Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(120)

*

With great effort and all the strength left inside her, Iseult heaved and rolled and shoved wooden beams off Merik Nihar. Shafts of morning light broke through gray clouds. The first pier and an entire block of buildings had been leveled. Reduced to splintered timbers by Kullen’s storm—a storm that must have claimed the first mate as well. No souls or Threads moved alongside the now gentle waves. No birds winged, no insects sang, no life existed …

Except for a swarm of green, flying into the horizon. At the very center, Iseult sensed the faintest hint of dazzling Threads.

Safi.

She was gone. Gone. Iseult had lost her, and it was just one more mistake to add to her soul.

But she muscled past those thoughts and continued her back-bending fight against the building frame. All the noise and movement roused Merik from unconsciousness, his Threads abruptly raging into life. Iron pain and blue grief.

He lay on his back, hunks of skin gone and glass shards burrowed deep.

“What hurts?” Iseult asked, dropping beside him. No stutter held her tongue. No emotions held sway.

“Everything,” Merik rasped, eyes cracking open.

“I’m going to check you for broken bones,” Iseult said. Or for worse. When Merik didn’t argue, she set to gently kneading his body, from the top of his head to the tips of his boot-clad toes. She had done this a hundred times with Safi over the years—Habim had taught her how—and she sank into the forgiveness of a cold, methodical movement.

Stasis. The breeze skipped through someone else’s wet clothes and kissed someone else’s skin. Merik’s wounds—they all bled on someone else—and Iseult wouldn’t think of the Puppeteer. Of the Cleaved. Of Evrane or Kullen or Safi. Stasis.

Throughout the inspection, Iseult’s eyes darted to Merik’s Threads, checking for any flash of brighter pain. Each plucking out of glass sent them flashing, but only when Iseult hit his ribs did they erupt with agony. A groan rolled off his tongue. His ribs were broken; it could be worse.

Next, Iseult turned her attention to Merik’s skin, checking that none of the removed glass or wood had opened any dangerous cuts. Blood stained the street, and as she wrapped his own torn shirtsleeve around a gash on his forearm, Merik asked, “Where … is Safi?”

“The Marstoks took her.”

“Will you … get her back?”

Iseult loosed a tight breath, surprised by how much her lungs ached with that movement. Would she get Safi back?

In a panicked rush, she finished the makeshift bandage and wrenched out her Threadstone. No light flickered, which meant Safi was safe. Unhurt.

It also meant Iseult had no way to follow her Threadsister. But what had Safi told her? One of Eron’s men would be coming here—to a coffee shop. Iseult could wait—would have to wait—for that person. He would help Iseult reach Safi, whoever he was.

She dropped the Threadstone. It thunked against her breastbone. Then she returned her attention to Merik and said, “You need a healer.” As soon as the words were out, she wished she could swallow them back, for, of course, Merik raggedly asked, “My … aunt?”

The urge to lie was overwhelming—and not just a lie for Merik, but a story that Iseult could cling to as well.

It wasn’t my fault, she wanted to say. The Cleaved got to her, and that wasn’t my fault either.

But it was Iseult’s fault, and she knew it.

“Evrane was attacked by the Cleaved.” Iseult’s tone was colorless. Deliberate. A thousand leagues away and coming from a different person’s mouth. “I don’t know if she survived. I followed her, but she left the city.”

Merik’s Threads gave out then. The blue grief took hold completely, and he blinked back tears, his breaths choking in a way that must have sent pain shattering through his broken ribs.

That was when the glacier finally cracked, and Iseult gave up her control. She curled onto her knees beside Merik and, for the second time in her life, Iseult det Midenzi cried.

She had killed so many people today. Not on purpose, and not directly, yet the burden seemed no less vast. No less complete.

She almost … she almost wished Corlant’s curse had killed her in the end. At least then all of these lost souls might still be alive.

Eventually, Merik was too ill for her to ignore. He was pale, shaking, and his Threads were fading too fast.

So Iseult shoved aside everything she felt—every Thread that was never meant to hold sway—and she scooted closer to Merik. “Where is the Jana?” she asked, thinking his crew could get him to a healer. She and Safi had left the horses, and Iseult had no idea where the nearest living city might be. “Highness, I need to know where the Jana is.” She cupped his face. “How can I reach it?”

Merik was shivering now, his arms clutched to his chest, yet his skin roasting to the touch. His Threads were growing paler and paler …

But Iseult would be damned if she was going to let him die. She leaned in close. Made him meet her eyes. “How can I contact the Jana, Highness?”

“Lejna’s wind … drum,” he croaked. “Hit it.”

Iseult released his face, her gaze flying over the street … There. At the eastern corner of town, only a few blocks away, was a drum identical to the one on the Jana.

Iseult scrabbled upright. The salty morning spun, and her muscles felt like shredded glass. But she put one foot in front of the other … until at last she reached the drum.