Merik didn’t believe it. His mind was numb; his heart had stopped pounding. That night when he’d awoken to Safi’s hand on his chest—it was because of this. She’d stolen the document and written on it with ash from the fire.
And now Merik had trade with the Hasstrels. With Marstok too.
A silent, hysterical laugh rose in his throat. He had lost more than he’d ever thought he could lose, yet there was an aching certainty welling in his lungs.
Slowly, almost dizzily, Merik sat on the edge of the bed. He smoothed out the trade agreement, his fingers smudged black, and set it aside.
Then Merik Nihar, Prince of Nubrevna, rolled back his head and prayed.
For all that he had loved, for all that he had lost, and for all that he—and his country—might still regain.
* * *
Safiya fon Hasstrel leaned against the bulwark on the Empress of Marstok’s personal galleon, crutch in hand. The verdant coastline of Dalmotti-claimed lands drifted by, and Safi tried to pretend she wasn’t boiling in this midday sun.
This was a land of palm trees and jungle, frequent fishing villages and humidity thick enough to swim in. She wanted to enjoy the beauty of it all, not melt into the miserable heat.
Hundreds of years ago, this land had belonged to some nation called Biljana. Or that was what Safi remembered from her tutoring sessions. She knew better than to believe history books now.
At least, despite the heat, her gown of white cotton was relatively cool—though the uncomfortable iron belt that cinched her waist wasn’t. Iron was all the fashion in Azmir—no doubt because Vaness had made it the fashion. She could, after all, control anyone wearing it.
Yet, even with the belt, Vaness had still insisted Safi don a steel necklace as well. It was a chain, delicate and thin, but with no end and no beginning. The empress had fused it around Safi’s neck, and despite grunting and straining as hard as she could, Safi hadn’t been able to snap it off.
Thank the gods, though, that Vaness had deemed Safi’s Threadstone harmless.
With a crooked smile at the landscape, Safi angled her weight onto her crutch. Her left foot was bandaged and healing, thanks to the concerted effort of six healer witches from Vaness’s navy. Apparently—as the Empress had continually insisted—she hadn’t intended to hurt Safi as badly as she had. Safi was simply too valuable (as Vaness put it) for any “rough handling,” and Safi’s life had never been at any risk back in Lejna.
Safi’s Truthwitchery had told her that that wasn’t true, but she’d let the lies slide.
Footsteps clipped out behind Safi, and the Empress of Marstok glided to her side. Her dress of black cotton flipped in the wind—a tribute to the eighteen Adders and sailors that had cleaved in Lejna. Vaness would hold a memorial once they reached her palace in Azmir.
“I have news for you,” she said, speaking in Marstok. “The Twenty Year Truce has ended.” Vaness showed no reaction as she added, “Cartorra already prepares for its first attack to try to reclaim you. So let us hope”—she raised a single, cool eyebrow—“that you were worth it, Truthwitch.”
She offered an emotionless, inscrutable smile. Then, without another word, the Empress of Marstok strode back the way she’d come.
And Safi sank onto her crutch, dazed. Lost. She didn’t know if she should laugh out loud or sob hysterically, for this was exactly what Uncle Eron—and everyone else in his scheme—had tried to prevent, wasn’t it? The Truce had dissolved early; now there could be no peace.
And Safi certainly wasn’t helping Uncle Eron’s plans by allying with Vaness—and therefore the entire Empire of Marstok. Yet she refused to feel guilt or regret to her recent choices. For once in her life, Safi had carved her own path. She had played her own cards and there’d been no one to guide her hand but herself.
A hand that includes the Empress and the Witch, she thought whimsically—even though thinking of taro made her think of the Chiseled Cheater … and that just pissed her off. She’d get her money back from him one day.
Forehead puckering, Safi brought out her Threadstone. The ruby glinted in the sun, and seeing the coral fibers wrapped around the rock made her feel less alone. She liked to pretend that Iseult—wherever she was—held her Threadstone too.
Safi might not be with her Threadsister, she might not be buying a home in Veñaza City, and she might technically be a prisoner, yet she felt no fear over what lay ahead.
All that physical training, Merik had said, plus a witchery men would kill for. Think of all you could do. Think of all you could be.
