Iseult didn’t respond. Any thought or movement would betray what pulsed deep inside her: horror.
And worse, a slight digging of pity.
Fortunately, the shadow girl didn’t notice Iseult’s reticence, for her talking never slowed.
“I will be gone for the next few days, Iseult. My King has given me a task that will drain my power. I imagine I’ll be too tired to find you after that. But,” she said with a promising sort of emphasis, “when I am fully restored, I’ll come to you again.”
She paused for a jaw-cracking yawn. “I must thank you before I go. All those plans and places tucked away in your brain have made the Raider King very happy. That’s why he gave me this grand mission for tomorrow. So thank you—you made all of this possible. Now, I need my rest if I am to cleave all these men as ordered.”
What men? And what plans and places? Iseult tried to ask. What did you take from my brain?
But the words wouldn’t come. Nothing but frantic, skittering fire came to her now—in her brain, on her tongue, across her lungs like veins of lightning.
Then, as abruptly as it had appeared, the view of Poznin spluttered out like a lantern, leaving Iseult back in her own skin. Back in her own dreams and stuck with her own horror.
* * *
Never in Aeduan’s life had it taken this much focus or power to track someone. Safiya had been easy—her blood took no effort to hold—but this person’s blood, with its crisp lake water and snow-filled winters, was elusive. One moment Aeduan would have it, then twenty paces later he would lose it—only to stumble on it farther into the forest.
It made no sense, and by the time Aeduan lost the scent for the hundredth time, he had all but given up on the prince. He was supposed to betray the man anyway and keep the Truthwitch for his father’s use. Yet each time Aeduan considered leaving the prince to some invisible foe, a strange nagging dug into his shoulders. Scraped along his neck. It was as if …
As if he owed the prince a life-debt and felt obligated to repay it.
By the time the trail went completely cold, the sun was already lowering on the horizon. Aeduan stood before a black, shadowed cliff with steep stairs ascending to the top. The river was almost deafening here, and fat bats swooped overhead.
The Truthwitch had been here earlier—Aeduan caught traces of her scent—but she hadn’t stayed. Which meant Aeduan shouldn’t stay either. Prince Leopold was not his concern; Safiya was. It was time to give up on the prince.
However, just as Aeduan swiveled around to resume the only hunt that actually mattered, a breeze gusted off the cliffs and carried a smell into Aeduan’s nose—into his blood.
Leopold.
Aeduan launched himself up the worn steps. Two, then three at a time, he flew upward until at last he reached the top. A pink sun glittered over rippling water. Wind rustled through the green-filled branches of six cypress trees, and a thunderstorm rumbled in the distance.
Aeduan was at an Origin Well. The Water Well of the Witchlands. He should have known it was here, should’ve guessed this would be it. His old mentor had spoken of it endlessly when Aeduan was a child.
Yet this place didn’t look like what his mentor had described. There was life here. Green on the trees, a ripple in the water. It was almost as if the Well were alive—except that that was impossible.
Aeduan dismissed it. He didn’t have time to inspect the area, nor did he care to.
Nose high, he stalked to the right of the Well. He made it twelve steps before the blood-scent switched back to the enemy’s—and a slow applause broke out.
Leopold stepped out from behind the nearest cypress, clapping. “You found me, Monk.” The prince offered a humorless smile. “Faster than I’d hoped.”
Aeduan’s nostrils twitched. He reached for a throwing knife. “You planned this.”
Leopold sighed. “I did. Before you impale me, though, I would like to point out that I was supposed to kill you and chose not to.”
“Kill me,” Aeduan repeated. In a heartbeat, he had his knife out and arm reared back. “On whose command?”
Leopold only smiled again. That inane, vapid smile that Aeduan hated.
So Aeduan raised his left hand …
And took control of Leopold’s blood.
He halted the new leather, the smoky hearths. “I can force the answer from your throat,” he said flatly. “So tell me who commands you.”
A salty breeze swept through Leopold’s hair while lightning sparkled on the horizon, looking—at this angle—like a crown atop the frozen prince’s head.
