Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

“But the fish,” Evrane answered, moving to Iseult’s other side, “travel through the poisoned water and die. Then the birds eat them and die too.”

Safi swayed against the bulwark, her face and Threads a mask of horror.

Iseult, however, stayed perfectly still, wishing she knew how to sculpt her face like Safi. Wishing she could make Evrane understand that her lungs ached at the sight of this ruined land, that her ribs felt like ice-veined granite. Yet Iseult had no masks and no words, so she stayed locked in place.

Threads flamed at the edge of her vision, and she didn’t have to turn to know who strode up the companionway. Who moved to Evrane’s side and slid his spyglass from his jacket.

The Threads between Merik and Safi were stronger now, and a confusing clash of contradictions. The outer strands, like a starfish’s legs, reached and grabbed with purple hunger. Burgundy passion. A hint of blue regret.

And more than a little crimson rage.

This bond could get explosive, Iseult thought, rubbing furiously at the bridge of her nose.

“What is it?” Safi asked.

Iseult flinched. She’d been so caught up in the Threads, she hadn’t noticed Safi turning toward her. “It’s nothing,” Iseult murmured, even though she knew Safi would recognize the lie.

“She has no shoes!” Evrane cried, snapping away Safi’s attention.

Merik’s nostrils flared, and though Safi’s lips parted—likely to argue she was fine without shoes—Merik roared, “Ryber! Get the domna some shoes!”

The ship’s girl popped up the companionway, chewing her lip. “I can get her boots, Admiral, but she’ll need to come with me belowdecks. It’s easier to bring her to the shoes than the other way around.”

“Do it.” Merik waved dismissively, already focusing his spyglass to shore again.

Safi glanced at Iseult. “Want to come?”

“I’ll stay.” If she joined Safi, then Safi might ply her with questions. Questions that could lead to the binding Threads …

Or worse—to the shadow voice in Iseult’s nightmares.

“I want to be outside,” Iseult added, “in the fresh air.”

Safi wasn’t buying it. She glanced at the nearest sailors, who scrambled up the masts. Then she dragged her skeptical gaze back to Iseult. “Are you sure?”

“I’ll be fine, Safi. You forget that I taught you the art of evisceration.”

Safi scoffed, but her Threads flared with amused pink. “Is that so, dear Threadsister? Have you already forgotten that it was me they called The Great Eviscerator back in Veñaza City?” Safi flung a dramatic hand high as she twirled toward Ryber.

Now Iseult didn’t have to fake a grin. “Is that what you thought they said?” she called. “It was actually The Great Vociferator, Safi, because that mouth of yours is so big.”

Safi paused at the companionway—just long enough to bite her thumb in Iseult’s direction.

Iseult bit her thumb right back.

When she angled to the railing, she found Merik with his eyebrows high and Evrane stifling a laugh. It pleased Iseult inordinately to see the monk amused, and warmth trickled through her shoulders.

“It is good to see you feeling better,” Evrane said.

“It’s good to feel better,” Iseult answered, ransacking her brain for something clever to add. Or anything to add, for that matter.

But nothing came, and an uncomfortable silence swept in with the breeze. Iseult started massaging her right elbow, just to have something to do.

It caused Evrane’s Threads to flash green with concern. “Your arm hurts—and foolish me, I have left my salves belowdecks.” She hurried off, leaving Iseult with Merik.

Alone with Merik.

A prince who could become part of Safi’s Thread-family—or just as easily become her enemy. A prince who now dictated where—and how—Iseult and Safi traveled.

Without quite realizing what she did, a question popped from Iseult’s mouth: “Are you married?” It was the first question Threadwitches asked when crafting a person’s Threadstones, and Iseult had heard Gretchya ask it a thousand times growing up.

Merik’s fingers tightened on the spyglass; his Threads flashed with surprise. “Uh … no.”

“Do you have a lover?”

Merik wrenched down the glass, his Threads now pulsing with revulsion. “I have no lover. Why are you asking?”

Inwardly, Iseult sighed. “I’m not interested in you, Your Highness, so there’s no need for the disdain. I’m simply trying to decide if we should follow you to Lejna or not.”

“If you should follow?” Merik’s Threads and posture relaxed. “You have little choice.”

“And if you think that, then you severely underestimate Safi and me.”

Merik’s cheeks—and Threads—flashed an angry red, so Iseult decided to cut short the Threadwitch interrogation. But when Merik spun on his heel to leave, Iseult did sidestep him. “You don’t like me,” she said. “And you don’t have to. Just remember that if you ever hurt Safiya fon Hasstrel, then I will cut you to pieces and I will feed you to the rats.”

Merik didn’t reply—though he did look thoroughly incensed as he stamped around Iseult toward the companionway.

But the flash of cyan understanding in his Threads told Iseult that he’d not only listened, but that he’d taken that warning to heart.