“Hundred Isles,” Safi repeated softly. “And what do you expect me to do once I’m there?”
“I was simply told to leave you. I have no idea why, since it’s a ghost town, but the compensation is too good for me to ignore: a trade agreement with the Hasstrels.”
Safi’s eyebrows bounced high. “You do realize that our estate is practically crown-owned, our farmers are half-starved, and we have no money left.”
“Any contract,” Merik said, jaw clenching, “is better than what Nubrevna currently has. If I can open trade with a single Cartorran estate, then I’ll take it.”
Safi nodded absently, no longer listening. When Merik had said contract, his eyes had slid to a rolled-up scroll at the edge of the table. Yet before Safi could ask about it, her stomach growled. “What of food, Prince?”
“You didn’t eat enough at the ball?” Merik offered a grin.
But Safi couldn’t smile back. The ball and the Nubrevnan four-step were a lifetime ago.
As if reading her mind, Merik’s smile faltered. He fiddled with his collar. “I didn’t realize it would be you, Domna. Had I known at the ball that you were my passenger—” He shrugged, his mind clearly turning inward. His thoughts tumbling aloud. “I suppose I would have taken you to the Jana and saved us both a lot of time and trouble. But your name wasn’t on my Wordwitched contract until after I left the party. Even then, I didn’t realize you were the Domna of Hasstrel.”
Safi nodded, unsurprised. Eron had needed her at the party as his distracting right hand, and his plan would never have worked if Merik had carried her away too soon.
More important, Merik would never have agreed to carry Safi at all had he known to whom she would end up betrothed.
A silence spread, broken only by the groaning wood and shouting sailors. Merik turned his attention to the charts—and Safi couldn’t resist studying him.
Although she knew Merik must be the same age as Leopold, he seemed so much older. His shoulders were broad and high, the muscles oft-used, while his skin was sun-darkened and rough. At the moment, a triangular crease burrowed between his eyebrows, as if he frowned often.
Merik took his duties as prince and admiral seriously. Safi didn’t need her magic to know that—and an unexpected dread cinched in her chest. She didn’t want Merik hurt by her uncle’s schemes. As far as she could tell, she and Merik were both just puppets. Both just cards being played against their will.
The Queen of Bats and the King of Foxes, she thought fancifully … Then more savagely: Or perhaps we have no taro suit at all, and we’re both just Fools.
Merik adjusted his collar and glanced at the door. “Food is on the way, Domna, so clean up. And for both our sakes, please scrub well.” Again, he offered a slight smile before marching briskly from the cabin. Safi watched him go, waiting until he was firmly outside the cabin …
The door clicked shut, and in less than a heartbeat, she had dived to the scroll and unfurled it.
Written in a familiar script was exactly what Merik had described.
This agreement is between Eron fon Hasstrel and Merik Nihar of Nubrevna. Merik Nihar will provide passage for Safiya fon Hasstrel, from Veñaza City in the Dalmotti Empire to Lejna in Nubrevna. Upon the passenger’s safe delivery to the seventh pier in Lejna, negotiations for a trade agreement will begin.
All negotiations on page two of this contract will terminate should Merik Nihar fail to bring the passenger to Lejna, should the passenger spill any blood, or should the passenger die.
Safi flipped to the second page, which was filled with dull language like “imports” and “market value.” She rubbed the pages between her fingers. They were light and filmy.
Wordwitchery. And since the handwriting was clearly Mathew’s, Safi knew whose magic it was.
It was the same sort of document as the Twenty Year Truce. Once the bargain was fulfilled, Merik and Uncle Eron could alter the contract’s language and negotiate over great distances.
Safi flipped to the end of the document. It bore the usual language—identical, in fact, to the final page of the Truce.
If all parties are in agreement, then they must sign below. Should any party fail to meet the terms agreed upon, his or her name will vanish from this document.
A knock sounded at the door.
Safi jumped—then she shoved the contract pages back together. “Just a moment!”
“I have food for you,” a muffled voice answered.
Kullen. The brutish first mate. She tossed the contract onto the table before shooting to the back of the room. After dunking a cloth into the barrel, she called, “Come in!”