“No one commands me,” Leopold finally answered, “and no one is with me.” Aeduan tightened his grip on Leopold’s blood. The prince’s pupils shuddered wider, wider … Not wide enough. Leopold was unsettled, but he wasn’t terrified.
That was when Aeduan realized, He wants this. Leopold wanted Aeduan to torture the truth from him …
Because it will take time.
The prince had intentionally wasted as much of the day as possible. His aim since Veñaza City had been to delay Aeduan.
“You’ve figured it out,” Leopold said. “I can see it in your eyes, Monk.”
“Call me demon like everyone else.” Aeduan squeezed the prince’s blood even tighter—enough to hurt.
But Leopold only stared at him steadily before saying in a hoarse voice, “I can’t … let you find Safiya before she reaches Lejna. She is almost there now, and soon she will be out of your reach entirely.”
“How do you know that? Who commands you?” As soon as the question left Aeduan’s throat, he knew the answer—and by the Wells, he’d been an idiot for not seeing it sooner.
Leopold was a part of the scheme to kidnap Safiya.
Fury—scalding and complete—surged into Aeduan’s skull. His neck and shoulders. He hated Leopold for tricking him. He hated himself for not spotting the deception.
Though there seemed to be no logic to it, it was clear now that the prince was working with the Nubrevnans, the Marstoki Firewitch, the Glamourwitch … and who else? This web to steal away the Truthwitch was widespread, and Aeduan was half-tempted to torture out the answers he needed.
But if Safiya was indeed almost to Lejna, and if that would indeed—as Leopold had said—put her out of reach entirely, then Aeduan couldn’t waste any more time.
He released Leopold’s lungs and throat, but nothing more. Aeduan would hold the prince until he was too far away for Leopold to catch up.
Yet as soon as Aeduan spun around to launch into a magic-fueled sprint, Leopold whispered, “You aren’t the demon your father wants you to be.”
That stopped Aeduan dead in his path. With methodical slowness, he twisted back. “What did you say?”
“You aren’t the demon—”
“After that!” Aeduan stalked to Leopold and dipped his face in close. “I have no father.”
“You do,” the prince rasped. “The one who calls himself—”
Aeduan latched on to all of Leopold’s blood then. He stopped every single function in the prince’s body—breath, pulse, vision.
But not the prince’s hearing. Not the prince’s thoughts.
“I,” Aeduan whispered, “am the demon they think I am. And you, Your Highness, should have killed me when you had the chance.”
He tightened his grip. Tighter, tighter … until he sensed the blood in Leopold’s brain grow too weak to sustain thought. To sustain consciousness.
Aeduan released the prince. Leopold collapsed to the flagstones, still as stone. Still as death. Even the stormy breeze did not reach the prince now.
For several long, salt-filled breaths, Aeduan stared at the prince’s body. He’d found Leopold, but not the second scent. That blood was gone. Whoever it was, though, was undoubtedly working with Leopold—and perhaps knew about Aeduan’s father as well.
Aeduan should kill the prince. His father would say to kill him. Yet if Aeduan did that, then he would never learn whose blood smelled like clear la
kes and frozen winters. He would never learn who had ordered Leopold to kill him—or why.
Aeduan supposed he could always lie to his father and then investigate on his own.
Aeudan nodded, satisfied with that. He would leave Leopold alive and hunt down the prince again later. For answers.
So without a second glance, Aeduan left behind the Imperial Prince of Cartorra and the Origin Well and as he ran, the setting sun warmed his back and a wind picked up speed behind him.
THIRTY-FIVE
Merik jerked awake to the sound of distant thunder—and the touch of fingers against his collarbone. Were he not so deeply asleep, he might’ve guessed the only three people who could’ve put their hands this close.
But Merik was too submerged in slumber, and his brain didn’t kick in until long after his instincts had.
He snatched the fingers at his chest, swung up a single leg, and flipped the perpetrator over … His eyelids snapped wide, breath ragged yet every piece of his being alert.
His gaze met blue eyes, made almost black in the cloudy moonlight. “Domna.” One of his hands hit the dirt beside her head. His other squeezed her wrist.
