Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

“So we can…?” Kullen prompted.

“Hand over the domna,” Merik finally said. He didn’t like it, but it was one life versus many. “Escort Safiya topside and give her up to the Marstoks.”

Kullen set his jaw, gaze darkening but no argument coming forth. He may have disagreed but he was still saluting and following orders. He rocketed off the Marstoki deck.

Merik spun around, summoning commands for Vivia and her crew, but his words died on his tongue. Nubrevnan sailors were streaming below the Marstoki galleon’s deck, and six witches stood in a row, eyes trained on Vivia.

That row included Merik’s Tidewitches.

“Gather your winds and waters!” Vivia bellowed.

Merik lunged, using his wind to cross the ship in mere breaths. He slammed down beside his sister. “What the Hell are you doing? As your admiral, I ordered you to release the Marstoks and return to your ship!”

Vivia sneered. “And we all know that I should have been named admiral. Look around you, Merry.” She waved to the Tidewitches. “You have lost Father’s men, and I have gained an arsenal.”

Merik’s breath choked off at those words—at the reality of what faced him. His ship, his command, and everything he’d worked for were dissolving before his eyes. Taken by the same sister who’d always crushed him beneath her boot heel. “There will be consequences,” he said, voice low but words desperate. Pleading, even. “Someone, somewhere will demand blood for what you’re doing.”

“Perhaps.” She shrugged, a movement so casual it showed her true feelings more than words ever could. “At least, I will have protected our people, though, just as I will be the one to bring the empires to their knees.” Vivia turned her back on Merik. “Prepare Tides, men! We sail to the Sentries of Noden to deliver our new weapons!”

A distant boom rang out. Merik jerked toward the horizon—to where the four Marstoki war galleons now sailed. And to where cannonballs sped for the Jana. Merik had just enough time to thrust his winds frantically out.

The cannonballs dropped into the sea.

Merik leaped off the Marstoki ship and flew to the Jana’s main deck. His knees crunched; he transferred the power into a roll, then he was on his feet and screaming for Hermin. “Tell the Marstoks we surrender! Tell them to cease their fire and we’ll hand over the domna!”

The Voicewitch limped onto the main deck, eyes glowing pink and lips moving furiously.

Merik scanned his ship and his crew, heart rising as he counted the gaps. Not all of his father’s sailors had abandoned him. Merik’s original crew had remained.

A second boom thundered. Merik pitched around, grabbing ineffectually for enough magic to stop the cannon fire.

Wind cycloned out—but not from Merik … from Kullen. The first mate was dragging to Merik’s side and heaving his witchery outward.

Merik had no time to thank Kullen, or to fret over Kullen’s lungs. “Why aren’t the Marstoks stopping?” he roared at Hermin. “Tell them they can have the girl!”

Hermin’s head was wagging. “They say the girl isn’t enough now. They want their ship back, Admiral.” With a shaking hand, Hermin pointed to the Marstoki galleon.

Despite its broken masts, it was sailing toward Nubrevna on Tidewitched waves—and with no witches of his own, it was Merik who would be left behind to pay the price.

TWENTY-FIVE

Iseult came hazily into consciousness wondering why the world stank of dead fish, why the ceiling had turned to cloudy, purple skies, and why her arm was on fire.

A whimper crawled from her throat. She opened her eyes—and instantly screamed.

A man bowed over her, his curly beard so massive it fell on her stomach. His hands rested on her wounded arm, and whatever he did, it hurt like the hell-gates.

Iseult yelped again and tried to wriggle free.

“Hush,” Safi whispered, her hands firmly gripping Iseult’s shoulder. “He’s healing you.”

“The muscle is repairing,” murmured Evrane from Iseult’s other side. “And it will only get worse before it gets better.”

With a tight swallow—her throat was so dry—Iseult looked back at the bearded healer. His Threads were a concentrated green, though they shivered with annoyed shades of red.

He was healing her, but he wasn’t pleased about it.

That was when Iseult noticed the ropes around his wrists—they were almost hidden beneath his voluminous sleeves. He was a prisoner. And yes, now that she focused beyond the healer, she saw other Threads spinning with annoyance and the occasional furious crimson. Beneath the Threads were men in rows, their uniforms the same as the healer’s.

She angled back to Safi. “Is this the Prince’s ship?”

“No. It’s his sister’s ship, actually—”

A boom exploded in the distance.

“What was that?” Iseult croaked.

Safi’s Threads flashed with guilty rust. “We’re, uh, under attack by a Marstoki naval fleet.”

“Apparently,” Evrane said in a steely tone, “your friend is betrothed to the Emperor of Cartorra, so now the Marstoks are after her.”

Another thunderous boom echoed into Iseult’s ears. Safi threw a frantic glance toward the ocean. “They’re approaching fast.” She switched to Marstoki, angling back to the healer. “Hurry, or you will taste a Carawen sword—”

“He most certainly will not,” Evrane inserted.