Once he had finished—as marked by his sudden straightening and sudden collar tugging—he twirled around and stomped past Safi.
“Safe harbors!” Ryber shouted after them.
“Safe harbors,” Safi called back, already kicking after Merik.
Iseult moved into step beside her—Evrane walking steadily behind and with far more poise than Safi or Iseult displayed. The beaches around Veñaza City were sand, and Safi’s ankles didn’t appreciate this tiny gravel. She also quickly learned that vaulting over dead birds wasn’t the easiest.
When she turned toward Iseult to complain, though, she found her Threadsister already panting. “Are you all right? Should we slow?”
Iseult insisted she was fine. Then she lifted her voice. “Where are we going, Your Highness? Because it looks like we’re walking toward a wall.”
Indeed, it did look like they were aiming toward two high cliffs that met in a low overhang dripping with stalactites.
“A cave is hidden back there,” Evrane answered once it was clear Merik had no intention of speaking—though Safi was impressed with Iseult for trying. “It is meant to be a secret cave, though, just as this inlet is meant to be secret.”
“No one will see us,” Merik muttered, aiming for the right-most edge of the overhang. He ducked beneath a stalactite.
Safi sank after him. Pinpricks of dawn shone through gaps in the craggy ceiling. The path before Safi—clearly hewn by men’s hands—was so narrow she had to turn sideways.
Several steps later, Merik straightened, so Safi risked rising as well. No sharp rocks stabbed her head—though water dripped.
“Is this water poisoned?” she asked, rubbing her hair.
“Not to the touch,” Evrane answered, voice muffled by Iseult in front of her. “Most of the freshwater in this area is dangerous to drink, but there is some that remains pure no matter what.”
Merik gave a strangled groan. “No one wants to hear about the Origin Wells.”
“I want to hear about the Wells,” Safi countered.
“Me too,” Iseult said, her breaths audibly shallow. “I’ve read so much about them. Is it true that the Water Well can heal you?”
“It used to. All the Wells could heal when they were still alive—Merik,” Evrane snapped, “slow down. Not all of us are familiar with this path and not all of us are in perfect health.”
Merik slowed—though not by much. So Safi took it upon herself to shorten her stride. Once Merik realized everyone was flagging, he would have no choice but to lag as well.
Soon, Safi’s thighs burned, her ankles stretching as the path rose. “There was an Origin Well on my family’s lands,” she offered once she felt certain Iseult was having no difficulty with the incline. “It wasn’t alive, though.”
“No,” Evrane said. “It wouldn’t have been—there are only two intact Wells left. Of the five, only the Aether Well at the Carawen Monastery and the Fire Well in Azmir still live. Their springs flow, the trees blossom year-round, and the waters can heal you. Though they say—”
“Stairs coming,” Merik barked.
“—that if the Cahr Awen were to return, the other Wells would regain their powers and the springs would flow once more.”
As Safi squinted to see the slick steps that Merik now vaulted up, she tried to recall the stories from her childhood. “How many Cahr Awens were there before the last pair died?”
“We estimate at least ninety,” Evrane said, “but we only have Memory Records for forty pairs.”
“Records,” Merik inserted dismissively, “don’t make them real.”
“Memory Records,” Evrane countered, “make them inarguably real. A Sightwitch Sister transferred the memories directly from the Cahr Awens’ corpses.”
“Unless those Memory Records were faked, Aunt Evrane. Now, if you are done lecturing, we have to be quiet from here on.”
“But there’s nowhere else to go,” Safi said. Thirty steps ahead, lit by a weak beam of sunlight, there was nothing but flat wall. “Good job, Prince.”
He didn’t rise to her jab, so Safi tiptoed behind until she and Merik had both reached the wall—until Merik was finally addressing her, the sun showing only the faintest lines of his face.
“We have to push together,” he whispered, leaning his shoulder against the wall, a hand pressing flat. Safi mimicked his pose with her other shoulder.
“One,” Merik mouthed. “Two … Three.”
Safi pushed. Merik pushed. Then they pushed harder. And then harder again and Safi hissed, “Nothing’s happening!” Of course, as soon as the not-very-quiet words left her mouth, the wall lurched forward in a rush of air and sound.