Her fingers furled in, making her wrist flex wider in Merik’s grip, and he thought he felt her heartbeat against his chest. That he heard it pounding over the storm-carried breeze and endless song of the forest—though that might have been his own heartbeat.
Safi wet her lips. “What are you doing?” Her whisper tickled against Merik’s chin. Sent a chill down his neck.
“What are you doing?” he whispered back. “Pickpocketing me?”
“You were snoring.”
“You were drooling,” he retorted—a bit too quickly. He had been known to snore.
Merik slid his free hand behind her head and lowered his own until he blocked all moonlight from her face. Until all he saw were her glittering eyes.
“Tell me,” he said slowly, “the truth, Domna. What were you doing with your hand in my shirt? Taking advantage of me in my sleep?”
“No,” she growled, jutting out her chin. “I was only trying to wake you. To make you stop snoring.” She wiggled again, her body tensing beneath Merik’s—a sign her temper was rising. If Merik didn’t move soon, her legs would weave between his, her fingers would claw, and her eyes would burn in a way that would make resistance of his rage—of his magic—impossible.
Merik relaxed his grip on Safi’s wrist, eased his hand from behind her head, and used his knees—palms flat against the earth—to lift his chest from hers.
Her back arched.
Merik froze.
Halfway to his elbows, a rawness opened in his rib cage. Spiraled through him—and spiraled through her as well. It was as if a string connected their chests, and any movement he made would be matched by her.
His eyes ran the length of her. She was vastly different from the women of his homeland. Her hair was the color of the sand, her eyes the color of the sea. Merik exhaled harshly. No matter how his fingers and lips ached for it, he couldn’t give into this … hunger.
He slid off of her and onto his back, draping a hand over his eyes to block out the sky. To block out the hot awareness of Safi beside him. Every drop of his witchery and every inch of his flesh responded to her.
“I can’t do this,” he finally admitted—to her. To himself. Then he was on his feet, yanking his coat off the bedroll and striding toward the forest. Toward the sea.
He towed on his jacket as he marched. Somehow, wearing it made him feel calmer. In charge … Except, of course—of course—Safi followed.
“Why are you here?” he demanded, once he’d rounded the overhang into a buzzing, breezy forest. She padded several steps behind.
“I can’t go back to sleep.”
“You haven’t tried.”
“I don’t need to.”
Merik sighed. Why argue with that? He had enough wrinkles without adding Safi into that mix. So on Merik marched, his fingers drifting over fern leaves or trailing through pine needles. So cool to the touch. So alive.
When he reached the sea—when the distant, glittering storm and white-capped waves hit his eyes, something inside him unfurled. Relaxed. Safi scuffed left toward a huge outcropping of limestone, and Merik followed—though he kept two long steps between them. Then, they both leaned against the rock, and for a time, stared silently at the sea, the moon, the lightning.
It was peaceful, and Merik found himself relaxing. Slipping into the rhythm of the waves and the humming insects.
Until it wasn’t peaceful anymore. At some point, the night’s pulse had gathered inside him—a pressure needing release. A violent heat like the storm on the horizon. Safi shifted, drawing Merik’s eyes. The light off the limestone cast her in a muted, moon-like glow.
Her lips sank into a scowl. “Stop staring like that, Prince.”
“Like … what?”
“Like you’re going to attack me.”
Merik laughed, a warm, genuine sound. Yet still, his gaze was trapped by Safi. By her throat in particular. Its curve was silhouetted against the limestone, and he couldn’t recall ever seeing a neck so elegantly shaped. “My apologies,” he said at last. “Attacking you is the farthest thing from my mind.”
She flushed a moonlit pink, but then, as if annoyed with herself, she popped her chin high. “If you are imagining a more … intimate sort of attack, Prince, then I should inform you I’m not that sort of girl.” She looked—and sounded—every inch a domna.
“I never thought you were.” It was Merik’s turn to flush now—not with embarrassment. With annoyance. A hint of fury. “And you shouldn’t assume that I even desire you, Domna. If I were looking for a casual tumble, then you are easily the last person I would choose.”
