Yet still, he couldn’t seem to stop asking. “Why…” Blood sprayed with that word, splattered the flat steel of the cleaver. A fleck hit her cheek. “Why can’t … I…”
She eased the blade away from his throat. Not gently—it cut through skin and dragged onward, as if she was too tired to even lift it.
Aeduan’s impaled heart fluttered. It was a strange feeling of relief and confusion that lifted with the blood in his mouth. She wasn’t going to kill him. He had no idea why.
“Do it,” he rasped.
“No.” She shook her head, a jerky movement. Then wind—of the charged, unnatural variety—gusted over them. It sprayed her hair from her face, and Aeduan forced himself to note every detail.
He might not have been able to smell her blood, but he would remember her. He would remember her round jaw that didn’t quite fit with her pointed chin. He would remember her snub nose and pale freckles. Her angled, cat-like eyes. Her short lashes. And her narrow mouth.
“I will hunt you,” he croaked.
“I know.” The girl dropped the cleaver on the sand and used Aeduan’s chest to push herself upright. His ribs crunched, and his stomach squished. She was not light, and his organs were pulp.
“I will kill you,” he went on.
“No.” The girl’s eyes thinned; she pushed herself further upright and the moon streamed over her. “I d-d-d…” She coughed. Then wiped her mouth. “I don’t think you will.”
It seemed to take all her concentration to get those words out, and it was with an edge of frustration that her fingers laced around the stiletto once more.
She shoved the blade deeper into Aeduan’s heart.
Against his most desperate, frantic desire—against every instinct that screamed at him to stay alert—his eyelids fell shut for half an agonizing breath. A moan slipped over his tongue.
In that moment, the weight on his body vanished. Footsteps slapped through the water away from him.
When his eyes finally opened again, he saw no sign of the girl—not that he could have turned his head to look.
Then a wave washed over him, and Aeduan sank beneath the sea foam.
SIXTEEN
The wind roared in Safi’s ears as she flew. Her eyes streamed, her skirts tossed, and she quickly gave up shouting at Prince Merik to go back. He couldn’t hear her.
The ocean blurred beneath Safi, lucent and trembling, and Safi thought vaguely that she should enjoy this—she was flying after all.
But she didn’t enjoy it. All she cared about was Iseult, left behind. With the Bloodwitch.
In the back of her mind, other urgent thoughts snarled—like why Prince Merik was stealing Safi from the lighthouse. How he’d gotten there at such a perfect time.
Then Safi was hurtling much too fast toward a sharp-bowed Nubrevnan warship—and that engulfed all her other concerns.
Oars spun, sailors in blue scurried about, and a booming drumbeat hit Safi’s ears. Right as she thought she would crash onto the main deck and break all her bones, her pace slackened. She drifted gently down.
In two breaths, Safi had her balance and was on her feet. One more breath, and she had a lock on Prince Merik. He was almost to the quarterdeck by the time she grabbed his shirt and ripped him about. “Take me back!”
He didn’t resist but rather pointed toward shore. “My first mate has your friend.”
Safi followed his finger. Sure enough, she found the tall blond man with his attention on a figure flying this way.
Iseult.
But Safi’s Threadsister was limp. As Safi bolted for the first mate, she roared for a healer or surgeon or someone to help.
The first mate eased Iseult onto the quarterdeck with his magic, and Safi was instantly beside her. She tugged Iseult’s head onto her lap and pressed fingers to her throat, praying for a pulse … Yes, yes. Faint, but there.
Although, in the glaring moonlight, there was no missing the growing smear of red on Iseult’s arm or the dead Painstone around her neck.
Movement flickered in the corners of Safi’s vision. The prince, the first mate, other sailors closing in. Then came a flash of white and a woman’s voice. “Get my kit!”
Safi yanked around to find a Carawen monk striding toward her from the ladder belowdecks.
“Get away from that girl,” the woman ordered.
But Safi didn’t move. After being hunted by Carawens, she wasn’t about to let another one get close. If those four monks had been working with the Bloodwitch, then this one probably was too.