And Safi toppled into a world of dead trees and pale soil. Merik fell too, but the idiot tried to catch himself—tried to grab hold of the swinging rock-door, which just swung him around so that he fell on his back.
Safi fell on top of him, chests colliding. Merik oomphed—as did she—and emitted a pained moan.
“What?” she demanded, trying to push off of him. Her hand was stuck beneath him and each yank jostled her body against his.
Heat flamed through her. She’d been close to Merik yesterday—during their brawl—yet this felt … different. She was all too aware of Merik’s shape. Of the angle of his hip bones and the muscles in his back—muscles that her fingers insisted on digging into. By accident. Completely by accident.
Safi was also keenly aware of Evrane laughing and Iseult gawping in a most un-Threadwitch way. But before Safi could order them to help, Merik rolled up his head, and his stomach clenched against hers. “Get. Off. Me.”
His growl rumbled through Safi’s rib cage, yet she had no chance to snarl back, for Evrane’s chuckles broke off—and the sound of creaking wood reverberated through the clearing.
Twenty arrowheads peeked out from behind the sun-bleached pines as Iseult murmured, “Oh, Safi. He did say to be quiet.”
THIRTY
Merik had expected the soldiers with bows—he really had. What he hadn’t expected was that it would take so long for their leader, Master Huntsman Yoris, to call them off.
Or that Safiya fon Hasstrel would be on top of him while he waited.
Iseult and Evrane—his aunt’s hood pulled low—stood with their backs against the cave and their hands up, and Merik did everything he could to pretend he wasn’t pinned beneath Safiya. That his legs were not twined in hers, that his chest was not heaving against her much softer chest, and that those were not her nails scratching at his back or her storm blue eyes mere inches away.
It was her eyes that always did it—that pulled the rage to the surface. But he wouldn’t let his magic loose, no matter how much it ached for release. No matter how much he wanted to flip Safiya over and …
Noden save him.
A groan stirred in the back of Merik’s throat, and he prayed the earth would swallow him whole.
Safiya mistook his distress for laughter. “Do you think this is funny? Because I’m not laughing, Prince.”
“Nor am I,” he answered. “And I told you to be quiet.”
“No, you told me to push. Which I did—except that you fell. Where was your wonderful Windwitchery then?”
“I must’ve left it onboard the Jana.” Abdomen tightening, he lifted his face close to hers. “Right next to my patience for your constant harping.” As long as he stayed angry, he wouldn’t have to think about the shape of her mouth. The weight of her hips pressing into his.
Her eyes thinned. “If you think this is harping, you’re in for quite a treat—”
“Your Highness?” a voice boomed. “Is that the royal son of Nubrevna I see cozying up to a lady? Lower your weapons, boys.” As one, the arrows in the forest dropped. Merik immediately shoved Safiya off him and scrambled to his feet.
As soon as Safiya was also upright, Iseult and Evrane moved in close, their stances defensive while Yoris’s “boys” trickled out from the forest with their leader at the fore.
Y
oris was a lean man with only three fingers on his left hand—supposedly he’d lost the others to a sea fox.
“’Matsi scum.” Yoris sucked his teeth in Iseult’s direction. Then he spat at her feet. “Go back to the Void.”
Iseult barely managed to grab Safiya before she lunged. “I’ll show you the Void,” Safiya growled, “you hell-ruttin’—”
Six of Yoris’s soldiers trained their bows on Safiya—and more arrowheads materialized from the dead pines.
Merik’s hands shot up. “Call them off, Yoris.” This was not the happy reunion he’d hoped for with one of his childhood idols.
“Arrows won’t save your skin,” Safiya muttered. “I’ll shred it with my kni—”
“Enough,” Iseult snapped with more emotion than Merik had ever heard. “His Threads are harmless.”
Safiya clamped her mouth shut at that—though she still moved in front of Iseult.
“Lower your bows,” Merik ordered, louder now. Angrier. “I’m the Prince of Nubrevna, Yoris—not some raider.”
