Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(23)

Uncle Eron might have been a disgraced Hell-Bard, stripped of rank for only the gods knew why—and then appointed as a temporary dom until Safi was deemed fit to take over—but he still paid his tithes exactly as Henrick demanded. Every year, Eron and Safi had gone to the Cartorran capital to hand over their meager funds and swear fealty to Emperor Henrick.

And every year, it had been awful.

Safi had always been taller than the boys, always stronger, while the other girls had always whispered about Safi’s sloshed uncle and snickered at her ancient gowns.

Yet it wasn’t the shame that made the trips miserable. It was the fear.

Fear of the Hell-Bards. Fear that they would see Safi for the heretic she was—for the Truthwitch she was.

In fact, were it not for Prince Leopold—or Polly, as Safi had always called him—taking her under his wing each time she visited, she felt certain the Hell-Bards would have caught her by now. It was the job of the Hell-Bard Brigade, after all, to sniff out unmarked hereitcs.

And by order of the crown, they were allowed to behead those heretics if they seemed dangerous or unwilling to cooperate.

Polly will probably be there tonight, Safi thought as she scrutinized herself in a narrow mirror beside the bed. It had been eight years since she’d last snuck off with him to explore the sprawling imperial library. She couldn’t imagine how his long pale lashes and flopping golden curls would translate into a twenty-one-year-old man.

Safi certainly looked different, and this pale gown accentuated it. The tight bodice emphasized the strength of her waist and abdomen. The fitted long sleeves showed off her corded arms, the tight bodice emphasized what few curves she possessed, and the flowing skirts softened her hips into a feminine roundness. The dangling braids brought out the curves of her jaw. The brightness of her eyes.

Guildmaster Alix and his staff had truly outdone themselves this time.

Once the maid had left—after laying a stunning white cape across the bed—Safi darted for her satchel and yanked out Iseult’s Carawen book. Then she strode to the window, where the canals glowed like flames beneath a setting sun.

Gauzy pink light filtered across the book’s blue cover, and when Safi creaked it back, the pages whispered open to page thirty-seven. A bronze winged lion glimmered up at her, marking the last page Iseult had been reading.

Safi quickly scanned the text—a listing of Carawen monk divisions.

The bedroom door burst wide. Safi had just enough time to stuff the book back into the satchel before her uncle marched into the room.

Dom Eron fon Hasstrel was a tall man—muscled and hard-boned like Safi. Yet unlike Safi, his wheat hair blended into silvery gray and he wore purple bags beneath bloodshot eyes. For all that he’d been a soldier, he was nothing but a drunk now.

Eron stopped several paces away and scrubbed at the top of his head. It left his hair at all angles. “By the Twelve,” he drawled, “why are you so pale? You look like the Void got you.” Eron lifted his chin—and Safi noticed just the slightest wavering in his posture. “You must be nervous about the ball tonight.”

“As are you,” she said. “Why else would you be this drunk before dinner?”

Eron’s lips eased into a smile—a surprisingly alert smile. “There’s the niece I remember.” He crossed to the window, fixed his gaze outside, and set to toying with a thin gold necklace he always wore.

Safi bit her lip, hating that—as usual—a hole was opening in her chest at the sight of Uncle Eron. Though her blood ran with the same Hasstrel blue as his, she and her uncle were strangers.

And when Eron was drunk—which he was more often than he was not—then Safi’s witchery sensed nothing. No truth, no lies, no reaction whatsoever—as if whatever person he might be was washed away once the wine started flowing.

There had been, and always would be, a wall of stone and silence between them.

Leveling her shoulders, Safi strode to Eron’s side. “So why am I here, Uncle? Mathew said you plan to interfere with the Great War. How exactly do you intend to do that?”

A gruff laugh from Eron. “So Mathew let that slip, did he?”

“Do you need to use my witchery?” Safi pressed. “Is that what this is about? Some drunken scheme to reclaim your Hell-Bard honor—”

“No.” The word snapped out—strong. Unyielding. “This is not a drunken scheme, Safiya. Far from it.” Eron splayed his hands on the glass, and the old burn scars on his fingers and knuckles stretched taut.

Safi hated those scars. She’d stared at the white pocks a million times growing up. Wrapped around a wine jug or pinching a whore’s bottom. Those scars were all Safi really knew of her uncle—the only glimpse she’d had into his past—and whenever she saw them, she couldn’t help but fear that this was the future awaiting her; an insatiable thirst for what could never be.

Eron wanted his honor.

Safi wanted her freedom.

Freedom from her title and her uncle and the frozen, frozen Hasstrel halls. Freedom from the fear of Hell-Bards and beheadings. Freedom from her witchery and the entire Empire of Cartorra.

“You have no idea what war is like,” Eron said, his tone hazy as if his mind also drifted across the old scars. “Armies razing villages, fleets sinking ships, witches igniting you with a single thought. Everything you love gets taken away, Safiya … and slaughtered. But you will learn soon enough. In all too vivid a detail, you will learn—unless you do as I ask. After tonight, you can leave forever.”