The woman had silver white hair, yet the way the moon glided over her skin, she couldn’t have been any older than Mathew or Habim—and she was freeing her blade with the poise of an equally skilled swordswoman. “Step back, girl.”
“So you can finish what the other monks started? No thank you.” In a rush of movement, Safi yanked a cutlass from the first mate’s scabbard, and spiraled at the Carawen monk … who deftly ducked beneath Safi’s next attack—and then slapped the flat of her blade against Safi’s knee.
“Someone stop her,” the monk yelled.
And just like that, Safi’s air choked off.
She tried to billow her lungs, to clench her stomach, to do anything that would draw in breath, but there was nothing.
With an easy swat, the monk knocked away Safi’s blade. The cutlass clattered across the wood, and Safi clutched at her throat. Stars blinked across her vision. The first mate was a full-blown Airwitch—and he was collapsing Safi’s lungs.
It was at that moment, as Safi’s knees buckled and the world swirled into darkness, that Merik stepped over her, his expression hard but not cruel. “Evrane means your friend no harm. She’s a healer monk, Domna. A Waterwitch healer.”
Safi clutched at her throat, unable to speak. To breathe.
“If you promise to behave,” he continued, “then Kullen will return your air. Can you promise that?”
Safi nodded desperately, but she was too late. Her body was too starved of breath, and darkness overtook her.
* * *
Safi awoke with her tongue fat and sticky. Footsteps thumped above, water sloshed against creaking wood, and the smell of salt and tar was thick in her nostrils. For several moments, all she could make out was a dark room with a weak beam of sunlight filtering through a window at her left. Then the room oriented, and Safi saw Iseult sprawled across a single, bolted-down pallet in the opposite corner. Iseult’s eyes were closed, her breath rasping.
Safi lurched to her feet, stumbling off a second pallet and almost sprawling flat from the blood roaring across her vision.
“Iseult?” She dropped to the floor beside her Threadsister. Sweat dripped down Iseult’s face, her skin even more ashen than usual, and when Safi pressed a gentle hand to Iseult’s brow, the skin was boiling.
Only once had Safi seen Iseult this badly hurt—after she’d broken her shinbone—but this injury was worse. There was no Mathew or Habim to help them now. Safi and Iseult were alone. Completely alone on a foreign ship with no one on their side.
And with none of it making any sense. Iseult had mentioned getting shot, but the how, the where, the why—Safi had absolutely no idea.
The iron latch on the door spun up. Safi stilled—the whole world stilled. Then the white-robed monk slipped in. Slowly, as if facing a wild animal, she flipped her hand in Safi’s direction. The sun-browned skin was marked with an upside-down triangle for Water witchery and a circle for her specialization with the fluids of the body. Safi fixed her gaze and her magic on the woman, and the longer she stared, the more she saw the healer’s heart was true.
Nonetheless, Safi couldn’t bring herself to fully trust … what had the prince called her? Evrane. Safi had been tricked too often lately. For now, she would watch the monk work and use the moment to gain any information she could.
Safi rolled to her feet and backed away from Iseult, hands up submissively. “I won’t interfere. Just make sure you heal her.”
“She??
?ll do the best she can,” said a new voice. Merik appeared in the doorway as the monk crossed lightly to Iseult.
Safi smiled at the prince, a bored, unthreatening flash of teeth. “I was wondering when you’d come along, Prince. Care to tell me where we are?”
“The western Jadansi. You’ve been onboard for four hours.” He stepped warily to the center of the room, as if he wasn’t stupid enough to trust Safi’s demeanor. He wore a simple navy frock coat over a fresh shirt and breeches, and Safi was suddenly struck by her own filth. Her gown was shredded and stained, and far too much of her dirt-streaked calves and thighs were exposed.
Then, faster—and more quietly—than Safi could have ever expected, Merik shot in close, hooked Safi’s arms behind her back, and pressed something cool against her throat. The smell of sandalwood and lemons pierced her nose.
Safi didn’t cower back, though. She simply cocked her head sideways and drawled, “You do realize your blade is still sheathed?”
“And you do realize that I can still kill you with it?” Merik’s breath tickled against her ear. “Now tell me, Domna: Are you wanted by the authorities? Any authorities of any nation?”
