After Evrane seemed satisfied with Safi’s health, she examined Iseult’s arm and Safi moved to the window to watch the approaching shore. Her muscles burned from the movement, from the strain of simply standing. She liked it, though. It kept away the cold, the thoughts of Merik, the horrors of Iseult’s tribe, and all the other things that were best ignored.
There was little for Safi to see outside, though. Rock walls and spindrift misting the glass. If she craned her neck, she could just glimpse pale dawn skies.
“Where are we?” she asked Evrane.
“A cove that belongs to the Nihar family,” the monk answered. “It has been a secret for centuries. Until today.” Her tone was icy, and when Safi glanced back, she found the monk scowling as she wound a fresh bandage around Iseult’s arm.
“The cove is inaccessible from land,” Evrane went on, “since cliffs surround it and there is only enough space for a single ship. But”—she tied off the clean linen with a satisfied nod—“I think you will see it for yourselves soon enough. The admiral plans to take us ashore. From here, we continue to Lejna on foot.”
TWENTY-NINE
Merik stood in Kullen’s cabin, staring down at his Threadbrother. Kullen’s face was gray, his knuckles massaging his breastbone as he watched Merik from a low cot. Ryber had stuffed a sack of flour behind Kullen’s back to prop up his head and lungs, so now white powder stuck to his hair and cheeks. With only the pale dawn to illuminate his face, he looked like a corpse.
The cabin, however, looked very much alive.
Kullen’s single trunk beneath the window overflowed with his usual organized chaos, and there was no missing the clear trail of shirts and breeches that led to the bed.
“Too busy reading to fold up your uniform?” Merik asked, settling onto the edge of the cot.
“Ah, you caught me.” Kullen clapped shut a red-leather book. The True Tale of the Twelve Paladins. “I can’t resist rereading the epics. If I’m forced to stay in bed, I should be entertained.” He pitched a glance at the clothes on the floor. Then winced. “I suppose I did make a mess.”
Merik nodded absently and leaned onto his knees. He didn’t care about the uniform; Kullen knew that.
“I shouldn’t be gone more than half a week,” Merik said.
“Don’t rush on my account.” Kullen flashed one of his frightening attempts at a smile—but it was almost instantly shattered by coughing.
Once the attack had passed, Merik went on. “I’ll go north to the estate and find Yoris. I don’t think he’ll mind Safiya, but he might make trouble over Iseult. He never liked the ’Matsis.”
“He also never liked your aunt.” Kullen hissed out a careful breath and leaned onto the flour sack. “I assume she’ll join your little party?”
“I doubt I can keep her away.”
“Well, if Yoris gives you any trouble, tell him”—Kullen twirled a hand, and a current of cool air tickled over Merik—“I’ll crush him with a hurricane.”
Merik scowled at Kullen’s display of power, but again, he held his silence. They’d argued for years over how often and how deeply Kullen tapped into his witchery; Merik didn’t want to leave on that note today.
“Should I visit your mother while I’m inland?”
Kullen shook his head. “I’ll go once I’m better. If that’s all right with you.”
“Of course. Take Ryber with you. Just in case.”
Kullen’s eyebrows sprang high.
“I’ll tell Hermin I’ve ordered it,” Merik hastened to add. “Ryber knows how to help you in case of an attack—and the crew is aware that she knows. It’s only logical she join you. Besides…” Merik frowned at his fingernails; there was flour and dirt beneath them. “I don’t think it matters anymore if the crew finds out about you. The admiralty’s over, Kullen. Lovats won’t answer, and it’s looking more and more like Vivia spoke the truth about my father.”
“I’m not surprised,” Kullen said quietly.
Merik grunted and picked at his thumbnail. This was another long-hashed point of disagreement—Kullen believed that Vivia’s nature was spurred on by Serafin. That the king wanted his children forever at odds.
But Merik considered that theory complete crap. For all of King Serafin’s failings, he wouldn’t waste his energy on stirring trouble—particularly when Vivia instigated plenty of it on her own.
“What I do know, Kullen, is that this grave is deep, and I still haven’t dug us out.”
