Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

“You wouldn’t dare,” she snarled. Water splashed as she abandoned her wave. “I am your sister and your future queen.”

“You aren’t queen yet. Return these men to their ship.”

“No.” The word was almost lost to the wind, the voices. “Nubrevna needs weapons, Merry.”

“Nubrevna needs food.”

Vivia only laughed—a crowing sound that had mocked Merik his entire life. “There is a war coming. Stop being so naïve and start caring about your countryme—” Her words broke off as Merik cocked his pistol, readying the Firewitch spell within.

“Never,” he hissed, “say that I don’t care for my countrymen. I fight to keep them alive. But you … You’ll bring the fires of Marstok upon their heads. What you have done here violates the Twenty Year Truce. I will present you to the vizers and King Serafin for punishment—”

“Except that it doesn’t violate it,” Vivia snapped, lips curling back, “so don’t get all formal on me, Merry. No one is hurt. My crew has peacefully escorted the Marstoks onto my ship—which I will give up to ensure the Truce stays intact.”

“Your crew will escort the Marstoks right back. We leave this vessel, Vivia, and we leave its contents.” With a final thrust of muscle and magic, Merik spun on his heel, ready to end this “peaceful escort.”

“So will you tell Father, then?” Vivia shouted. “Will you tell him that you lost the ship he sought?”

Merik’s feet stopped, and he angled back toward his sister. Her eyes—dark and identical to Merik’s—blazed.

“What did you say?”

She bared her teeth in a full smile. “Who do you think ordered that miniature, Merry? This was all Father’s idea and Father’s orders—”

“Lies.” Merik burst forward, pistol rising—

A wall of wind blasted him. He stumbled, almost fell, and then hazily thought, Kullen.

A second wind returned his balance—and his sanity too. His Threadbrother—wherever the Hell he was—was finally putting a stop to something Merik never should’ve begun. Never would’ve begun if there weren’t so much at stake. This was his sister, for Noden’s sake.

Kullen reeled into Merik’s path, eyes huge and face red. “We have a situation,” Kullen panted. “It’s bad.” He gestured weakly toward the galleon’s mizzen mast and kicked into a jog.

Merik sprinted after him, all thoughts of Vivia or his father gone, swallowed by a new tide of fear.

“I thought it … odd,” Kullen yelled between gulps for air, “that there was only a skeleton crew here. There’s no way … this ship could have crossed the Jadansi … with so few men. So I checked belowdecks.” He skirted the ladder, pointing as he passed. “There were more men.”

“I don’t understand,” Merik shouted over his pounding feet. “You think what? That some of the crew left?”

“Exactly.” Kullen slowed to a stop beside the broken mizzen mast. His chest trembled much too fast as he added, “I think … most of this crew boarded … other ships. And then these men … Well, look for yourself.” He pointed to the mast, which was broken at Merik’s chest-level. Then Kullen waved to something else—something resting against the balustrade only a few feet away.

Two axes.

Merik’s stomach turned to iron. “They cut the mast themselves. Shit. Shit. Vivia was ambushed, Kull—”

“Admiral!” Ryber’s voice carried over the still air. “Admiral!” she shouted again, and Merik found he was getting awfully tired of that title. Of the weight that crashed onto him each time someone uttered the word. “We have four warships on the horizon! Hulls up and coming this way!”

Merik exchanged a single, wide-eyed look with Kullen. Then he launched back to the main deck, back to his sister—who continued to march Marstoks onto her ship.

But Merik had no time for fury or new orders, for at that moment, Hermin stumbled to the edge of the Jana and roared through cupped hands, “It’s the Marstoks, Admiral! They’re calling for the immediate surrender of Emperor Henrick’s betrothed. Else they’ll sink us!”

Merik rushed to the railing. “They want who?”

“They want the Emperor’s betrothed!” Hermin paused, eyes burning pink with his magic. Then he added, “Safiya fon Hasstrel!”

It was as if the whole world slowed down. As if it sucked in a breath and held tight. The waves rolled sluggishly as mud, the ship rocked at half-speed.

Safiya fon Hasstrel. Emperor Henrick’s betrothed.

It made such sudden, clear sense—why she had fled Veñaza City, why her safety was worth a treaty with the Hasstrels, and why a Bloodwitch might be after her.

Yet Merik couldn’t wrap his mind around it. If she was betrothed to Henrick, then that made her the future Empress of Cartorra. It made her Henrick’s property too.

And why were Merik’s lungs dropping low at that thought?

Footsteps hammered on the wood. Kullen appeared, cheeks flushed so red, a breathing attack had to be imminent. With that terrifying realization, the world surged back to its usual speed. Merik grabbed Kullen’s arm. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Kullen snapped. “What do you need?”

“I need you on the Jana, so we can…” Merik hesitated, the words for his next command suddenly vanishing in a surge of doubt.