Then Safi hardened her face. She would cooperate with her new allies, but at any sign of trouble—at any hint that Kullen might take her breath again—Safi was claiming control. There were swords within easy reach and a contract that said she couldn’t spill any blood.
SEVENTEEN
Merik strode across the Jana’s main deck, scowling into the hot sun. Getting Safiya fon Hasstrel to Lejna without incident might prove harder than he’d planned. She behaved like she fought, like she danced—pushing people to the edge and testing their limits.
It hardly helped that Safiya’s legs had been on display since he’d rescued her, distractingly paler than her arms and face. It was that pallor that unnerved Merik. The undeniable fact that he was seeing skin meant only for a lover’s eyes.
Merik expelled a rough breath. Thinking of Safiya fon Hasstrel in an intimate capacity was not wise. Whenever he considered her—or was near her—the Nihar rage kindled. Boiled up hot and fast.
Since Merik’s temper had snapped in the Doge’s dining room, there had been a charge in his veins that made his breath gust. Made him want to summon vast, angry winds. It was the same wild anger that he’d released too easily as a child. He couldn’t give into it now, if for no other reason than it was too much like Vivia. Unbridled and violent.
Merik didn’t like unbridled. He didn’t like rough seas. He liked order and control and perfectly tucked-in shirttails. He liked calm waves, clear skies, and knowing his fury was leagues away.
Therefore, Merik would have to avoid Safiya as much as possible—no matter how easily she startled laughs and smiles from him. And no matter how distracting her bare legs might be.
The closest of Merik’s sailors—men from his previous ship—paused their mopping to salute. Crisp, earnest movements from sailors Merik could trust to their watery graves.
Merik nodded curtly before his gaze drifted to the Tidewitch helmsman. That man was a holdover from King Serafin’s crew, and like most of the King’s old men, the Tidewitch was thoroughly unimpressed by Merik. Still, at least he steered the Jana true.
For now.
Merik ran a thorough eye up each mast, across the rigging, over the sails. Everything appeared to be orderly, so he set off for the ladder belowdecks.
Once he was under and firmly ensconced within the passenger cabin, he found his aunt fidgeting with her opal earring. “I just spoke with Voicewitch Hermin,” she said quietly. “He has managed to contact the Voicewitch at the Carawen Monastery. It turns out that the monks at the lighthouse were ordered to capture the domna alive, yet once the monks saw her, most of them backed off.”
“Why?” Merik asked, glancing at the sleeping Iseult. How anyone could fear her was beyond him. Then again, he’d seen many Nomatsi caravans as a boy, so he was used to their deathly pallor and pitch-black hair.
When his aunt didn’t answer his question, Merik turned back to her. She was shaking her head. “All I know for certain is that there is one Carawen monk still hunting the domna. His name is Aeduan, and he works for the highest bidder.” With a loud exhale, Evrane moved to the window and squinted into the sun. “So long as he lives, these girls are in danger—for Aeduan is a Bloodwitch, Merik.”
Merik’s head reared back. “Such a thing exists?” At his aunt’s grim nod, he thought back to the fight at the lighthouse. In the insanity of the mome
nt, he’d thought he had imagined the red in the young monk’s eyes. The way the monk had locked Safiya in place.
But no. It had all been real. A Bloodwitch had been real.
“Surely, though,” Merik said slowly, “this Bloodwitch cannot reach us before Lejna. And once we drop off the domna, the monk is no longer our problem.”
Evrane’s eyebrows shot up. “You would abandon these girls to a wolf so easily?”
“To protect my crew I would. To protect Nubrevna.”
“Yet an entire crew could face a single man. Even a Bloodwitch.”
“Not without casualties, and I can’t risk my sailors for two girls—no matter how badly we need that contract. Once we drop off the domna, then she and her friend are no longer my problem.”
“Has so much time passed since I saw you last?” Color rose on Evrane’s cheeks. “If you think that your father will respect you more because you act like Vivia—because you abandon helpless girls—then perhaps you do not want your father’s respect.”
