Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

Then Safi turned to Iseult and said in a voice made of stone and winter, “I’m so sorry, Iseult.” Her gaze slid to Merik, and she said it again, “I’m so sorry I dragged you into this.”

Before Iseult could assuage—could argue that none of this was Safi’s fault—a white Thread flared in the corner of her eyes. Terror. She jerked around right as Kullen, standing on the main deck, started to cough. Then doubled over.

Then fell.

Iseult ran for him, Safi and Evrane on her heels. They reached Kullen as a girl with braids did too, her skin a stark contrast to Kullen’s deathly pallor. Yet Merik was already there. Already pulling Kullen into a sitting position and massaging the man’s back.

Massaging his lungs, Iseult realized as she skidded to a stop several paces away. Safi paused beside her. Evrane, however, pushed all the way to Kullen and dropped to a crouch.

“I’m here, Kullen,” Merik said, voice ragged. His Threads burned with the same white terror as Kullen’s. “I’m here. Relax your lungs and the air will come.”

The first mate’s mouth worked like a fish, gulping at nothing. Though air seemed to squeak out, he could get no breath in. And each cough that shattered through him was weaker than the last.

Then, eyes huge and cheeks pale, Kullen turned to Merik and shook his head.

Safi dropped to the deck beside them. “How can I help?” She looked first at Merik, then to the girl, and finally to Kullen—who stared back at her.

But the first mate could only wag his head at Safi before his eyes rolled back and he fell forward into Merik’s arms.

Instantly, Merik and the younger girl flipped him onto his back, and Merik tipped Kullen’s mouth wide. He lowered his lips to Kullen’s, and then exhaled full gusts of magicked air into his Threadbrother’s throat.

Over and over, he did this. An eternity of puffing and heaving, of urgent, terrified Threads. Sailors gathered around, though they seemed smart enough to hang back. Safi threw a panicked look at Iseult, but Iseult could offer no solutions. She had never seen anything like this before.

Then a tremble moved through Kullen’s chest. He was breathing.

Merik gaped for several long seconds at Kullen’s ribs before doubling over in relief. His Threads blazed with the pink light of Threadbrothers—pure and dazzling.

“Thank you, Noden,” he mumbled into Kullen’s chest. “Oh, Noden, thank you.”

The same sentiment shimmered through the Threads of every sailor—through Safi’s and Evrane’s as well.

Yet none were so bright as Merik’s or the girl’s—and the girl’s shone with the pure red of a Heart-Thread.

“Let me check him,” Evrane said with a gentle hand on Merik’s back. “To be sure he did not damage something.”

Merik shot up, his face contorted with fury. And his Threads …

Iseult flinched from the force. “You disobeyed my orders!” he shouted at his aunt. “You jeopardized my ship and my men! The domna was my only bargaining card!”

Evrane stood still, Threads calm. “We needed a Firewitch healer for Iseult. She would have died without one.”

“We all would have died!” Merik pushed Evrane again. She didn’t resist. “You abandoned your post with no thought for others!”

Safi’s Threads blazed into a defensive fury. She sprang to her feet. “It wasn’t her fault—she was only doing what I ordered.”

Merik swiveled toward Safi. “Is that so, Domna? So you weren’t fleeing your betrothed? You weren’t avoiding capture, Truthwitch?”

Cold tunneled through Iseult’s stomach. Down her muscles. But how did he know?

Doesn’t matter, Iseult told herself, already bending her knees to lunge for Safi. To protect her …

Until Safi’s Threads flared with beige uncertainty—as if she might try to hide this truth from Merik. So Iseult schooled her face into absolute Threadwitch calm. She would not betray Safi’s secret.

“Where did you hear that rumor?” Safi finally asked, her words careful and even.

“The Marstoks know.” Merik leaned toward her. “Their Voicewitch kindly told mine. Do you deny it?”

The world dragged, as if Safi’s inner debate spread around her. The breeze became soft and distant. Don’t admit it. Please don’t admit it. It was one thing for Emperor Henrick to possibly know of Safi’s witchery, but there was no reason for the whole world to learn too. What if Merik decided to use her—or to marry her, as Henrick had? Or what if Merik decided to kill Safi instead, before an enemy could lay claim to her?

Yet as Safi’s Threads melted from gray fear to a lush, determined green, Iseult’s breath rolled out with defeat.

“So what?” Safi squared her shoulders. “So what if I am a Truthwitch, Admiral? What difference does it make?”

In a burst of speed, Merik grabbed Safi’s wrists, flipped her around, and wrenched her arms behind her. “It makes all the difference,” he snarled. “You told me no one sought you. You told me you were not important, and yet you’re a Truthwitch betrothed to Emporer Henrick.” He pushed her arms further back.

Safi’s face tightened, but when Iseult tipped forward to defend—to fight for her Threadsister—Safi shook her head in warning.

When Safi spoke again, her tone and Threads were shockingly controlled. “I thought that if you knew who I was, you would turn me over to the Cartorrans.”