“You can, though.” Kullen angled forward, flour puffing from the top of the sack. Were the situation any different, it would’ve made Merik—and Kullen—laugh. “If you get to Lejna and you get your trade agreement, then it’ll all work out. You’re destined for greatness, Merik. I still believe that.”
“Not much greatness. The trade will only be with one Cartorran estate out of hundreds. And the land here…” Merik gestured to the window, a self-deprecating laugh stuck in his throat. “It’s no better than a year ago. I don’t know why I keep hoping, but I do. Every cursed time we come back, I hope it’ll be alive again.”
Kullen exhaled, a rattling sound that made Merik sit up. “You’re tired. I’ll go.”
“Wait.” Kullen snagged Merik’s jacket sleeve, and the warmth in the air vanished again. “Promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“Promise me you’ll consider a tumble in the sheets while you’re away. You’re so tense”—he gulped in air—“I can’t even look at you without my lungs wanting to seize.”
Merik barked a laugh. “And here I was expecting something serious. I have plenty of reasons to be tense, you know.”
“Still.” Kullen waved wearily.
“And with whom should I tumble exactly? I don’t see many women clambering for the position.”
“The domna.”
Now Merik really laughed. “I am not tumbling with a domna. Especially one who’s betrothed to the Emperor of Cartorra. Plus, she makes my temper flare out of control. Every time I think it’s smooth sailing, she’ll say something offensive and the squall returns.”
Kullen choked, but when Merik’s eyes snapped to him with alarm, he found that Kullen was simply laughing—albeit wheezily. “That’s not your temper, you big dolt. It’s your magic responding to a woman like Noden intended. What the Hell do you think happens to my witchery when Ryber and I—”
“I don’t want to know!” Merik flung up flat-palmed hands. “I really don’t want to know.”
“Fine, fine.” Kullen’s laughter subsided, though a crooked grin stayed on his lips.
And Merik had to smother the urge to throttle his Threadbrother. This was not the conversation he’d come for, and he didn’t want to leave Kullen on the thoroughly pointless topic of sheet tumbles.
So Merik forced himself to nod and smile. “Give your mother my best, and if you need me, pound the wind-drum. We’ll stay beside the coast most of the way to Lejna.”
“Hye.” Kullen’s fist returned to his breastbone, and he nodded tiredly. “Safe harbors, Merik.”
“Safe harbors,” he answered before marching from the room. Once he was topside, he shouted for Ryber to bring up the prisoners—and he made sure to call them prisoners. Not collateral, not passengers. Simply prisoners. It made it easier to ignore Kullen’s suggestions. He wouldn’t look at Safiya, he wouldn’t speak to her, and he certainly wouldn’t think of her in that way. Then, when Merik reached Lejna, he would leave her behind and he would never, ever see her again.
* * *
Iseult followed Safi—who followed Evrane who followed Ryber—through the dark hold to the ladder. Two sailors glared at Iseult as she mounted the first rung. They muttered to themselves, their Threads shivering with dislike.
Safi—in typical Safi fashion—fixed a glare on the sailors and dragged a slow thumb across her neck.
Their Threads flared with gray fear.
Iseult gritted her teeth, glancing at Evrane to see if she’d noticed. The monk hadn’t, but stil
l—Iseult would have to remind Safi (for the thousandth time) not to show that sort of aggression. Safi meant well, but her threats only brought more attention to Iseult’s otherness—only made Iseult more aware of the stares and the curses and the gray, gray Threads.
Usually Safi knew better than to raise her hackles so blatantly, but things were different now. Ever since her time in the leg irons, Safi’s Threads hadn’t stopped beating with rusty guilt. Golden shame. Blue regret.
Iseult had never seen anything like it from her Threadsister. Had never known Safi could care so deeply about causing someone grief—someone who wasn’t Iseult, at least.
Iseult and Safi reached the Jana’s empty quarterdeck. Abruptly, Safi’s Threads flamed with new colors. Taupe horror. Blue sadness. It all wound within the guilt and shame and regret.
At the foot of the cliffs spanning high over the Jana was a silent gray-pebbled beach. Only the footsteps of sailors disrupted the rhythmic waves and wind. There was no chittering from swallows or laughter from raucous gulls. No pelicans to sit elegantly on the rocks, no shearwaters to glide by.
