Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

“What I do know, Kullen, is that this grave is deep, and I still haven’t dug us out.”

“You can, though.” Kullen angled forward, flour puffing from the top of the sack. Were the situation any different, it would’ve made Merik—and Kullen—laugh. “If you get to Lejna and you get your trade agreement, then it’ll all work out. You’re destined for greatness, Merik. I still believe that.”

“Not much greatness. The trade will only be with one Cartorran estate out of hundreds. And the land here…” Merik gestured to the window, a self-deprecating laugh stuck in his throat. “It’s no better than a year ago. I don’t know why I keep hoping, but I do. Every cursed time we come back, I hope it’ll be alive again.”

Kullen exhaled, a rattling sound that made Merik sit up. “You’re tired. I’ll go.”

“Wait.” Kullen snagged Merik’s jacket sleeve, and the warmth in the air vanished again. “Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Promise me you’ll consider a tumble in the sheets while you’re away. You’re so tense”—he gulped in air—“I can’t even look at you without my lungs wanting to seize.”

Merik barked a laugh. “And here I was expecting something serious. I have plenty of reasons to be tense, you know.”

“Still.” Kullen waved wearily.

“And with whom should I tumble exactly? I don’t see many women clambering for the position.”

“The domna.”

Now Merik really laughed. “I am not tumbling with a domna. Especially one who’s betrothed to the Emperor of Cartorra. Plus, she makes my temper flare out of control. Every time I think it’s smooth sailing, she’ll say something offensive and the squall returns.”

Kullen choked, but when Merik’s eyes snapped to him with alarm, he found that Kullen was simply laughing—albeit wheezily. “That’s not your temper, you big dolt. It’s your magic responding to a woman like Noden intended. What the Hell do you think happens to my witchery when Ryber and I—”

“I don’t want to know!” Merik flung up flat-palmed hands. “I really don’t want to know.”

“Fine, fine.” Kullen’s laughter subsided, though a crooked grin stayed on his lips.

And Merik had to smother the urge to throttle his Threadbrother. This was not the conversation he’d come for, and he didn’t want to leave Kullen on the thoroughly pointless topic of sheet tumbles.

So Merik forced himself to nod and smile. “Give your mother my best, and if you need me, pound the wind-drum. We’ll stay beside the coast most of the way to Lejna.”

“Hye.” Kullen’s fist returned to his breastbone, and he nodded tiredly. “Safe harbors, Merik.”

“Safe harbors,” he answered before marching from the room. Once he was topside, he shouted for Ryber to bring up the prisoners—and he made sure to call them prisoners. Not collateral, not passengers. Simply prisoners. It made it easier to ignore Kullen’s suggestions. He wouldn’t look at Safiya, he wouldn’t speak to her, and he certainly wouldn’t think of her in that way. Then, when Merik reached Lejna, he would leave her behind and he would never, ever see her again.

* * *

Iseult followed Safi—who followed Evrane who followed Ryber—through the dark hold to the ladder. Two sailors glared at Iseult as she mounted the first rung. They muttered to themselves, their Threads shivering with dislike.

Safi—in typical Safi fashion—fixed a glare on the sailors and dragged a slow thumb across her neck.

Their Threads flared with gray fear.

Iseult gritted her teeth, glancing at Evrane to see if she’d noticed. The monk hadn’t, but still—Iseult would have to remind Safi (for the thousandth time) not to show that sort of aggression. Safi meant well, but her threats only brought more attention to Iseult’s otherness—only made Iseult more aware of the stares and the curses and the gray, gray Threads.

Usually Safi knew better than to raise her hackles so blatantly, but things were different now. Ever since her time in the leg irons, Safi’s Threads hadn’t stopped beating with rusty guilt. Golden shame. Blue regret.

Iseult had never seen anything like it from her Threadsister. Had never known Safi could care so deeply about causing someone grief—someone who wasn’t Iseult, at least.

Iseult and Safi reached the Jana’s empty quarterdeck. Abruptly, Safi’s Threads flamed with new colors. Taupe horror. Blue sadness. It all wound within the guilt and shame and regret.

At the foot of the cliffs spanning high over the Jana was a silent gray-pebbled beach. Only the footsteps of sailors disrupted the rhythmic waves and wind. There was no chittering from swallows or laughter from raucous gulls. No pelicans to sit elegantly on the rocks, no shearwaters to glide by.

The birds were there, but they weren’t in any state to sing or fly. Crooked corpses and hollow skeletons covered the beach or floated on the gentle, low-tide waves. There were hundreds of dead fish too—washed ashore and crispy from the sun.

How many thousands of corpses had gathered here over the years? How many more washed in each day?

Iseult bent her gaze to Evrane, wondering how the monk felt seeing her home again. But Evrane’s Threads remained calm, and only a flicker of sadness twined through them.

Iseult cleared her throat and swallowed the need to stammer. “I thought it was the water that was poisonous, Monk Evrane. Not the fish.”