For a long moment, the only sounds were the groan of the ship planks and the slosh of the waves. “You have no right,” Merik clipped out at last, “to compare me to Vivia. She regards her crew as fish fodder; I see them as family. She resorts to piracy in order to feed Nubrevna; I look for permanent solutions.” Merik’s voice lifted as he spoke, his anger burning brighter. Hotter. “Domna fon Hasstrel offers one of those solutions, and she is anything but helpless. So I will protect my men—tooth and talon—and leave the domna to fend for herself.”
On the mattress, Iseult stirred in her sleep, and Merik’s breath loosed out. He willed his temper below the surface. His aunt meant well, and she had every reason to prevent Merik from acting like his sister.
“Please,” Merik finished gruffly, “remember that the Nubrevnan navy doesn’t normally ferry monks—or outcast nobility—across the ocean, and should Father learn I’ve taken you onboard … well, you can guess his reaction. Don’t make me regret my decision to carry you. I’ll protect Domna Safiya for as long as the Hasstrel contract remains unfulfilled, and I’ll get her to Lejna by any means I have. But at first sign of the Bloodwitch, my men must come first.”
For several long moments, Evrane stood still and silent, her eyes locked on Merik’s. But then she released a sharp breath and turned away. “Yes, Admiral Nihar. As you wish.”
Merik watched the back of her silver head as she shuffled to the pallet and once more knelt by Iseult. An urge to apologize tickled the back of his throat—a need to ensure Evrane understood why he made these choices.
But Evrane had made up her mind about the Nihar family long ago. Her relationship to King Serafin was no better than Merik’s was to Vivia. Worse, even.
As Merik left the cabin and made his way above, he considered the best way to handle the Bloodwitch if indeed the man was alive. It would seem the only strategy would be to reach Lejna in the shortest time possible. So, though Merik was loath to do it, he would have to call on his Tidewitches once more. Of course, that would leave his sailors with little to do.
Fortunately, Merik knew exactly how to handle downtime. “Drill positions!” he bellowed, cupping his hands. “I want all sailors in drill positions now!”
* * *
Iseult drifted in sleep. She’d been stuck in that awful place between dreams and waking—that hole where you knew if you could only open your eyes, you’d be alive. This half-dreaming had always struck her during illness. When she’d wanted nothing more than to wake up and beg for a tincture to ease her swollen throat or itchy pox.
The worst, though, was when the half-dreams grabbed hold of Iseult amidst a nightmare. When she knew that she could flee a shadow’s grasp if she could just …
Wake.
Up.
A loud creak sounded above her, and with great effort, she lifted her eyelids. The shadows reared back … only to be replaced by pain. Every inch of her was drowning in the agony.
A woman materialized, her hair silver and face familiar. I am still dreaming, Iseult thought hazily.
But then the woman touched Iseult’s bicep and it was like a firepot going off. The here and the now kicked into Iseult’s body.
“You,” Iseult croaked out. “Why … are you here?”
“I’m healing you,” the monk said calmly, her Threads a glittering, concentrated green. “You have an arrow wound on your arm—”
“No.” Iseult fumbled for the monk’s beautifully white cloak. “I mean … you.” Her words spun … no, the room spun and Iseult’s words swirled with it. She wasn’t even sure she spoke in Dalmotti. It might’ve been Nomatsi falling from her tongue.
“You,” she tried again—almost certain that she was, indeed, using the Dalmotti word for you, “rescued me.” As she squeezed the words past the pain and the spinning, she noticed dirt smudges on the monk’s cloak. She instantly released her grip, ashamed. Then she sucked in a thin breath. So much pain. Boiling like hot tar. Stasis. Stasis in your fingertips and in your toes.
“Six and a half years ago, you f-found me at a crossroads. North of Veñaza City. I was a little girl, and I’d lost my way. I had a ragdoll.”
Air hissed between the woman’s teeth. She rocked back, Threads shining with confused tan. Then her head shook faster, her Threads now turquoise with disbelief …
Until suddenly, she was leaning in close, blinking and blinking and blinking. “Your name is Iseult?”
Iseult nodded, briefly distracted from her pain. The monk’s eyes gleamed strangely, as if tears welled. But perhaps that was the darkness of the room. The angle of the sun. The monk’s Threads showed no blue grief—only plum eagerness and giddy pink.
