Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(112)

Suddenly the buildings opened up. Light and wind sprayed down, and Iseult found herself in a courtyard. The courtyard she’d hoped for. A stained, ancient fountain stood at the center. It was the Nubrevnan god Noden—all carved muscles and coiling hair—waiting on His coral throne.

Iseult hopped onto the knee-high fountain rim, slick with wet algae and bird crap. It made spinning toward the Marstoks easier, but didn’t offer much stability.

All the while, the sailors tumbled toward Iseult, a swarm of rain-soaked uniforms and focused Threads. Small and lithe to enormously broad-chested, decidedly female to could-be-anything-really.

With the wind and the rain thrashing down and with black clouds churning overhead, Iseult’s ears were useless, her skin hammered to wet numbness.

Then the first soldiers reached the courtyard … and slowed. They eased to careful stops, and a female voice bellowed over the tempest’s howl, “She isn’t the one!”

Iseult’s gut cracked. Her left hand flew to her head. No kerchief. Her black hair was soaked through and fully visible.

“Find the real domna!” the woman ordered. “Back to shore!”

The ice in Iseult’s stomach spread upward. Choked off her air. They were going to leave—just like that?

“Wait!” she shrieked, springing off the fountain. If she could engage a few of them and keep them here, then maybe Safi could still make it.

Iseult hurtled after the retreating soldiers. Several had paused and were swiveling back. Slowly, so slowly. Iseult reached for her cutlass, ready to attack.

Until a crack! of heat slashed through her. Then a coiling in of Threads, so violent that Iseult’s knees almost caved.

In the space of a single breath, countless Threads had simply snapped. Broken.

Cleaved.

The nearest soldier twisted all the way toward Iseult, his eyes black. His skin boiling.

Then he started shredding at this sleeves—at his skin—while behind him, more and more soldiers were lurching back around toward Iseult.

And all of them were cleaving.





THIRTY-EIGHT

From behind a bleached alder, Safi watched the ramshackle wharfside street. Her toes tapped, her fingernails dug into rough bark, and the urge to help Iseult was practically shredding her spine.

But she stuck to the plan, and she waited until every single Marstok had followed Iseult down the alley. Then she scooted toward Lejna.

She kept her eyes on the ship, rocking wildly at the first pier. Several sailors scurried about, but they were too busy with the growing thunderstorm to look Safi’s way. Still, Safi unsheathed her Carawen sword just in case.

Her eyes skipped between the approaching road and the nearest pier. Empty? empty … all of them were empty of life. One of those docks had to be Pier Seven that Uncle Eron had specified in his contract.

Although, at this point, Safi wouldn’t have been surprised to learn there was no Pier Seven at all—that Uncle Eron had never had any intention of fulfilling his end of the deal.

Well, the joke was on him, then, because come hell-flames or Hagfishes, Safi was getting Merik that contract.

A fat raindrop smacked Safi’s head right as she stepped onto the first cobblestones. She glanced at the sky—and then promptly started swearing. The storm was almost to Lejna, and it was definitely not a natural one—not with all those black clouds.

What are you doing, Prince?

The rain picked up speed. A sudden wave crashed over the high-water mark, submerging the first dock and swathing the cobblestones in slime.

So much for stealth, then. Safi kicked into a jog … then into a full sprint. At the storm’s current rate, all three piers would be swallowed entirely in minutes.

Safi reached the first expanse of wood. It was coated in algae and creaked dangerously beneath her heels. She took four steps out, her eyes never leaving the tipping warship at the end, and then turned back, ready to barrel for the next pier.

But the dock was slick, the waves too rough and the wind far too strong. Safi was so focused on where to put her feet, on when to hop over the next surge of waves, that she didn’t notice the dark figure slinking nearby.

Not until Safi was on the street again did she finally catch sight of the Marstoki Adder thirty paces away and right between her and the next pier.

“If you come with me,” the Adder shouted, her voice—and shape—decidedly feminine, “then no one gets hurt!”

No thank you, Safi thought, flinging up her sword. This woman was weaponless, and Safi was not. She flung up her sword.

“I’m giving you one chance, Truthwitch! You can either join the Marstoks as an ally or you can die as our enemy!”

Safi almost laughed at that. A dark, angry laugh, for here was the moment she’d spent her whole life waiting for: the moment when her witchery put a target on her forehead and soldiers came to claim her.

Admittedly she’d excpected Hell-Bards all these years, but Adders would more than suffice.

Safi sank into her stance, ready to attack. Lightning burst. She blinked—she couldn’t help it—and, by the time she got her eyes wide, wind was slashing into her. Rain piercing her. And, of course, the woman was no longer weaponless. Where heartbeats before her hands had been empty, there was now a flail, its iron ball the size of Safi’s skull.

“Where the rut did that come from?” Safi muttered. “And are those spikes on that ball?” She skipped back—though the wind would hardly let her move—and briefly considered if Carawen steel was strong enough to slice through iron.