Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

Without Kullen to fill the Jana’s sails or Merik’s witches to carry her hull, Merik had to push his meager crew hard—and push himself hard too.

But he had no other choice, and time was short.

He needed to find that one jagged peak—the Lonely Bastard, as he and Kullen had always called it—before the tide swallowed it whole. Behind it was a hidden cove. A family secret that would allow Merik’s crew to rest in safety.

If the Jana missed the tide, though, Merik would be forced to wait until tomorrow afternoon—allowing the Marstoks or the sea foxes to catch up.

Merik’s gaze snapped to the domna and Evrane, still chained. Safiya’s golden hair was damp and hanging, his aunt’s white cloak soaked to gray. For once, Iseult was nowhere to be seen. She’d checked on Safiya and Evrane a hundred times during the first four hours of their punishment. In the last two chimes, though, the girl had stayed belowdecks. Sleeping, probably.

Merik was glad for it. Each time Iseult had come to beg for Safi’s release, the muscles in his neck had hardened. His shoulders had strained toward his ears, and he’d patted his pocket—checking that the Hasstrel agreement was still tucked inside. Those pages had become his last hope for salvation, so he kept them close.

He checked the document for the thousandth time now, the pages flattened and rain-splattered …

The signatures were intact, so Merik would leave Safiya in her chains a bit longer. He might not be Vivia when it came to discipline, but there were consequences for disobedience. Merik’s crew knew that—expected it, even—so Merik couldn’t suddenly go soft. Even if there might be long-term repercussions for binding a woman who could one day be Empress of Cartorra … Even if Safiya and her betrothed, Henrick, could make Merik pay for this sort of treatment … Merik didn’t care. He’d rather keep his crew’s respect than worry over what some idiot emperor could do to a country that was already crippled.

Henrick. Merik had always disliked that foul old man. To think that Safiya was his betrothed. To think she would marry—would bed—a man three times her age …

Merik couldn’t reconcile that thought. He’d believed Safiya was different from other nobility. Impulsive, yes, but loyal too. And perhaps as alone as Merik was in a world of cutthroat political games.

But it turned out Safiya was just like the rest of the Cartorran doms and domnas. She lived with blinders on, attuned only to those she’d deemed worthy.

Yet even as Merik nursed his fury, even as he told himself he loathed Safiya, he couldn’t keep the “buts” from churning in his stomach.

But you would have done the same for Kullen. You would have risked lives to save him.

But maybe she doesn’t want to marry Henrick or be Empress. Maybe she is on the run to avoid it.

Merik shoved aside those arguments. The simple fact remained that if Safiya had only told Merik of her betrothal from the beginning, he could have returned her to Dalmotti and been done with her immediately. He never would have been on this side of Jadansi where he’d been forced to fight a sea fox, battle the Marstoks, and ultimately push Kullen too hard.

“Admiral?” Hermin hobbled onto the quarterdeck, expression bleak. “I still can’t make a connection with the Lovats Voicewitches.”

“Oh.” Mechanically, Merik brushed rain off his coat. Hermin had been linked into the Voicewitch Threads for hours, trying to get through to Lovats. To King Serafin.

“Might be,” Hermin mused, tipping his voice over the waves and rain, the squeak of ropes and the grunts of seamen, “that all the Voicewitches are busy.”

“In the middle of the night?” Merik frowned.

“Or maybe,” Hermin went on, “my magic is the problem. Maybe I’m too old.”

Merik’s frown deepened to a scowl. Age didn’t diminish a witchery. Hermin knew it and Merik knew it too, so if the old man was trying to soften what was obviously going on—that the Voicewitches in Lovats were ignoring Merik’s calls—then there was no point.

If Vivia’s words turned out to be true and Merik’s father really had ordered the Aetherwitched miniature, then Merik would deal with that later. For now, he just had to get his men ashore and away from Marstoki flames.

He glanced at the leg irons—at Safiya—only to find Ryber crouched beside her.

“Take the helm,” Merik snarled, already stalking for the companionway. Then he lifted his voice in a roar. “Ryber! Get away from there!”

The ship’s girl jerked to attention, yet Safiya kept her head bowed as Merik slammed onto the main deck and advanced on Ryber. “You,” he growled, “should be swabbing.” He thrust a finger at the nearby new recruit, who diligently scrubbed water off the deck. “That is your duty, Ryber, so if I catch you shirking again, you’ll be whipped. Understand?”

The domna lifted her chin. “I called Ryber over here,” she rasped.

“Someone needs to check on Iseult,” Evrane inserted, her voice hoarse. “The girl is still healing.”

Merik ignored Safiya and Evrane, his fingers reaching for his collar. “Swab the deck,” he told Ryber. “Now.”

Ryber saluted, and once she was out of sight, Merik wheeled toward the domna, ready to shout that she leave his sailors alone.

But her head was tipped back, her eyes closed and mouth open. Even with only lantern light to shine on her skin, there was no missing the wobble in her throat. The flick of her tongue.