Her eyes narrowed. Merik had been at the ball. He had heard the betrothal announcement … Or had he? Safi hadn’t seen him in the crowd, so perhaps he’d abandoned the ball before Henrick’s declaration.
Safi prodded her magic for some indication of Merik’s true nature. Power instantly charged through her, both clawing and warm. A contradiction of falsehoods and truth, as if Merik might return Safi to Emperor Henrick if he were given the chance … Or he might not.
Safi couldn’t risk it. Yet before she could speak, Merik pressed the dagger harder to her flesh. “I have a crew to protect, as well as an entire nation. Your life is nothing compared to that. So do not lie to me. Are you wanted?”
Safi hesitated, considering if she was endangering Merik’s fleet. Uncle Eron had staged her flight to look like a kidnapping—that much Mathew had told her. Yet as far as she could tell, there was no way that Emperor Henrick could find out where Safi had been taken.
So she tipped up her chin—exposing her throat all the more.
“Your strategy is a poor one, Prince, for if there are people following me, I have no incentive to tell you.”
“Then I guess I’ll kill you.”
“Do it,” she taunted. “Slit my throat with your still-sheathed dagger. I’d love to see how you manage that.”
Merik’s expression didn’t waver. Nor did the dagger. “First tell me why the Carawens were after you.”
The monk’s shoulders stiffened, drawing Safi’s eyes to her white-cloaked back. “I have no idea, but you could ask that Carawen over there. She seems to know.”
“She doesn’t.” Merik’s voice was sharp with impatience. “And you would do well to address her properly. She is Monk Evrane, sister to King Serafin of Nubrevna.”
Now, there was some useful information. “So if Monk Evrane is the king’s sister,” Safi mused, “and the king is your father … Why, Monk Evrane must be your aunt! How nice.”
“I’m surprised,” Merik said, “it took you so long to figure this out. Even a Domna of Cartorra should be well-educated.”
“I never cared much for my studies,” she volleyed back—and Merik snorted.
It was a laughing snort that seemed to catch him by surprise—and seemed to annoy him too, for he abruptly schooled his face and withdrew the sheathed blade.
Safi cracked her jaw. Stretched her shoulders. “Now that was a fun standoff. Shall we do it again tomorrow?”
Merik ignored her, and with a free hand, he yanked a cloth from his coat and wiped down his engraved scabbard. “On this ship, my word is law, Domna. Do you understand? Your title means nothing here.”
Safi nodded and fought the overwhelming urge to roll her eyes.
“But I am willing to offer you a deal. I won’t lock you in chains if you promise to stop behaving like a feral dog and instead behave like the domna you’re supposed to be.”
“But Prince”—she lowered her eyelids in an indolent blink—“my title means nothing here.”
“I will take that as a ‘no’ then.” Merik turned as if to leave.
“Deal,” Safi spat, seeing it was time to fold. “We have a deal, Prince. But just so you know, it’s a cat.”
The prince frowned. “What’s a cat?”
“If I’m going to be anything feral, it’ll be a cat.” Safi bared her teeth. “A mountain lion, of the Nubrevnan fish-eating variety.”
“Hmm.” Merik tapped his chin. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of such a beast.”
“Then I suppose I am the first.” Safi waved dismissively at him before dropping back to Iseult’s side.
But Evrane lifted a halting hand. “You are too dirty to be here, Domna.” Her voice was husky, yet not unkind. “If you really want to help your friend, then you will get cleaned. Merik, will you see that she is taken care of?” She glanced at her nephew—who was already aiming for the doorway.
“It’s Admiral Nihar,” the prince corrected. “At least while we’re at sea, Aunt Evrane.”
“Is that so?” the monk asked calmly. “In that case, it is Monk Evrane. At least while we are at sea.”
Safi had just enough time to see Merik’s expression turn sour before the prince was out the door—and Safi was scrambling after him.