“That was you,” the monk continued, “on the coast six and a half years ago?”
“I was twelve,” Iseult said. “M-my doll’s name was … Eridysi.”
Again, a sharp exhale from the monk. A swaying backward as if felled by what she heard. “And did you learn my name? Did I tell it to you?”
“I don’t think so.” Iseult’s voice was weak and distant, but she couldn’t tell if it was because her ears or her throat had stopped working. The fire in her arm was kicking upward now, like a rising tide.
The monk drew back, quickly becoming the capable healer once more. She laid a warm hand on Iseult’s shoulder, just above the arrow wound. Iseult flinched, then relaxed as sleep tugged at her.
But Iseult didn’t want sleep. She couldn’t face the dreams again. Wasn’t it bad enough that she’d been beaten and mobbed in real life? To have to relive it in her sleep …
“Please,” she said thickly, reaching for the monk’s cloak once more—not caring about the dirt. “No more dreams.”
“There will be no dreams,” the woman murmured. “I promise, Iseult.”
“And … Safi?” The pull of slumber rippled down Iseult’s spine. “She’s here?”
“She is here,” the monk confirmed. “She should return at any moment. Now sleep, Iseult, and heal.”
So Iseult did as she was told—not that she could have resisted even if she’d wanted to—and sank beneath the tide of a healing sleep.
EIGHTEEN
Far north of the Jana and yet in the same waters, Aeduan the Bloodwitch awoke. He was roused by the annoying sensation of fingers poking his ribs.
As the clouds of unconsciousness receded, Aeduan’s senses expanded. Sunlight warmed his face and water caressed his arms. He smelled brine.
“Is he dead?” asked a high voice. A child.
“’Course he’s dead,” said a second child whom Aeduan suspected was the one fidgeting with his baldric. “He washed ashore last night and ain’t moved since. How much you think his knives’ll sell for?”
A snap sounded—as if Aeduan’s baldric had been unbuckled.
The final dregs of sleep fell away. His eyes popped wide, he grabbed the child’s wrist—and the scrawny boy picking his pockets yelped. A few paces away, a second boy gawped on. Then they both started shrieking—and Aeduan
’s eardrums almost split.
He released the first boy, who scuttled away in a flurry of kicked-up sand. It sprayed Aeduan, and a groan rattled over his tongue. He punched his fists into the beach—they sank into the soupy, wet sand—and shoved himself upright.
The world shook and smeared: beige beach, blue sky, brown marshlands, running boys, and a scampering sandpiper several feet away. Aeduan gave up trying to sort out where he was—this landscape could have been anywhere around Veñaza City. Instead, he turned his attention to his body.
Though it strained his muscles, he reached down to start with his toes. His boots were intact, though completely soaked—the leather would shrink as soon as they dried—but nothing in his feet was broken.
His legs were fully healed too, though his right pant leg had ripped all the way to the knee and there were long strands of marsh reed wrapped around his calf.
Next he inspected his thighs, his hips and waist, his ribs (still a bit tender), his arms … Ah, the scars on his chest were bleeding—which meant the ones on his back would be bleeding too. But those tiny slices were old wounds. Ancient, even. The cursed things opened and seeped whenever Aeduan was hurt to the brink of death.
At least nothing new bled, nothing was broken, and nothing was missing that he couldn’t replace. He still had his salamander cloak and his Carawen opal. As for what the Nomatsi girl had taken—his stiletto and his cleaving knife—he could easily get more.
Yet thinking of the Nomatsi girl with no blood-scent made Aeduan want to gut something. His hand moved to his baldric, and as the sandpiper pranced closer, his fingers twitched over a throwing knife.
But no. Scaring the bird would do nothing to sate his fury. Only finding the Threadwitch would.
Not that he knew what he would do to the Threadwitch once he found her. Killing her definitely wasn’t it—he owed her a life-debt now. She’d spared him (sort of) and he would have to repay that.
Yet if there was one thing Aeduan hated, it was saving lives he wasn’t supposed to care about. There was only one other person to whom he owed such a debt, and at least she fully deserved it.