Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

Merik inhaled wearily and checked his shirt—still tucked in. “I’m working on it, Kullen. I won’t let her die, all right? But the Jana and our people must come first.”

Kullen nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Then I will do what needs doing.”

“As will I,” Merik said. “Now gather the crew and summon the Tidewitches. It’s time to haul wind.”

TWENTY-THREE

It was nearing sunset, and Evrane had departed to find food, leaving Safi to contemplate Iseult and Lady Fate all alone. Surely the odds of Iseult encountering the same monk who’d helped her were high—after all, how many Carawen monks could there possibly be on the continent?

And surely this reunion was more akin to chance and probability—like Ryber drawing the Paladin of Foxes from the taro deck—than it was to some ancient poem steering the monk’s life.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Safi’s thoughts scattered. The cabin door creaked open to reveal Merik, a wooden bowl in hand.

Her lips curled back. “Come to fight me again?” It was a churlish comment, but Safi couldn’t bring herself to care.

“Should I?” He strode into the cabin and toed the door shut. “You don’t seem to be misbehaving.”

“I’m not,” she grumbled—and it was true. Despite wanting to snarl and shout and make him regret ever puting iron against her skin, she wasn’t stupid enough to waste the energy. Now, more than ever, she needed a plan.

“Good.” Merik marched over and set the bowl within grabbing distance—though he wisely stayed back.

Chains jangling, Safi peeked into the bowl. Pale soup with a dry roll floating on top. “What is it?”

“What we always have.” Merik sank into a crouch. Their eyes met. His were a rich, dark brown. Yet he seemed distracted, the triangle on his forehead sunk to a frown. “It’s mostly bone broth, and whatever else we can find for the pot.”

“Sounds … delicious.”

“It isn’t.” He shrugged. “But look, I’ll even break your bread.” He plucked the roll from the bowl and, with an almost apologetic smile, he ripped it apart and dropped each bite-size chunk into the broth.

Safi watched him through half-lowered lashes. “Is this some trick? Why are you being nice to me?”

“No trick.” More bread plopped into the bowl. “I want you to know that I understand why you … attacked me.” Slowly, he pulled his gaze back to Safi’s. It was somber now. Bleak even. “I would have done the same thing in your position.”

“Then why don’t you stop? If you understand, why don’t you take Iseult ashore?”

Merik’s only response was to grunt noncommittally and drop the last of the bread into the bowl. Safi stared at it, bobbing in the broth, and frustration boiled up her shoulders.

“If,” she said quietly, “you expect me to be grateful for soup—”

“I do,” he interrupted. “We don’t have much food on this ship, Domna, and you’re eating my dinner ration. So yes, a bit of gratitude would be nice.”

Safi had no retort for that. In fact, she had absolutely no words at all—and her wariness suddenly doubled. What did Merik want from her? Her magic sensed no deception.

Merik nudged the bowl. “Eat, Domna … oh, wait! I almost forgot!” He withdrew a spoon from his coat. “How is that for service? Do you know how many men onboard would kill for the use of a spoon?”

“And do you know,” she retorted, “how many men I can kill with a spoon?”

That earned her a lazy smile, but when she reached for the spoon, Merik didn’t release it. Their fingers touched …

And heat coiled up Safi’s arm. She flinched, her hand and the spoon shooting back.

“We’ll be stopping soon,” Merik said, seemingly unaware of her reaction. “There might be fighting, and … I wanted to warn you.”

“Who will be fighting?” Safi’s voice was oddly high-pitched, her fingers still humming as she gripped the spoon. “Are Iseult and I in danger?”

“No.” Merik’s head shook once, but the word—and the movement—frizzed against Safi’s power. False. “I will keep you safe,” he added, almost as an afterthought. Safi’s magic purred, True.

Frowning, she sipped the soup. It was disgusting—even as hungry as she was. Bland to the point of tasteless and cold to the point of congealed.

“Don’t watch me eat,” she huffed. “I won’t actually kill anyone with the spoon.”

“Thank Noden.” His lips twitched up. “I was worried for the entire crew.” A pause, then a curt wag of his head, as if he shook off some dark cloud that plagued him.

When Merik met Safi’s gaze, his eyes were sharp—the sharpest she’d ever seen them—and she had the uncomfortable sense that he saw her. Not just the surface of her, but all her secrets too.

“In all honesty,” he said at last, “you are a threat, Domna. That’s why I have to keep you in chains. You would do anything for your Threadsister, and I would do the same for Kullen.”

True.

When Safi stayed silent except for her soup-sipping, Merik went on. “Kullen and I have known each other since we were boys—since I went to the Nihar estate, where his mother works. When did you meet Iseult?”

Safi swallowed her current mouthful, almost choked on the bread, and then croaked, “Why do you want to know?”