“Good,” she retorted, “because you’re the last person I would choose.”
“Which is your loss, I promise.”
“As if you’re so talented, Prince.”
“You know that I am.”
Her gaze snapped to Merik. Her chest expanded. Froze.
And Merik took a step closer. Then another until he was right beside her. “If you were that sort of girl, then…” Merik lifted a hand to her jaw—tentative at first, then more confident when she didn’t pull away. “Then I would start here and move down your throat.” His fingers whispered over her neck, to her collarbone—and Merik was pleased by how punctuated her breaths grew. How much her lips trembled.
“Then,” he continued, voice rumbling from somewhere low in his throat, “I’d circle back. Move behind you.” He pushed away her braid—
“Stop,” she breathed.
Merik stopped—though, Noden’s breath, he didn’t want to.
But then came a twist of Safi’s body, and suddenly her lips were to Merik’s. No, her lips were above his. Pausing. Waiting, as if she’d surprised herself and now didn’t know what to do.
A breath stirred in Merik’s chest—snagged there along with his thoughts. Yet, the inches between their bodies could have been miles and the gap between their lips felt uncrossable.
Safi’s breath scraped over his chin. Or maybe that was the breeze. Or maybe it was his own breath. He couldn’t tell anymore. It was getting hard to do anything but stare at her eyes, sparkling and close.
Her gaze moved down, her brow furrowing—like she wanted to do more. Then her hands lifted to rest over Merik’s hip bones. Her fingers curled in.
Merik’s witchery ignited.
Wind thrashed upward, spraying Safi’s hair from her face and almost pushing her away—except that Merik moved in. He pressed Safi to the rock and, in a roar of wind and heat, he kissed her.
The hunger of the day scorched through him and, to his vast pleasure, Safi took it in. She grabbed it from Merik with digging fingers and a rhythm in her hips that went beyond any four-step.
She was savage now—unabashedly so—and Merik found himself biting, tugging, and pushing. All talons and teeth and brutal, charged winds.
B
ut he couldn’t get her close enough. No matter how hard his lips crushed hers or her hands clutched beneath his jacket … beneath his shirt …
Hell, her fingers were on his bare skin now.
Fresh heat slashed through him. His knees almost buckled, and his winds tore outward. Upward. He hefted Safi onto a low outcropping, his fingers tugging at the hem of her shirt. His mouth tasting in all the places he’d promised. Her ear—where she moaned. Her neck—where she writhed. Her collarbone …
Her hands shot between them. Pushed him away.
Merik staggered back, gaping. Lost. Safi’s chest heaved, and her eyes were huge—but Merik couldn’t see why she’d stopped this storm between them. Had he crossed some line?
“Do you,” she finally rasped, “hear that?”
Merik shook his head—still lost—and sucked in a tattered breath.
Then he heard it too. A steady beat thumping over the sea. A wind-drum.
Merik lurched around.
The Jana’s wind-drum.
In an instant, he was hurtling back the way they’d come, Safi right behind. Scrub and gravel twisted underfoot, but Merik barely noticed. The wind-drum was getting louder. The Jana would sail into view at any moment, and Merik had to know why—had to see how far his ship was from shore. He could fly to his men, but only if he had a visual …
Safi grabbed Merik’s shoulder, yanked him to a stop. “There.” She pointed south, to where Merik could barely discern gray waves from gray clouds.
He rooted out his spyglass, scanned the water … until he caught sight of the lights—he’d thought them part of the storm, but no. The image sharpened into a Nubrevnan warship. The Jana, with her lanterns and mirrors illuminating the water ahead. The white sails ballooned—Windwitched by Kullen.
The wind-drum pounded on and on, far too loud for such a distance, meaning Ryber used the magicked mallet and had the drum aimed for shore. For Merik.
Kullen was calling him.
So Merik inhaled deeply and gathered his wind. It charged up his skin, burned into his body. “Step back,” he warned Safi. He would need to aim this wind-flourish perfectly—need to hit that tiny speck on the horizon so his crew would know where he was.