“But who’s this, then?” Yoris tipped his head toward Evrane—who still had her cloak tugged low and body poised for action. At Yoris’s nod, a soldier extended his bow and flicked back her hood.
“Hello, Master Huntsman,” she drawled.
“You,” Yoris growled, shoving past Merik. “The Nihar traitor. You aren’t welcome here.”
Evrane’s sword rasped free at the exact moment that Merik yanked out his cutlass—and thrust it against the old man’s back.
“If you slander anyone else in my party, Master Yoris, I will run you through.” Merik prodded the blade forward until Yoris’s shirt wrinkled in. He’d had enough, and Yoris knew damned well how quickly the Nihar rage could escalate. “Evrane is a vizer of Nubrevna and a sister to the king, so you will show her the respect she deserves.”
“She abandoned her title when she became a Car—”
Merik’s boot connected with Yoris’s knee. The man crumpled to the earth and all around, arrows nocked.
But Yoris only erupted with laughter—a sound like crunching stones. His head swung up. “Now there’s the prince I know. I just had to check you weren’t bewitched by the ’Matsi girl—that’s all. That’s all.” Another chuckle, and the Master Huntsman rolled easily to his feet.
Bows and arrows lowered in a rustle of movement, and Yoris flourished a graceful bow. “Allow your humble servant to escort you to your new home.”
“New?” Merik frowned, sheathing his cutlass.
A sly grin spread over Yoris’s face. “Noden smiled upon us this year, Highness, and only a fool ignores His gifts.”
* * *
The morning sun beat down on Merik, sent his shadow slivering behind him or into the sun-bleached pine stumps and dusty yellow earth. Safiya stayed ten paces behind, keeping close to Iseult while Evrane bought up the rear.
Merik was relieved to find he could easily ignore the domna so long as she remained just out of earshot, just out of sight.
And so long as she wasn’t on top of him.
He did glance back every few minutes, though, to make sure the women kept up. Though Iseult didn’t complain and she didn’t slow, she wasn’t fully healed. Even with her face as blank as snow, there was no mistaking the tightness in her jaw.
Then again, she’d looked comparably severe on the Jana when she’d struck Merik with those strange questions. It was hard to ever tell what she felt—or if she felt at all.
Fortunately for Iseult and Evrane, Yoris’s prejudiced guards had vanished into the silent woods during the first mile of their hike. And fortunately for Merik, those same soldiers crawled within this ghost forest for thousands of acres.
If Safiya decided to run, Yoris’s men would be upon her in minutes.
Merik didn’t expect Safiya to flee, though. Not with Iseult still healing.
The group hiked onward, and the silent landscape never changed. On and on, it was an endless graveyard of splintered trees and sun-whitened trunks, bird corpses and soil dry as bone. Whenever Merik was here, he kept his voice low and head bowed.
Yoris had no such impulse. He regaled Merik—loudly—with updates on the men and women Merik had grown up with. Men and women who’d once lived and worked on the Nihar estate. It would seem everyone had now moved to this new home with Yoris and his soldiers.
Despite all the evidence, Merik still caught himself hoping to find something alive. A flake of lichen, a scrub of moss—he would have taken anything so long as it was green. Yet it was just as he’d told Kullen: nothing had changed. Moving east or west made no difference in a world of death and poison.
When Yoris reached a fork in the path—the right road continuing along the Jadansi while the left trail veered inland—an alarmed thought occurred to Merik. “If everyone has moved, did Kullen’s mother also go? He planned to visit her.”
“Carill stayed at the estate,” Yoris said, “so Kull will find her exactly where he left her. She was the only one who wouldn’t join us. Then again, this was never her home. She’s still Arithuanian at heart.” He unhitched a flask from his belt, head shaking as he marched down the left fork.
Merik followed, slowing his pace just enough to ensure Safiya, Iseult, and Evrane also followed. They did.
“Water?” Yoris asked.
“Please.” Merik’s lips were like paper, his tongue like glue. It was as if the dryness of the world sucked the moisture from his very pores.
But he was careful not to drink too much. Who knew how much purified water Yoris had these days?
“This new place of yours,” Merik began, returning the flask, “is clearly nowhere near the Nihar estate. Is it worth traveling so far?”
