stalking away two steps.

He had to keep this fury contained, though, for it wasn’t with Safi that he was angry. It was these thrice-damned circumstances that were out of his thrice-damned control. How did the Marstoks even know where Merik was headed?

“I’ll fly to the Jana,” he said at last, his chest boiling. “You, Iseult, and Evrane can ride east. To Lejna. As fast as the horses will go.”

“Why not fly us to the Jana and sail to Lejna?”

“Because the Marstoks will reach Lejna first, and Kullen isn’t strong enough to fight them. He shouldn’t even be sailing.” Merik threw a terrified glance to sea. To the Jana.

Cursed fool of a Threadbrother.

“Our best chance is to catch up to the Marstoks,” he continued. “If Kullen and I can at least distract them, then you might still be able to reach Lejna by land. Go to the seventh pier, and then get the Hell out of there.”

“How will you find us? After … after that?”

“The alert-stone. Evrane can ignite it, and I’ll see its light from sea.” In two long steps, Merik was to Safi. “Ride east, and I’ll find you. Soon.”

Safi shook her head, a sluggish side to side. “I don’t like this.”

“Please,” Merik said. “Please don’t argue. This is the best plan—”

“It’s not that,” she cut in. “I just … I have a feeling I’ll never see you again.”

Merik’s chest split open, and for half a second, he was at a loss for words. Then Merik cupped her face and kissed her. Soft. Short. Simple.

She broke the kiss first, biting her lip as she reached for Merik’s shirttails. She tucked in the edges, smoothed the cotton front. “I lied to you, you know. You aren’t the last person I’d choose.”

“No?”

“No.” She grinned, a mischievous flash of teeth. “You’re the second to last. Maybe third.”

Laughter swelled in Merik’s stomach. Up his throat. But before he could summon a worthy retort, Safi glided back and said, “Safe harbors, Merik.”

So he simply replied, “Safe harbors,” before walking to the cliff. Then Merik Nihar stepped off the edge and flew.

* * *

Safi did not watch Merik go. The need for haste spurred her to action—as did the all-too-fresh memory of the Bloodwitch. The way he’d locked her in place … The way his eyes had swirled with red.

It lifted the hairs on Safi’s arms. Sent fingers walking down her spine.

Safi wove through the forest, accelerating … accelerating until she jogged, until she sprinted. Fern tendrils lashed her arms, spores tumbled down. To think she and Merik had only just rushed through this same jungle.

Safi stumbled into camp to find it already struck and the horses saddled. Evrane was roping the bedrolls to the saddlebags and Iseult was adjusting the girdle on the roan. The horses tossed their heads—ready to ride, despite their long journey from the day before.

At the crunch of Safi’s boots, Iseult’s attention whipped to Safi.

“Leaving … without me?” Safi panted.

“We heard the drums,” Iseult explained, tack jingling as she tugged the girdle tighter. “Evrane told me what the message said.”

“But where is Merik?” Evrane asked, moving away from the mare’s saddlebag. Her cloak was in her hand, her baldric cinched tight to her chest.

“He flew to the Jana,” Safi said. “He’ll try to head off the Marstoks.”

Iseult gave the slightest frown. “We aren’t riding north, then? We aren’t going to flee?”