Windwitch (The Witchlands 2)

“I’m ready,” she offered stiffly, brushing at her uniform.

Rat led the way. Their footsteps echoed off the hallway’s oak walls. No more rugs to absorb her footfalls, no tapestries to muffle the click-clack. Twelve years ago, Serafin had removed all decorations that reminded him of Jana, throwing it into the storerooms beneath the palace, where it had rotted and where real rats had feasted upon the painted faces of long-forgotten kings.

So two years ago, Vivia had sold off each item. Piece by piece and on channels that weren’t precisely legal. Dalmotti Guildmasters, it would seem, were quite willing to trade their food in secret if real Nubrevnan art was on the table.

When Vivia finally reached her father’s wing, it was to find the inevitable darkness. Serafin’s illness made his eyes sensitive to light; he now lived in a world of shadows. Rat scuttled ahead to open the door and announce her arrival.

Vivia swept past him the instant he’d finished. Twice as large as Vivia’s own bedroom, the king’s quarters were no less spare. A bed against the left wall with a stool beside the headboard. A hearth on the right wall, untouched and whooshing with winds. Closed shutters, closed curtains.

Vivia squared her body to her father. No bow. No salute. No word of greeting. Save your energy for the council, he would always say. With me, you can be yourself.

The king’s gray head rested upon a pillow. His breath rattled in … out … and in again. He motioned Vivia closer. Somehow, even with his frail shoulders pointing from his night robe, and even with the pervasive stink of death that hung here like mist atop the morning tide, Serafin captured command of the room.

Once Vivia reached him, though, she almost recoiled. Her father’s face, his eyes—they were ancient. Each visit was worse than the one before, but at least the king had seemed sharp when she’d come yesterday.

Cold pulled at the skin on Vivia’s neck. This illness had gone beyond frailty. His body was broken; his mind might soon follow.

“Sit,” he croaked, one elbow sliding back. Bracing as if to rise. Vivia helped him, his ribs so sharp against her fingers. Once the king was fully upright, she sat on the stool beside his bed.

“You wear a captain’s coat,” Serafin said, voice stronger now and all acerbic consonants like Aunt Evrane’s. “Why?”

“I was under the impression, Your Majesty, that you had taken over the position of admiral.” He had said as much two weeks ago, during the same conversation in which Vivia had informed him of Merik’s death.

“So the admiralty returns to me,” Serafin had said. But now he simply sighed.

“Do I look as if I can lead a fleet? Do not answer that,” he added, a spark of his dry humor rising. “All day long, the healers tell me I improve—the liars. Sycophantic idiots, all of them.” On and on he talked. About what the healers had told him, about how strong he’d been in his youth, about his years as admiral and king, and …

Vivia didn’t know what else. She wasn’t listening, and her frequent “mmm-hmms” and “hyes” were all a lie. She tried to listen—she truly did—yet all Serafin talked about was the past, rehashing the same stories she’d heard a thousand times before.

Noden hang her, she was a terrible daughter. This was a moment of triumph that she’d waited years to receive—he had just named her admiral—yet still, she couldn’t seem to bring herself to listen.

She swallowed, quickly adjusting her cuffs while her father prattled on. Now he was making jokes about the High Council, analyzing the vizers’ copious flaws, and Vivia managed a shrill laugh in reply. It was so easily done, after all, and it always earned her an approving smile.

Even better, it sometimes earned her, as it did today, a snide, “We are just alike, are we not? Nihars to the core. I heard what happened in the Battle Room today. Your trick with the water was well done. Show them that temper.”

Vivia’s chest warmed. Then she summoned exactly what she knew he’d love most: “They are imbeciles. All of them.”

He smiled as expected and then inhaled a phlegmy breath. Vivia’s heart stuttered … But no. He was fine.

“What did the Council say today? Brief me.”

“A hundred and forty-seven ships,” she said crisply, “passed the Sentries this week. Most were filled with Nubrevnans, Your Majesty. The vizers are worried about food—”

“Food is coming,” Serafin interrupted. “Thanks to our Foxes. We’ve accumulated a sizable supply beneath the palace, and those stores will keep us secure through this war. That treaty with the Cartorrans will help too, thanks to your brother using his brain.”

Vivia’s lungs tightened. I use my brain too, she wanted to say. The Foxes were my idea and my hard work. But she wouldn’t say that to her father. He always insisted that they share the glory of any good decisions—and that they share the blame for any bad ones.

Guilt tidal-waved through her. She had never told her father about the mythical under-city or the underground lake, and though she insisted to herself it was because she’d been sworn to secrecy by her mother, Vivia’s heart knew the truth. She was a selfish daughter; she didn’t want to share the glory if her hunt for the under-city ever paid off.

“And what of our negotiations with the Marstoks?” the king continued. “Another victory won by your brother that will keep us fed.” As he said this, Serafin’s eyes lingered on the mourning band at Vivia’s biceps. The king had yet to don one, which had puzzled Vivia at first, since Serafin seemed to have nothing but praise for Merik—at least since Merik had moved back to Lovats and joined the Royal Forces.