* * *
Climbing the ladder topside proved harder than Safi anticipated—what with her body sore and the relentless onslaught of an early morning sun. Hissing and rubbing her eyes, she stumbled across the stone-scoured deck. Her legs were numb from disuse, and as soon as she got a solid grip on the wood, the ship would groan and heave the other way.
The prince walked just ahead, deep in conversation with his first mate, Kullen, so Safi angled a hand over her eyes. Learn your terrain. There was little to see beyond rolling waves—only the eastern horizon had a craggy spit of land separating the sea from a cloudless sky.
Safi scooted around sailors. They scrubbed the wood, scurried up the riggings, heaved and towed—all to the hoarse bellows of a limping older man. Though some stopped to salute their prince, not all of them paused. One man in particular caught Safi’s attention, her witchery curdling at the sight of him—as if to say he was untrustworthy. Corrupt.
“’Matsi-loving smut,” the man snarled as Safi passed.
She grinned at him in return, making absolutely certain to memorize his square-jawed face.
Soon she had stumbled to the ship’s stern (she counted thirty paces) and stepped into the welcome shadow of the quarterdeck. Merik opened a door, murmuring something to Kullen. Then the first mate saluted and marched back the way he’d come—his voice rising with surprising ferocity. “Did I say you could take a caulk, Leeri? No naps until you’re dead!”
With her ears ringing from Kullen’s roar and her vision blanketed by the loss of sunlight, Safi paused at the doorway until the room took shape.
It was an elegant cabin and not at all the sort of space she would’ve imagined for a rugged man like Merik. In fact, he seemed rigid and uncomfortable as he waited beside an intricately carved table with high-backed chairs.
“Shut the door,” he ordered. Safi did, but tensed her muscles. She might have danced and fought with this man, but that didn’t mean she trusted him in a room alone.
False, countered her power, a sense of calm winding through her chest. Merik is safe.
Safi relaxed … but only slightly. Perhaps he meant her no physical harm, but she still didn’t know if he was ally or opponent.
Merik pointed vaguely to the back of the room. “There is water for cleaning and a uniform for you.”
Safi followed his finger to a collection of shiny swords on the back wall. Beneath the swords sat a small barrel and some white towels upon a low bed.
She didn’t care about the water or the towels—it was the swords she found intriguing. They were strapped down, yet clearly
easy to snap free. Though only if she found she needed one, of course.
Merik seemed to misinterpret Safi’s stare, for his expression softened. “My aunt is a good healer. She will help your Threadsister.”
True. “What about you, though, Prince? Will you kill Iseult for being Nomatsi?”
Merik’s lips bounced open—with shock. With revulsion. “If I hated Nomatsis, Domna, then I would have killed her on sight.”
“What of your men?” Safi pressed. “Will they hurt Iseult?”
“They follow my orders,” he answered.
But Safi didn’t like how her magic winced at that statement. As if it were not quite true. Her foot started tapping. Her bare foot. “Do I get new shoes?”
“I haven’t found any that will fit you.” Merik smoothed at his shirt, pulling cotton against the lines of his chest. “For the time being, you will go barefoot. Will you survive?”
“Yes.” Habim had insisted Safi toughen her feet against the elements. You never know in what condition you’ll find yourself, he always said. Shoes should be a luxury, not a requirement. At least once a month he’d insisted that Safi and Iseult go barefoot for a whole day, and both girls had enough callouses to walk across hot coals. Or … at least very hot sand.
Merik grunted, almost gratefully, and gestured for Safi to join him at the table. She did, though she made sure to stay on the opposite side. Within bolting distance for the swords—just in case the world suddenly went to goat tits (as it had been inclined to do lately) and Safi had to fight her way through the entire ship.
“The Jana is here.” Merik plunked a coin-size replica of the Jana on the map. Like a magnet to a lodestone, the boat slithered over the paper and locked in place near the eastern coast of the narrow Jadansi Sea.
“We are going here.” Merik twirled his fingers—graceful fingers, despite their roughness—and a soft breeze puffed into the miniature Jana’s sails. It slipped over the map, scooting past another tiny vessel before stopping beside a series of islands. “There is a town in the Hundred Isles called Lejna, and I am charged with leaving you there. We should arrive tomorrow.”