Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(122)

Merik’s forehead tightened at those final words. His jacket pocket? The trade agreement.

Merik grabbed for his coat, hands shaking, and gently towed out the contract. On the last page, ashy fingerprints were everywhere—along with a fat scribbling.

Uncle:

Don’t be such a horse’s ass about this trade agreement. Prince Merik Nihar has done everything he could to get me to Lejna unharmed, so

Merik flipped over the page.

if I get hurt on the way or I don’t even reach this pier that you’ve arbitrarily chosen, you can’t blame him. Prince Merik and Nubrevna deserve a trade agreement with the Hasstrels. I promise you this, Uncle: if you don’t fulfill this contract and open up trade with Nubrevna, then I will simply write an agreement of my own. It will be a terrible one that gives Nubrevna all the advantage and all the money.

Remember: my name carries power, and contrary to your beliefs about me, I don’t lack initiative entirely.

Then, in hideously uncoordinated script, was a signature:

Safiya fon Hasstrel

Domna of Cartorra

Something hot scratched up Merik’s throat. He whipped the contract back over and saw that his signature and Dom Eron’s were still there—while any reference to “spilled blood” had been removed entirely.

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.