Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(30)
“Your … your mother,” Alma started.
“I showed her how,” Gretchya finished. She dropped the scissors on the worktable and marched toward the stove. “The cloths will finish burning soon and Corlant will be back. Hurry.”
Iseult pressed her lips thin. Her mother’s response was no answer at all.
“You should be grateful,” Gretchya continued as she poked at the stove’s flames. “Those rubies in your hand will glow when Safiya is in danger—and when you are too. It will even allow you to track each other. Such a gift should not be taken lightly.”
She wasn’t taking the gift lightly—yet nor would she feel gratitude toward Alma. Ever. Alma had made this out of guilt. She was, after all, the reason Iseult had been denied a place as a Threadwitch apprentice—and also rejected as Gretchya’s heir.
“Get dressed,” Gretchya ordered Iseult. “And quickly, while Alma sweeps up this cut hair. We must tell Corlant and the tribe that you changed your mind and wish to return to the tribe as a Threadwitch.”
Iseult opened her mouth—to point out that her mother could not have two apprentices and that the tribe was well aware of Iseult’s magical failings—but then she let her lips fall shut. Alma was grabbing for the broom and following orders just as a Threadwitch ought to. Because Threadwitches did not argue; they followed the cool course of logic where it led.
Logic had led Iseult here, so she would ignore her hurt and fear, and she would follow logic as she’d been trained. As she’d managed throughout her time in Ve?aza City, with Safi at her side.
NINE
Never—not in ten million lifetimes—would Safi have expected to slip into her role as a domna this easily. Not with so many people around her, their body heat filling the vaulted ballroom and their constant lies scraping over her skin. But the children from her past had angled into adulthood while their parents had seamed into old age.
And with all the sparkling wine and the shine of chandeliers, with the wall of glittering glass that overlooked the Jadansi’s marshy shore, it was hard for Safi not to enjoy herself.
In fact, she found it no different from pulling a con with Iseult. She was playing the right hand while her uncle cut some unknown purse. If this was all that Uncle Eron wanted from her, then Safi could—almost happily—comply. Especially with Prince Leopold fon Cartorra at her side.
He had grown into a fine specimen of a man—though still much too pretty to be taken seriously. In fact, he was undoubtedly the most beautiful person, male or female, in the room. His curls were a glossy strawberry, his skin had a golden red-cheeked glow, and those long blond lashes that Safi so vividly remembered were still draped over his sea green eyes.
Yet for all his external changes, he was the same sharp-tongued, playful boy she remembered.
He tipped back a gulp of wine. It set his curls to flopping—and several nearby domnas to sighing.
“You know,” he drawled, “the blue velvet on my suit lacks the depth I’d hoped for. I specifically requested imperial sapphire.” His voice was a rich baritone, and the way he balanced his words with pauses was almost musical. “But I’d call this more of a dull navy, wouldn’t you?”
Safi snorted. “I’m glad to see you haven’t changed, Polly. For all your wit, you remain as infatuated with your looks as ever.”
He flushed at the name Polly—as he had every other time she’d uttered it this evening, which had only made her want to say it more.
“Of course I haven’t changed.” Leopold shrugged gracefully. “My perfect face is all I have, and studying hard will only get you so far in Cartorra.” He flipped his un-Witchmarked hand at her. “But you, Safiya”—pause—“have changed quite a bit, haven’t you? That was a dramatic entrance you made.”
She looked away, her own cheeks heating up—but not with shame. With fury.
She’d arrived at the ball a full hour late. Twilight had already melted into moonlight because Uncle Eron had insisted on finishing an entire jug of wine before departure. Upon arrival at the Doge’s palace, though, Safi understood why: Eron’s former Hell-Bard brothers were on duty.
Four of the armored knights stood sentry in the Doge’s garden, where cypress branches whispered in the breeze and tree frogs harmonized. Two more Hell-Bards guarded the palace entrance, and the final six waited stonily behind Emperor Henrick.
Every time Safi spotted another one of the enormous, axe-wielding knights, her stomach dropped to her toes. Her fists balled up tight. Yet every time, she kept her chin high and her shoulders back.
Not that any of the Hell-Bards noticed Safi or her uncle. In fact, only one showed any reaction as they strode past—and as far as Safi could tell from beneath the steel helm that all Hell-Bards wore, he’d been young. Too young to have served with Uncle Eron.
Actually, now that Safi considered it, maybe that Hell-Bard’s bold wink in the gardens hadn’t been directed at Uncle Eron but at her.
She did look rutting gorgeous tonight.
By the time Safi and Uncle Eron had reached the entrance hall, the other doms and domnas had long since moved to the ballroom. The Emperor, however, had insisted that he and Prince Leopold wait until the final dom arrived.
When Polly spotted Safi striding toward him, he rushed in front of his uncle’s throne—as if buffering her from the Hell-Bards’ stares like he’d always done in childhood—and swept a charming bow. He even cut in when Henrick held Safi’s hand a bit too long after she knelt in fealty (gods below, she had forgotten how very toad-like the Cartorran emperor looked—and how very sweaty his grip was).