Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

Yet seeing how the people of the Nihar lands felt about Merik—seeing a devotion like she’d never had … Perhaps there was something to be said for investing yourself in your people.

Of course, Safi had no people anymore. Returning to Cartorra would be suicide—or at least guaranteed enslavement as Henrick’s personal Truthwitch.

Since Merik was lingering at the garden, a knot of admirers gathering around, Safi let her own feet slow to a stop.

Iseult wheezed a tired, grateful sigh beside her and angled toward the river. “They’re building a mill over there.”

Sure enough, across the rapids men shouted and towed, hammered and heaved at the frame of a new structure. They were dressed like the soldiers from earlier, and behind them, pines—living pines—swayed on the breeze.

“They look like more of Yoris’s men,” Safi said, heel drumming on the dirt. “It seems like a lot of them, doesn’t it? There were at least twenty to corner us this morning—and those were just the ones stationed near the cove. There are even more here.” She motioned to two soldiers now stamping across the bridge. “They can’t all be men at arms from the Nihar estate. Even when my parents were alive and the Hasstrel lands were in top shape, Habim said there were never more than fifty men.”

“We’re right on the border with Dalmotti.” Iseult scratched her chin thoughtfully. “Which makes this prime fighting territory.”

Safi nodded slowly. “And since it’s already crippled, then it’s the perfect battleground for when the war resumes.”

“Resumes?” Iseult shot a narrow-eyed glance at Safi. “Do you know for certain that the Truce won’t be extended?”

“No … but I’m pretty sure.” Absently, Safi watched a dog trot by the construction site. It had something small and furry in its mouth—and looked immensely pleased by its catch. “When I was in Veñaza City,” she said, choosing her words carefully, “Uncle Eron said that war was coming, but that he hoped to stop it. And Mathew mentioned something about the Truce dissolving early.”

“But why have the Truce Summit if no one plans to negotiate peace?”

“I’m not sure—though I do know Henrick wanted to use the Summit as a stage for announcing my … betrothal.” Safi could barely choke out that word. “And that announcement threw a kink in Uncle Eron’s plan.”

“Hmmm.” Iseult’s cloak rustled as she shifted her weight. “Well, since the Marstoks know you’re with Prince Merik, then Emperor Henrick must know too. I would think that means both empires might show up here at any moment.”

The hair on Safi’s arms sprang up. “Good point,” she murmured, and there was no ignoring the sandstone grit of fear along her spine—nor the certainty in her gut that Cartorra and Marstok would show up here.

And that they wouldn’t care at all about breaking the Truce if it meant getting their hands on a Truthwitch.

* * *

“We need to hurry,” Safi told Merik as he bowed over a map of the Hundred Isles. They stood several paces apart in a windowed cabin similar to Merik’s on the Jana—except that everything was upside down. The walls curved inward instead of out, and the door hung a foot off the floor, requiring a long-legged step to climb through.

After Safi had urged Merik and Yoris to move faster through Noden’s Gift—Merik could greet his people later—Yoris had guided everyone to the galleon, where even Iseult had mustered a grin at the sight.

The ship rested on its quarterdeck while support had been added beneath the forecastle to allow the galleon to lay flat. An open passage ran through the ship’s middle, the main deck now a ceiling. Ladders slung down to allow access to the hold, and a rough set of stairs had been built up to what had once been the captain’s cabin.

While Yoris had grudgingly taken Evrane and Iseult to get food, Safi had followed Merik into the captain’s cabin and over to a table of charts—also like the one on the Jana—at the center of the room. There was no glass in the windows now, but the open slats of the shutters let the sound of everyday bustle slide through—as well as a welcome breeze. The ship was thick-walled, the midmorning heat oppressive, and Safi found herself wiping away more sweat indoors than she had outside. Even fussy Merik had his jacket off and shirtsleeves rolled up.

“The Cartorrans likely follow me,” Safi said, when Merik refused to look up from his careful scrutiny of the map. She planted her hands on the table. “We need to leave for Lejna as soon as possible, Prince. How far is it?”

“A full day if we stop for the night.”

“Then let’s not stop.”

Merik’s jaw clenched, and he finally fixed his gaze on Safi. “We have no choice, Domna. Yoris can only spare two horses, which means if Iseult joins—”

“Which she absolutely will.”

“—and Evrane joins us too, which I’m certain she’ll do, then we’ll have to ride two people per horse. And that means we’ll need to stop for the night so our steeds can rest. Besides, no one can find the Nihar cove, so no one will be able to go ashore anywhere near us.” Merik snagged his jacket off a nearby stool and rummaged inside before pulling out a familiar document—now flattened and creased.

With infuriating slowness, he unfolded the document beside the map. Then he snagged a piece of dry bread from a bowl at the center of the table and took off a fat, mocking bite.