Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

Evrane staggered in, with two sailors prodding her from behind. The monk slammed the door in their faces before stumbling for the girls—and Safi didn’t miss how Iseult’s spine erected. How her shoulders rolled properly back.

“Let me examine you,” Evrane croaked, sinking onto the floor beside Safi. “You’re bruised, Domna.”

“It’s nothing.” Safi tucked in her legs.

“The bruises might not hurt, but this isn’t about you anymore.” Evrane threw a glance at the window—a moonlit shore streamed by. “A bruise is spilled blood beneath the skin. We should not mock the contract’s demands.”

Safi eased out a long breath, her mind careening back to Merik. The prince. The admiral. He was never far from her thoughts, and she’d barely thought of anything else for all those hours in the irons. She’d barely looked at anything but his rain-slicked hair and hard gaze while he steered the Jana toward his home.

After Evrane seemed satisfied with Safi’s health, she examined Iseult’s arm and Safi moved to the window to watch the approaching shore. Her muscles burned from the movement, from the strain of simply standing. She liked it, though. It kept away the cold, the thoughts of Merik, the horrors of Iseult’s tribe, and all the other things that were best ignored.

There was little for Safi to see outside, though. Rock walls and spindrift misting the glass. If she craned her neck, she could just glimpse pale dawn skies.

“Where are we?” she asked Evrane.

“A cove that belongs to the Nihar family,” the monk answered. “It has been a secret for centuries. Until today.” Her tone was icy, and when Safi glanced back, she found the monk scowling as she wound a fresh bandage around Iseult’s arm.

“The cove is inaccessible from land,” Evrane went on, “since cliffs surround it and there is only enough space for a single ship. But”—she tied off the clean linen with a satisfied nod—“I think you will see it for yourselves soon enough. The admiral plans to take us ashore. From here, we continue to Lejna on foot.”

TWENTY-NINE

Merik stood in Kullen’s cabin, staring down at his Threadbrother. Kullen’s face was gray, his knuckles massaging his breastbone as he watched Merik from a low cot. Ryber had stuffed a sack of flour behind Kullen’s back to prop up his head and lungs, so now white powder stuck to his hair and cheeks. With only the pale dawn to illuminate his face, he looked like a corpse.

The cabin, however, looked very much alive.

Kullen’s single trunk beneath the window overflowed with his usual organized chaos, and there was no missing the clear trail of shirts and breeches that led to the bed.

“Too busy reading to fold up your uniform?” Merik asked, settling onto the edge of the cot.

“Ah, you caught me.” Kullen clapped shut a red-leather book. The True Tale of the Twelve Paladins. “I can’t resist rereading the epics. If I’m forced to stay in bed, I should be entertained.” He pitched a glance at the clothes on the floor. Then winced. “I suppose I did make a mess.”

Merik nodded absently and leaned onto his knees. He didn’t care about the uniform; Kullen knew that.

“I shouldn’t be gone more than half a week,” Merik said.

“Don’t rush on my account.” Kullen flashed one of his frightening attempts at a smile—but it was almost instantly shattered by coughing.

Once the attack had passed, Merik went on. “I’ll go north to the estate and find Yoris. I don’t think he’ll mind Safiya, but he might make trouble over Iseult. He never liked the ’Matsis.”

“He also never liked your aunt.” Kullen hissed out a careful breath and leaned onto the flour sack. “I assume she’ll join your little party?”

“I doubt I can keep her away.”

“Well, if Yoris gives you any trouble, tell him”—Kullen twirled a hand, and a current of cool air tickled over Merik—“I’ll crush him with a hurricane.”

Merik scowled at Kullen’s display of power, but again, he held his silence. They’d argued for years over how often and how deeply Kullen tapped into his witchery; Merik didn’t want to leave on that note today.

“Should I visit your mother while I’m inland?”

Kullen shook his head. “I’ll go once I’m better. If that’s all right with you.”

“Of course. Take Ryber with you. Just in case.”

Kullen’s eyebrows sprang high.

“I’ll tell Hermin I’ve ordered it,” Merik hastened to add. “Ryber knows how to help you in case of an attack—and the crew is aware that she knows. It’s only logical she join you. Besides…” Merik frowned at his fingernails; there was flour and dirt beneath them. “I don’t think it matters anymore if the crew finds out about you. The admiralty’s over, Kullen. Lovats won’t answer, and it’s looking more and more like Vivia spoke the truth about my father.”

“I’m not surprised,” Kullen said quietly.

Merik grunted and picked at his thumbnail. This was another long-hashed point of disagreement—Kullen believed that Vivia’s nature was spurred on by Serafin. That the king wanted his children forever at odds.

But Merik considered that theory complete crap. For all of King Serafin’s failings, he wouldn’t waste his energy on stirring trouble—particularly when Vivia instigated plenty of it on her own.