Windwitch (The Witchlands 2)

By the time he found Cam in the bathhouse’s entryway, counting planks in the wall, the girl’s skin shone, her black hair looking downy as a gosling’s. Like Merik, she wore a plain white tunic and baggy tan pants, but they were huge on her, even rolled up and belted. Unlike Merik, she lacked shoes or a hooded cloak, but then again, Merik supposed she didn’t need them. Her face wasn’t lined by scars, and she wasn’t the one for whom the wind-drums sang.

“I think,” he said, coming to her side, “I still reek of sewage. And I am certain it’s burned in my nose forever.”

Instead of the grin he’d anticipated, all Merik earned was a grunt. It was so unlike the girl that he gave her a double take. She had already turned away, was already planting a hand on the exit.

The city stewed with humidity and humans and heat, but Cam had no commentary on that either—nor on the soldiers she had to rush Merik past. Nor even on the massive puddle of only Noden knew what that she planted her clean heels directly into.

The grim slant to her lips never parted. The furrow on her brow never smoothed away.

It wasn’t until she and Merik were firmly back in Kullen’s tenement that Cam’s silence finally broke.

She stalked to the window’s hazy glass, gazing outside for two breaths, and then rounded on Merik. Her cheeks flushed with what Merik hoped was heat but suspected might be anger.

“I’ve thought long and hard about it, sir, ever since we left those storerooms. I’ve decided that we need help.”

“Help,” Merik repeated, easing off his new cloak—much too large—and draping it across the bed. “With what exactly?”

“Dead men comin’ back to life.” She thrust out her chin, as if preparing an argument. “Whatever that was—whatever we saw in the storerooms, it wasn’t right. It was … unholy!”

“And I’m sure the guards will deal with it.”

“What if they don’t? What if they can’t? Or what if they didn’t even see what we saw? Someone needs to know there’s dark magic happening in the Cisterns, sir.”

“Someone?” he asked carefully, though he already saw where this was headed.

“The Royal Forces. Or … or the High Council.”

“Ah, right.” Merik laughed a dry, cruel sound. “You mean the Royal Forces and the High Council that are led by my sister. Who, in case you’ve forgotten, tried to kill me.”

“We don’t know she did that. Not for certain.”

“Don’t we, though?” A hot, charged breeze scraped through his chest. Merik fought it. He wouldn’t let it loose—not on Cam. “We know she left us for dead at sea.”

“She did that for the Foxes, sir. I ain’t saying it was right, but she got those weapons for the Foxes, and we just saw, plain as rain, that her piracy is working.”

For half a shallow breath, all he could do was stare at Cam. Then, with lethal slowness, he said, “What we saw was Vivia hoarding food. For herself. Are you taking her side, Cam?”

“No!” Cam’s hands shot up. “I just … we can’t face corpses that wake up, sir! Not on our own! And what if,” she pressed, “the princess didn’t try to kill you? What if it was … well, what if it was someone connected to that dead man in the storerooms?” She stumbled two steps toward Merik.

But he turned away. He couldn’t look at her. The one person he’d trusted, the one person who’d stood by him through everything … Now she was turning on him too.

He fixed his eyes on Kullen’s books. On The True Tale of the Twelve Paladins. His lungs were expanding, pressing against his ribs with a rage that begged to be used. To pummel and break. To go head-to-head with his sister, once and for all.

“Vivia,” he forced out, “is the one who tried to kill us.”

“No,” Cam snarled. “She ain’t. Look at me, sir.”

Merik didn’t look at her, and his winds were spinning now. Small, turbulent chops.

Cam stomped in closer, her shirt flapping like sailcloth the instant she got close. “Look at me!”

“Why?” Merik had to pitch his voice over the building winds. The cover of The True Tale popped wide open. “What do you want from me, Cam?”

“I want you to see the truth! I want you to face it, sir. I ain’t blind, you know—I’ve seen the marks on your chest, and on your arms! Just like the dead man in the cellar. We need answers, sir, and I think I know where—”

“And I ain’t blind either, Cam.” Merik finally turned toward her. “I can see blighted well that you’re a girl.”

For half a windswept breath, she gawped at him. Surprised. “Is that what you think I am? All this time, and you still haven’t sorted it out?” Then she barked a hollow laugh. “Why am I surprised? You didn’t notice me when we were on the Jana. You couldn’t even remember my name back then, so why should I expect you to understand—to see me for what I am now!”

Cam thrust in closer, until there was nothing but her face mere inches away. Too close for Merik’s hot winds to even spiral between. “You think you’re so selfless,” she spat. “You think you’re working to save everyone, but what if you’re going about it all wrong? At least when I live as a boy, no one gets hurt. But you pretendin’ to be a martyr? Pretending to be the Fury? That hurts everyone.”