The birds were there, but they weren’t in any state to sing or fly. Crooked corpses and hollow skeletons covered the beach or floated on the gentle, low-tide waves. There were hundreds of dead fish too—washed ashore and crispy from the sun.
How many thousands of corpses had gathered here over the years? How many more washed in each day?
Iseult bent her gaze to Evrane, wondering how the monk felt seeing her home again. But Evrane’s Threads remained calm, and only a flicker of sadness twined through them.
Iseult cleared her throat and swallowed the need to stammer. “I thought it was the water that was poisonous, Monk Evrane. Not the fish.”
“But the fish,” Evrane answered, moving to Iseult’s other side, “travel through the poisoned water and die. Then the birds eat them and die too.”
Safi swayed against the bulwark, her face and Threads a mask of horror.
Iseult, however, stayed perfectly still, wishing she knew how to sculpt her face like Safi. Wishing she could make Evrane understand that her lungs ached at the sight of this ruined land, that her ribs felt like ice-veined granite. Yet Iseult had no masks and no words, so she stayed locked in place.
Threads flamed at the edge of her vision, and she didn’t have to turn to know who strode up the companionway. Who moved to Evrane’s side and slid his spyglass from his jacket.
The Threads between Merik and Safi were stronger now, and a confusing clash of contradictions. The outer strands, like a starfish’s legs, reached and grabbed with purple hunger. Burgundy passion. A hint of blue regret.
And more than a little crimson rage.
This bond could get explosive, Iseult thought, rubbing furiously at the bridge of her nose.
“What is it?” Safi asked.
Iseult flinched. She’d been so caught up in the Threads, she hadn’t noticed Safi turning toward her. “It’s nothing,” Iseult murmured, even though she knew Safi would recognize the lie.
“She has no shoes!” Evrane cried, snapping away Safi’s attention.
Merik’s nostrils flared, and though Safi’s lips parted—likely to argue she was fine without shoes—Merik roared, “Ryber! Get the domna some shoes!”
The ship’s girl popped up the companionway, chewing her lip. “I can get her boots, Admiral, but she’ll need to come with me belowdecks. It’s easier to bring her to the shoes than the other way around.”
“Do it.” Merik waved dismissively, already focusing his spyglass to shore again.
Safi glanced at Iseult. “Want to come?”
“I’ll stay.” If she joined Safi, then Safi might ply her with questions. Questions that could lead to the binding Threads …
Or worse—to the shadow voice in Iseult’s nightmares.
“I want to be outside,” Iseult added, “in the fresh air.”
Safi wasn’t buying it. She glanced at the nearest sailors, who scrambled up the masts. Then she dragged her skeptical gaze back to Iseult. “Are you sure?”
“I’ll be fine, Safi. You forget that I taught you the art of evisceration.”
Safi scoffed, but her Threads flared with amused pink. “Is that so, dear Threadsister? Have you already forgotten that it was me they called The Great Eviscerator back in Veñaza City?” Safi flung a dramatic hand high as she twirled toward Ryber.
Now Iseult didn’t have to fake a grin. “Is that what you thought they said?” she called. “It was actually The Great Vociferator, Safi, because that mouth of yours is so big.”
Safi paused at the companionway—just long enough to bite her thumb in Iseult’s direction.
Iseult bit her thumb right back.
When she angled to the railing, she found Merik with his eyebrows high and Evrane stifling a laugh. It pleased Iseult inordinately to see the monk amused, and warmth trickled through her shoulders.
“It is good to see you feeling better,” Evrane said.
“It’s good to feel better,” Iseult answered, ransacking her brain for something clever to add. Or anything to add, for that matter.
But nothing came, and an uncomfortable silence swept in with the breeze. Iseult started massaging her right elbow, just to have something to do.
It caused Evrane’s Threads to flash green with concern. “Your arm hurts—and foolish me, I have left my salves belowdecks.” She hurried off, leaving Iseult with Merik.
Alone with Merik.
A prince who could become part of Safi’s Thread-family—or just as easily become her enemy. A prince who now dictated where—and how—Iseult and Safi traveled.
