Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

Vivia as queen. Vivia as admiral. Vivia sending Nubrevnans like lambs to the slaughter. The farmers and the soldiers, the merchants and the miners, the shepherds and the bakers—they would die on Cartorran swords or in Marstoki flames. All while Vivia watched on.

And Merik’s one solution—rebuilding trade and proving to Vivia that there were peaceful ways to keep Nubrevnans fed … That plan had failed.

The worst of it, though, was that even if he refused to help Vivia in this piracy endeavor, Merik knew she would find another way. Somehow, she would hoist the Fox flag—and somehow, she would condemn all of their homeland to Noden’s Hell.

In the momentary pause while Merik struggled for some solution out of this nightmare, a knock sounded at the cabin door.

Ryber, the ship’s girl and Kullen’s Heart-Thread, poked her head in. “Admiral? I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but it’s urgent. There’s a man here to see you. He says his name is fon…” Her dark face scrunched up. “Fon Hasstrel—that was it. From Cartorra. And he wants to discuss possible trade with you.”

Merik felt his jaw drop. Trade … with Cartorra. It seemed impossible, yet Ryber’s earnest expression wasn’t changing.

Noden Himself was interfering on Merik’s behalf—and He did so right when Merik needed it most.

Merik wouldn’t ignore a gift like that, so he rounded back to Hermin. “Vivia,” he barked, “I’ll help you, but on one condition.”

“I’m listening.”

“If I can negotiate a single line of trade for Nubrevna, then you’ll stop your piracy. Immediately.”

A pause. Then a slow, “Perhaps, Merry. If you do somehow establish trade, I’ll … consider lowering the Fox flag. Now tell me: Where is the Dalmotti miniature right now?”

Merik couldn’t keep from smiling—a sly thing—as he glanced at the map. The miniature was just leaving the marshy edge of the Veñaza City bay.

“It hasn’t set sail,” he declared, something buoyant and hopeful rising in his chest. “But I’ll inform you the instant that it does. Hermin”—Merik clapped his hands on the Voicewitch’s shoulder. The old sailor flinched—“You can end the call now. And Ryber?” Merik flung his gaze at the door, smiling all the wider. “Bring in this fon Hasstrel man right away.”

* * *

After washing, Safi followed an unfamiliar coffee-haired maid back to her room, where the woman dressed her in the silvery white gown that Mathew had chosen. Then the maid coaxed Safi’s hair into a series of hanging curls that draped and bounced and glistened in the sunset.

It was strange being dressed and doted upon—Safi hadn’t experienced it in over seven years. Uncle Eron could never afford more than a handful of servants on the Hasstrel estate, so the only time a maid had served Safi had been during the annual trips to Praga.

Uncle Eron might have been a disgraced Hell-Bard, stripped of rank for only the gods knew why—and then appointed as a temporary dom until Safi was deemed fit to take over—but he still paid his tithes exactly as Henrick demanded. Every year, Eron and Safi had gone to the Cartorran capital to hand over their meager funds and swear fealty to Emperor Henrick.

And every year, it had been awful.

Safi had always been taller than the boys, always stronger, while the other girls had always whispered about Safi’s sloshed uncle and snickered at her ancient gowns.

Yet it wasn’t the shame that made the trips miserable. It was the fear.

Fear of the Hell-Bards. Fear that they would see Safi for the heretic she was—for the Truthwitch she was.

In fact, were it not for Prince Leopold—or Polly, as Safi had always called him—taking her under his wing each time she visited, she felt certain the Hell-Bards would have caught her by now. It was the job of the Hell-Bard Brigade, after all, to sniff out unmarked hereitcs.

And by order of the crown, they were allowed to behead those heretics if they seemed dangerous or unwilling to cooperate.

Polly will probably be there tonight, Safi thought as she scrutinized herself in a narrow mirror beside the bed. It had been eight years since she’d last snuck off with him to explore the sprawling imperial library. She couldn’t imagine how his long pale lashes and flopping golden curls would translate into a twenty-one-year-old man.

Safi certainly looked different, and this pale gown accentuated it. The tight bodice emphasized the strength of her waist and abdomen. The fitted long sleeves showed off her corded arms, the tight bodice emphasized what few curves she possessed, and the flowing skirts softened her hips into a feminine roundness. The dangling braids brought out the curves of her jaw. The brightness of her eyes.

Guildmaster Alix and his staff had truly outdone themselves this time.

Once the maid had left—after laying a stunning white cape across the bed—Safi darted for her satchel and yanked out Iseult’s Carawen book. Then she strode to the window, where the canals glowed like flames beneath a setting sun.

Gauzy pink light filtered across the book’s blue cover, and when Safi creaked it back, the pages whispered open to page thirty-seven. A bronze winged lion glimmered up at her, marking the last page Iseult had been reading.

Safi quickly scanned the text—a listing of Carawen monk divisions.

The bedroom door burst wide. Safi had just enough time to stuff the book back into the satchel before her uncle marched into the room.

Dom Eron fon Hasstrel was a tall man—muscled and hard-boned like Safi. Yet unlike Safi, his wheat hair blended into silvery gray and he wore purple bags beneath bloodshot eyes. For all that he’d been a soldier, he was nothing but a drunk now.