Truthwitch (The Witchlands 1)

“Ah,” Merik breathed, unable to ignore the sorrow in Safi’s voice—or how that made his witchery skitter beneath his breastbone. His grip tightened on the reins. His Witchmark rippled over the tendons in his hand.

For half a heartbeat, Merik caught himself pretending that Safi wasn’t a domna and that he wasn’t a prince. That they were simply two travelers on a barren road, where the only sounds were the gentle clunking of the horses’ hooves, the scampering breeze, and the murmur of Evrane and Iseult behind.

But the bleakness of the land soon wedged into Merik’s thoughts—alongside the same rotation of worries he couldn’t control. Kullen. Vivia. King Serafin.

As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, Safi said, “You carry too much weight, Prince.” She nestled back until she rested against his chest. “More than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“I was born to my title,” he said roughly, pulling her slightly closer. Accepting the steadiness she offered in conversation. In touch. “I take it seriously—even if no one wants me to.”

“That’s just it, though, isn’t it?” A challenge shivered up her spine. “You love feeling needed. It gives you purpose.”

“Perhaps,” he murmured, distracted by her nearness. By the way his breath and the wind twirled through the unruly strands of her hair. “You speak Nubrevnan like a native,” he said at last, forcing his brain to change subjects. To concentrate on Safi’s words instead of her proximity. “Your accent is almost imperceptible.”

“Years of tutors,” she admitted. “I mostly learned from my mentor, though. He’s a Wordwitch, so his magic smooths away his accent. He used to make Iz and me practice for hours.”

“All that education.” Merik shook his head. “All that physical training plus a witchery men would kill for. Think of all you could do, Safi. Think of all you could be.”

A soft shudder moved through her, and a bounce shivered in her leg. “I suppose,” she said eventually, “I could be powerful or make changes or do whatever it is that you seem to be so good at, Prince, but I’d be fighting a losing battle. I don’t have what it takes to lead people. To guide them. I’m too … restless. I hate standing still, and except for Iseult, there has been nothing constant in my life.”

“So you will never stop running? Even if someone wanted you…” He didn’t finish. He couldn’t quite get those last words—to stay—over his lips.

But it sparkled in the air between them, and when Safi angled toward him, her brows were drawn. Then her gaze clicked into place, an inch below Merik’s and far too blue.

Suddenly, the space between them was too small. This river was out of Merik’s control, careening over the banks, and he could think of nothing but stopping the mare, heaving Safi off, and—

No. Merik couldn’t let his brain go there. He wouldn’t. Flirting was one thing, but touching … He couldn’t risk what that might lead to. What it might end in. Not with a Domna of Cartorra. Not with an Emperor’s betrothed.

So Merik sent up a desperate prayer to Noden that this day would end soon, before he—or his magic—lost control entirely.

THIRTY-FOUR

By the time Iseult and the group reached their chosen campsite, the pink sun was dropping behind the Jadansi—and Iseult was convinced her inner thighs were permanently deformed.

As Yoris had promised, the stream was a clean one, and as such, a miniature jungle had burst forth. The stream had grown too, and if a rain came, it would overrun its narrow banks. So, after letting the horses drink, Merik ordered they make camp on a nearby hill shaded by oaks and boulders.

Of course, it took Merik a long while to actually give that order. He and Evrane spent at least a quarter hour simply staring at the fern trees and listening to the night frogs sing. Their Threads were so euphoric, so triumphant, that Iseult told Safi to simply leave them be.

At last, though, the chestnut mare had had enough waiting. She lipped Merik’s shoulder, startling him back to the present. While Iseult and Evrane gathered wood for a cooking fire, Safi and Merik rubbed down the horses.

Swifts chittered overhead, seeming as pleased for the company as Iseult was glad for their noise. She was glad for anything that distracted her from the Threads throbbing over Safi and Merik. While they’d shared a horse, their Threads had been so bright as to give Iseult a headache.

Evrane’s Threads were blinding too, and they hadn’t stopped pulsing with giddy pink or green certainty since leaving Noden’s Gift.

How three people could feel so much amazed—and exhausted—Iseult.

Swooping down, she flicked a cicada skeleton off a fallen branch and then added it to her growing pile of kindling. Merik had insisted the fire be kept small and Iseult had more than enough wood, but she wasn’t ready to return to the group. She needed the time to regain control of her mind. Of her Threadwitch calm.

Eventually, though, she dragged herself back and helped Evrane lay out the bedrolls beneath an enormous, overhanging rock. An alert-stone sat atop it, searing magenta in the sunset.

When at last everything was situated and a meal of hot porridge gulped back, Iseult wiggled into her bedroll and closed her stinging eyes, grappling for that perfect sense of belonging she’d felt in the Origin Well’s cool, kicking waters. Yet, for all that Iseult could remember what she’d felt, she couldn’t actually summon back the feeling.