Without quite realizing what she did, a question popped from Iseult’s mouth: “Are you married?” It was the first question Threadwitches asked when crafting a person’s Threadstones, and Iseult had heard Gretchya ask it a thousand times growing up.
Merik’s fingers tightened on the spyglass; his Threads flashed with surprise. “Uh … no.”
“Do you have a lover?”
Merik wrenched down the glass, his Threads now pulsing with revulsion. “I have no lover. Why are you asking?”
Inwardly, Iseult sighed. “I’m not interested in you, Your Highness, so there’s no need for the disdain. I’m simply trying to decide if we should follow you to Lejna or not.”
“If you should follow?” Merik’s Threads and posture relaxed. “You have little choice.”
“And if you think that, then you severely underestimate Safi and me.”
Merik’s cheeks—and Threads—flashed an angry red, so Iseult decided to cut short the Threadwitch interrogation. But when Merik spun on his heel to leave, Iseult did sidestep him. “You don’t like me,” she said. “And you don’t have to. Just remember that if you ever hurt Safiya fon Hasstrel, then I will cut you to pieces and I will feed you to the rats.”
Merik didn’t reply—though he did look thoroughly incensed as he stamped around Iseult toward the companionway.
But the flash of cyan understanding in his Threads told Iseult that he’d not only listened, but that he’d taken that warning to heart.
Which was good, because she’d meant every word.
* * *
Safi hunkered low in the gig, water splashing over the sides as Ryber rowed Safi, Iseult, Evrane, and Merik ashore.
When Ryber had taken Safi belowdecks, Safi had apologized for getting the girl in trouble, but Ryber had shrugged it off. “Admiral’s all growl and no bite. Besides, it isn’t me he’s mad at.”
It was all too true. Merik had barely looked at Safi since reaching the cove, and whenever she attempted a question—Are we traveling by foot? Do we have supplies?—he’d simply turned away.
Which of course made Safi all the more determined to illicit some response. She’d rather feel his growl or his bite than have him pretend she didn’t exist.
In mere minutes, the gig was ashore and Ryber was hopping into knee-deep waves to drag in the boat. Merik and Evrane hopped right out.
Safi and Iseult, however, were considerably less graceful.
“This is something Habim and Mathew failed to teach us,” Iseult said, using Safi’s and Ryber’s hands to alight. “We should inform them that gig-exiting is a valuable life skill.”
“It’s not that valuable,” Ryber said. “It’s just getting in and out.”
Safi coughed lightly. “That was Iseult’s attempt at a joke.”
“Oh.” Ryber chuckled. “Sorry. I’ve only met one Threadwitch before, and she was ancient. I guess you can see my Threads right now?”
“Hye,” Iseult answered. “They are currently green with curiosity.”
A pleased smile split Ryber’s face. “So … can you see my Heart-Thread too?”
Iseult’s nose wiggled, and she shot a quick, almost nervous glance at Safi before saying, “Hye. I can see it. He’s on the ship.”
Ryber’s grin widened—though there was no missing the haunted, empty look that filled her eyes.
“Ryber,” Merik barked. The girl started—then marched earnestly toward her admiral.
Safi leaned toward Iseult. “Why did you look at me when Ryber asked about her Heart-Thread?”
“Because it has blue in it,” she said flatly. “That means part of her love is grief-stricken.”
“Oh,” Safi breathed. The idea of a shared sadness between Ryber and Kullen made her throat tighten.
While Iseult slunk over the beach to join Evrane—who inspected a dead petrel several paces away—Safi waited for Merik.
“As the second mate,” he told Ryber, whose braids bounced on the wind, “Hermin commands the ship until Kullen is better. And remember: Don’t eat the fish or drink the water. This isn’t like the River Timetz—our Waterwitches haven’t made it here. You’ll die before you’ve even swallowed. Also, make sure Hermin doesn’t push his witchery too hard. If Lovats doesn’t answer, then there’s nothing we can do.”
Ryber saluted, fist to heart, and Merik rested his eyes on the ship. For several long moments, the seawater lapped at Safi’s feet—at Ryber’s boots—but she didn’t skip away. She simply waited for the prince to finish his silent good-bye.