Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(24)
A pause filled the room—then Safi’s jaw slackened. “Wait—I can leave?”
“Yes.” Eron offered an almost sad grin, fidgeting once more with his necklace. When he spoke again, the first sparks of truth—of happy warmth—awakened in Safi’s chest.
“After you play the role of the dancing, drinking domna,” he began, “and you do it for all of the empires to see … Well, after that, you’ll be entirely free to go.”
Free to go. The words reverberated through the air like the final note in an explosive symphony.
Safi swayed back. This was more than her mind could swallow—more than her witchery could swallow. Eron’s words quavered and burned with truth.
“Why,” Safi began carefully, afraid the wrong word would erase everything her uncle had said, “would you let me leave? I’m supposed to be domna of the Hasstrel lands.”
“Not quite.” He raised a single arm over his head and leaned against the glass. Everything about his posture was strangely indulgent, and his necklace, now removed, hung between his fingers. “Titles won’t matter soon, Safiya, and, let’s face it, neither you nor I ever expected you to actually lead the estate. You aren’t exactly cut out for leadership.”
“And you are?” She bristled. “Why did I study my whole life if this was your plan all along? I could have just left—”
“It wasn’t my plan,” he cut in, shoulders tensing. “But things change when war is on the horizon. Besides, do you regret all the tutoring and training you received?” His head tipped to one side. “Your encounter with the Gold Guildmaster almost ruined everything I have planned, but I’ve managed to salvage the evening. Now all you have to do is act like a frivolous domna for a single night, and then your duties will be done. Forever.”
Safi sputtered a laugh. “That’s it? That’s all you want from me? All you’ve ever wanted from me? Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”
He shrugged dismissively. “You don’t have to believe me, but what does your magic say?”
Safi’s witchery hummed with truth, warm behind her ribs. Yet still she found it impossible to swallow this story. Everything she’d ever wanted was suddenly being handed to her. It seemed far, far too good to be true.
Eron arched a pale eyebrow, clearly amused by Safi’s bewilderment. “When the chimes toll midnight, Safiya, the Bloodwitch will no longer be a problem. Then you can do whatever you please and live out the same unambitious existence you’ve always enjoyed. Although…” He paused, gaze sharpening. There was no sign of drunkenness now. “If you wanted to, Safiya, you could bend and shape the world. You have the training for it—I’ve seen to that. Unfortunately,” he spread his scarred hands, stretching the chain taut, “you seem to lack the initiative.”
“If I lack the initiative,” Safi whispered, the words tumbling out before she could stop them, “then it’s because you made me this way.”
“Too true.” Eron smiled down at her, a rueful thing that frizzed with honesty. “But don’t hate me for that, Safiya. Love me…” His arms opened idly. “And dread me. It’s the Hasstrel way, after all. Now finish getting dressed. We leave at the next chime.”
Without another word, Eron stalked past Safi and left the room. Safi watched him go. She made herself watch his brisk gait and broad back.
Safi sank into the injustice for several blistering seconds. Unambitious? Lacking initiative? Perhaps that was true when it came to living in a frozen castle amidst a world of power-hungry nobility and ever-watchful Hell-Bards, but not when it came to a life with Iseult.
Safi pulled out the Carawen book once more and flipped it open. The piestra shone up at her, blooming like a rose at sunset. This page in particular was important, and Safi simply had to sort out why …
She dragged her finger down the ranks and divisions of monks. Mercenary Monk, Teacher Monk, Guardian Monk, Artisanal Monk … Her fingers paused on Healer Monk. It was one such monk who’d found Iseult when she’d fled her tribe. Iseult had gotten lost at a crossroads north of Ve?aza City, and a kind Healer Monk had helped her find her way.
And that old crossroads was beside the lighthouse that the girls now used. Iseult must be planning to leave Ve?aza City altogether and return to the usual hideout.
Safi dropped the book. Her head lolled back. She couldn’t go there yet—she had to get through tonight first. She had to get this Bloodwitch off her trail and her uncle firmly taken care of. Then, with no worry of pursuit ever again, she could head north of the city and find her Threadsister.
Safi exhaled sharply, head lowering and body shifting toward the mirror. Eron wanted a dutiful domna, did he? Well, Safi could give him that. Throughout her childhood, the Cartorran nobility had seen her as a quiet, embarrassed thing, cowering behind her uncle while her toes tapped and her legs bounced.
But Safi wasn’t that girl anymore, and the Hell-Bards had no power in this empire. So Safi puffed out her chest, pleased at how the gown emphasized her shoulders. How the sleeves stopped high enough to reveal her palms, striped with as many calluses as any soldier.
Safi was proud of her hands, and she couldn’t wait for the doms and domnas to stare at them with revulsion. For the nobility to feel her fingers, rough as sandstone, when she danced with them.