Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

“Of course I haven’t changed.” Leopold shrugged gracefully. “My perfect face is all I have, and studying hard will only get you so far in Cartorra.” He flipped his un-Witchmarked hand at her. “But you, Safiya”—pause—“have changed quite a bit, haven’t you? That was a dramatic entrance you made.”

She looked away, her own cheeks heating up—but not with shame. With fury.

She’d arrived at the ball a full hour late. Twilight had already melted into moonlight because Uncle Eron had insisted on finishing an entire jug of wine before departure. Upon arrival at the Doge’s palace, though, Safi understood why: Eron’s former Hell-Bard brothers were on duty.

Four of the armored knights stood sentry in the Doge’s garden, where cypress branches whispered in the breeze and tree frogs harmonized. Two more Hell-Bards guarded the palace entrance, and the final six waited stonily behind Emperor Henrick.

Every time Safi spotted another one of the enormous, axe-wielding knights, her stomach dropped to her toes. Her fists balled up tight. Yet every time, she kept her chin high and her shoulders back.

Not that any of the Hell-Bards noticed Safi or her uncle. In fact, only one showed any reaction as they strode past—and as far as Safi could tell from beneath the steel helm that all Hell-Bards wore, he’d been young. Too young to have served with Uncle Eron.

Actually, now that Safi considered it, maybe that Hell-Bard’s bold wink in the gardens hadn’t been directed at Uncle Eron but at her.

She did look rutting gorgeous tonight.

By the time Safi and Uncle Eron had reached the entrance hall, the other doms and domnas had long since moved to the ballroom. The Emperor, however, had insisted that he and Prince Leopold wait until the final dom arrived.

When Polly spotted Safi striding toward him, he rushed in front of his uncle’s throne—as if buffering her from the Hell-Bards’ stares like he’d always done in childhood—and swept a charming bow. He even cut in when Henrick held Safi’s hand a bit too long after she knelt in fealty (gods below, she had forgotten how very toad-like the Cartorran emperor looked—and how very sweaty his grip was).

And Leopold even went so far as to escort Safi personally into the ball, and, oh, if that hadn’t caught the gossip tongues in a mousetrap. She had almost laughed at the first slack-jawed domna. It was as if everyone had forgotten how she and Leopold had conspired as children.

After the prince had directed Safi to a servant with sparkling wines, he’d pushed a flute into her hand, and then snagged one for himself before guiding her to the food.

The food!

Table after table was set up beside the window and laden with a thousand delicacies from across the three empires. Safi was determined to try every single item before the ball ended.

“A chocolate volcano,” Leopold said, pointing to a silver basin in which there appeared to be chocolate bubbles. “The one disadvantage of forbidding Firewitches in Cartorra is that”—pause—“we miss out on tricks like this.” He motioned to a servant in beige satin. The man quickly ladled out the chocolate and poured it over a bowl filled with fresh strawberries.

Safi’s eyes bugged, yet as she grabbed for the bowl, Leopold deftly snatched it away, smiling. “Allow me to serve you, Safiya. We have spent too many years apart.”

“And I have spent too many hours between meals.” A glare. “Give it to me now, Polly, or I shall castrate you with a fork.”

Now his eyes bugged. “By the Twelve, have you heard the things you say?” But he did relinquish the bowl of strawberries, and after biting into the first, Safi moaned her delight.

“These are divine,” she gushed from beneath a mouthful of chocolate. “They remind me of the ones from—” She broke off, her chest suddenly too large.

She had been about to say the strawberries reminded her of the ones from home. Home! As if the mountains and valleys around the Hasstrel estate had ever been home—or the strawberries ever this divine.

Leopold did not seem to notice Safi’s sudden silence, though. His eyes ran over the colorful diplomats. The domnas in their fitted black skirts and frilly, high-necked bodices of a thousand rich, earthy tones. The doms in their black waistcoats and velvet puffy shorts that only served to make their legs look knobby and ridiculous.

In fact, Leopold seemed to be the only male capable of making the shorts and tights look appealing—and didn’t he know it, judging by the way he strutted about. The tights revealed strong legs—surprisingly well-muscled—and the blue velvet brought out flecks of the same shade in his eyes.

Safi was pleased to note that her own gown was garnering envious looks, and the only gown Safi thought better than her own was that of Vaness, the Marstoki Empress. White strips of cloth draped a thousand ways over the woman’s bronze skin, and her dark hair tumbled over the bold exposure of her right shoulder. Gold studs were pasted over her Witchmark—a square for Earth and a single, vertical line for Iron—while two shackle-like bracelets adorned her wrists (said to represent her servitude to her people). She wore no crown, and was—in Safi’s opinion—utter simplicity and elegance.

Though Safi had only seen Vaness from a distance, she had immediately appreciated the bored dip in the young woman’s shoulder. The flat expression of a person who had better places to be and more meaningful things to do.

Safi had promptly tried to copy that pose—though she’d also promptly forgotten after spotting the first cream-filled pastry.