Safi sighed, a full exhale that loosed something tight from within her chest and sent her heart uncoiling in a way she’d never felt before—in a way that slowed her bouncing legs. Stopped them completely.
Because now she knew what she could do—what she could be. She had gotten Merik his contract and won negotiations with Marstok too. She had bent the world and shaped it into something better.
Safi’s magic hummed, happy and warm with that truth, and after dropping her Threadstone behind her dress, she opened her arms. Let her head loll back.
Then Safiya fon Hasstrel reveled in the sun on her cheeks. In the spindrift on her arms. And in the future that awaited her in Marstok.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, I want to thank my Threadsister, Sarah J. Maas. Mhe Verujta, braj. You’re the soul twin I can’t live without; the best friend who reads draft after draft; the cheerleader who always hauls me out of my cookie-eating, video-gaming binges; and basically the inspiration behind this entire series. Friendships can be just as epic as romances—maybe even more so—and I wanted the world to see that. Plus, if we lived in the Witchlands, we would totally be the Cahr Awen, right? At the very least, we’d be sea foxes chomping up anyone who dared oppose us (“Get out of the way!”).
To Amity Thompson: You read so many iterations of this book—and you did so with babies and books of your own to deal with. You were always there when I needed to work through a broken plot point, vent my endless frustrations, or gush about Dragon Age. So, thank you.
Enormous thanks to Erin Bowman, for being a Hero Squad sister for life, for listening when I needed listening, for critiquing when I needed critiquing, and for just being there. Always.
To Ashley Hubert: You’re amazing. You read Truthwitch and gave me feedback (plus an ego boost) right when I desperately needed it. I’m so glad we became friends.
To Nicola Wilkinson, the brains behind the Witchlanders street team: Merik is yours. Or Special Baby K. Or any of the characters, really, since you have gone above and beyond for this book and this series. There are no words to express how grateful I am for all you do and all you have done.
To Maddie Meylor: You’ve been with me since the start, and for some reason, you’re not sick of me yet. Thank you for all the reading, the gushing, and the simple fact that you’re you.
To my fellow slayer of darkspawn, Rosanna Silverlight: You singlehandedly saved my muse with your pep talks. Plus, your feedback was exactly what I needed when I needed it.
To the rest of my Thread-family, Dan Krokos, Derek Molata, Biljana Likic, Alexandra Bracken, Vanessa Campbell, Sarah Jae-Jones, Jodi Meadows, and Amie Kaufman: Thank you. For the support, the shoulders to cry on, the much-needed beta reads, and the many, many giggles.
Thanks to Lori Tincher, for answering my horse questions, and to Cindy Vallar, for all the help with nautical shenanigans.
A giant thanks to Jacqueline Carey, for putting up with my naïve, star-struck self. Thank you.
To the teams at Tor and New Leaf that have worked tirelessly to sell my books and turn my drivel into something worth reading, as well as package and design the entire Truthwitch world: I would be lost without you. Thank you from the bottom of my three Link hearts (that one’s for you, Jo). And Whitney, you “have a whole relationship with dairy products I don’t understand.”
To the Misfits & Daydreamers (and every other reader, blogger, and aspiring author out th
ere): I have no words to express my gratitude. You guys listen, support, and remind me everyday of why I do this.
To my family—Mom, Dad, David, and Jen—thank you for enduring (and often nurturing) my distracted daydreaming for all these years … And also thank you for bragging about me at the grocery store. That makes me feel truly special.
And last—but not least—I have to thank my husband, Sébastien. I couldn’t have written this book (or any other) were it not for you and your endless, unconditional support. I love you forever and then some.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SUSAN DENNARD has come a long way from small-town Georgia. As a marine biologist, she got to travel the world—six out of seven continents, to be exact (she’ll get to Asia one of these days!)—before she settled down as a full-time novelist and writing instructor. She lives in Michigan with her husband and two dogs, and she is extremely active in social media. You can find her on her blog or Twitter or contributing to Publishing Crawl. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Map of the Witchlands
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
TRUTHWITCH
Copyright © 2015 by Susan Dennard
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Scott Grimando
Map by Maxime Plasse
A Tor Teen Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-7653-7928-3 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-6732-1 (ebook)
e-ISBN 9781466867321
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at
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First Edition: January 2016
Susan Dennard, Truthwitch
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