Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(19)
“My shop is destroyed.” Mathew’s lanky form closed in on Safi, blocking her view of the book—or of anything but his green, flashing eyes. “A broken door, broken windows. What the hell-flames possessed you to hold up a Guildmaster?”
Safi wet her lips. “It … was an accident. The wrong mark hit our trap.”
“Ah.” Mathew’s shoulders relaxed. Then he suddenly stepped in close and gripped Safi’s chin, like he’d done a thousand times over the past six years. He twisted her head left, right, looking for cuts or bruises or any sign that she might start to cry. But she was unharmed and tears were far, far away.
Mathew’s hand fell. He rocked back a single step. “I’m glad you’re unhurt.”
With that single phrase, Safi’s breath whooshed out and she flung her arms around his neck. “I’m sorry,” she murmured into his lapel—a lapel with the wretched Hasstrel mountain bat embroidered on it. “I’m so sorry about your shop.”
“At least you’re alive and safe.”
Safi pulled free, wishing Habim would see it that way too.
“Your uncle needs you tonight,” Mathew went on, striding to the bed. He yanked one of the gowns off the coverlet, its pistachio silk shimmering in the afternoon sun.
Safi glared at the dress. It was, to her annoyance, quite beautiful and exactly the sort of thing she’d choose for herself. “Does he need me or my witchery?”
“He needs you,” Mathew said. “There is a ball tonight, to kick off the Truce Summit. Henrick has specifically requested your attendance.”
Safi’s gut flipped. “But why? I’m not ready to be a full domna or lead the Hasstrel lands—”
“It’s not that,” Mathew interrupted, turning his attention back to the dress in his hand … then shaking his head dismissively and draping it on the bed once more. “You’re not needed in that capacity.”
True.
“The fact is that we don’t know why Henrick wants you here, but Eron could hardly refuse.”
Magic shivered over Safi’s skin. False. “Don’t lie to me,” she said quietly. Lethally.
Mathew didn’t answer but hoisted up a second dress instead—this one thicker and in pale pink. Safi bared her teeth. “You can’t send my Threadsister away and not explain why, Mathew.”
Mathew held Safi’s gaze for several long breaths, for once seeming as unyielding as his Heart-Thread. Then his posture loosened—and an apology slid into the line of his shoulders. He dropped the gown in a heap. “There are big wheels in motion, Safi. Wheels your uncle and many others have spent twenty years rolling into position. The Truce ends in eight months, and the Great War will resume. We … cannot let that happen.”
Safi’s head coiled back—this was not what she’d expected. “How could you or my uncle possibly affect the Great War?”
“You’ll know soon enough,” Mathew replied. “Now get cleaned up, and wear this gown tonight.” The faintest dusting of power coated Mathew’s words, and as he held out a silvery white dress, the Witchmark on the back of his hand—a hollow circle for Aether and a scripted W for Wordwitchery—almost seemed to glow.
Safi’s nostrils flared. She snatched away the filmy gown, the fabric slipping through her fingers like sea foam. “Don’t waste your magic on me.” Something about her Truthwitchery cancelled out Mathew’s persuasiveness.
But all Mathew said in return was “Hmmm,” as if he knew more than she could ever imagine. Then he twirled elegantly toward the door. “A maid will arrive shortly to help you with your bath. Don’t forget behind the ears and under the fingernails.”
Safi bit her thumb at Mathew’s back … but the act of defiance felt empty. Ashy. Her wrath from the carriage was already seeping out and oozing into the floorboards like the blackened oil of the cleaved man’s blood.
Safi tossed the gown on the bed, and her eyes settled on the corner of the Carawen book. She would fix this mess she’d made. Once she understood Iseult’s message, Safi would pick through her opponents—her uncle, the Bloodwitch, the city guards—and she would estimate her terrain—Ve?aza City, the Truce Summit ball.
Then Safi would fix this.
SEVEN
Iseult ducked in to the street behind the wharf as ordered by Habim. Hunching deep beneath the scratchy hood, she wefted her way through horses and carts, merchants and Guild lackeys, and Threads of every imaginable shade and strength. At last, she caught sight of a stamped wooden sign that declared The Hawthorn Canal.
Iseult recognized it now—Safi had played taro here a few months before. Yet unlike last night, she’d actually won.
A splash of white beneath the sign caught Iseult’s eyes, glaring and conspicuous against the smear of colors that was a Ve?aza City thoroughfare.
It was a Carawen monk with no Threads. None.
Iseult’s insides iced over. She froze midstep, watching the monk stride down the street—away from her. He was clearly on the hunt. Every few steps, he would pause and the back of his hood would tilt as if he sniffed the air.
It was his lack of Threads, though, that kept Iseult immobile. She’d thought she’d simply missed the Bloodwitch’s Threads in the wildness of the fight yesterday, but no—he still bore no Threads.