“Hye,” Yoris said with a sideways grin. “But I won’t tell you any more than that. I want you to see Noden’s Gift for yourself. The first time my old eyes beheld it, I cried like a babe.”
“Cried?” Merik echoed skeptically. He could no more imagine tears on the huntsman’s face than he could imagine leaves on these oaks and pines.
Yoris’s three-fingered hand shot up. “I swear on Noden’s Coral Throne, that I cried and cried, Your Highness. Just you wait and see if you don’t do the same.” Yoris’s smile fell as quickly as it had come. “How’s the king’s health? We don’t get much news around these parts, but I heard a few weeks ago that he was getting worse.”
“He’s stable” was all Merik said in return. He’s stable and ignoring Hermin’s calls and possibly rewarding Vivia for piracy.
In a burst of movement, Merik shrugged off his coat and swiped sweat from his eyes. He was boiling. Suffocating. He wished he’d left the cursed jacket on the Jana. It was just a cruel joke. Each reflected beam off its gold-plated buttons—buttons he’d kept so meticulously polished and that denoted his rank as leader of the Royal Navy—was like a flash of Vivia’s grin.
Yoris and Merik rounded a bend in the path, and the dead forest gave way to a barren hillside. Merik’s thighs burned within the first ten steps, and his boots slipped too easily on the scree. He paused halfway up to blink sweat from his eyes and check on the women behind.
Safiya met Merik’s eyes. Her lips parted, and she lifted one hand, fingers trilling with a wave.
Merik pretended not to see, and his gaze shifted to Iseult, whose jaw was set and attention fastened on the ground. Sweat poured down her face, and with her black Threadwitch gown, she looked dangerously overheated.
Merik’s attention skipped at last to Evrane. Like Merik, she’d removed her cloak and held it bunched in one arm. He was pretty sure that was against the Monastery’s protocol, but he hardly blamed her.
Just as Merik’s mouth opened to call for a short break, Evrane’s footsteps slowed. She said something inaudible and pointed east. Safiya and Iseult paused too, following Evrane’s finger. Then their faces eased into smiles.
Merik snapped his gaze left—only to catch his own lips relaxing. He’d been so focused on moving forward, he hadn’t bothered to loo
k east, to see the distant black peak silhouetted against the orange morning. With two ridges on either side, it looked like a fox head.
It was the Water Well of the Witchlands—the Origin Well of Nubrevna. Centuries ago, it had been the pride of this nation, and the most powerful Waterwitches had hailed from Nubrevna. But people had moved, and the Well had died. Now, if any full Waterwitches were left on the Continent, they certainly weren’t in Nubrevna.
“Hurry up, Highness!” Yoris called, splitting Merik’s thoughts and urging him forward. His heels slid on stones, his knees cracked … Then he was there—at the top—with his jaw sagging and his legs turning to mud. He had to grab Yoris by the shoulder to stay upright.
Green, green, and more green.
The forest was alive—a great strand of it still breathed and burgeoned at the bottom of the hill, winding through a world of white and gray. Hugging a river until …
Merik’s eyes hit pastures with grazing sheep.
Sheep.
A laugh burbled in his throat. He blinked and blinked again. This was the land of his childhood. The jungle and the life and the movement. This was home.
“The river ain’t tainted.” Yoris pointed to the snaking stream in the forest, where birds—actual birds—swooped and dove. “It goes right past our settlement there. Can you see it? It’s that gap in the trees.”
Merik squinted until he spotted the opening in the woods, just south of the grazing cattle. In the clearing were flat roofs and … a boat.
An upside-down boat.
Merik fumbled out his spyglass and pushed it to his eye. Sure enough, the curved, fat hull of some sun-bleached transport ship sat upside down at the center of the settlement. “Where did the ship come from?” he asked, incredulous.
Before Yoris could answer, footsteps gritted out behind Merik—heavy breaths too. Then Safiya was beside him, gulping in air and shouting for Iseult to wait—that she’d be right back for her.
Merik’s fingers curled around the spyglass. The domna was disrupting everything, as she always did. He angled toward her, ready to demand peace.