Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(53)

For several long moments, Evrane stood still and silent, her eyes locked on Merik’s. But then she released a sharp breath and turned away. “Yes, Admiral Nihar. As you wish.”

Merik watched the back of her silver head as she shuffled to the pallet and once more knelt by Iseult. An urge to apologize tickled the back of his throat—a need to ensure Evrane understood why he made these choices.

But Evrane had made up her mind about the Nihar family long ago. Her relationship to King Serafin was no better than Merik’s was to Vivia. Worse, even.

As Merik left the cabin and made his way above, he considered the best way to handle the Bloodwitch if indeed the man was alive. It would seem the only strategy would be to reach Lejna in the shortest time possible. So, though Merik was loath to do it, he would have to call on his Tidewitches once more. Of course, that would leave his sailors with little to do.

Fortunately, Merik knew exactly how to handle downtime. “Drill positions!” he bellowed, cupping his hands. “I want all sailors in drill positions now!”

*

Iseult drifted in sleep. She’d been stuck in that awful place between dreams and waking—that hole where you knew if you could only open your eyes, you’d be alive. This half-dreaming had always struck her during illness. When she’d wanted nothing more than to wake up and beg for a tincture to ease her swollen throat or itchy pox.

The worst, though, was when the half-dreams grabbed hold of Iseult amidst a nightmare. When she knew that she could flee a shadow’s grasp if she could just …

Wake.

Up.

A loud creak sounded above her, and with great effort, she lifted her eyelids. The shadows reared back … only to be replaced by pain. Every inch of her was drowning in the agony.

A woman materialized, her hair silver and face familiar. I am still dreaming, Iseult thought hazily.

But then the woman touched Iseult’s bicep and it was like a firepot going off. The here and the now kicked into Iseult’s body.

“You,” Iseult croaked out. “Why … are you here?”

“I’m healing you,” the monk said calmly, her Threads a glittering, concentrated green. “You have an arrow wound on your arm—”

“No.” Iseult fumbled for the monk’s beautifully white cloak. “I mean … you.” Her words spun … no, the room spun and Iseult’s words swirled with it. She wasn’t even sure she spoke in Dalmotti. It might’ve been Nomatsi falling from her tongue.

“You,” she tried again—almost certain that she was, indeed, using the Dalmotti word for you, “rescued me.” As she squeezed the words past the pain and the spinning, she noticed dirt smudges on the monk’s cloak. She instantly released her grip, ashamed. Then she sucked in a thin breath. So much pain. Boiling like hot tar. Stasis. Stasis in your fingertips and in your toes.

“Six and a half years ago, you f-found me at a crossroads. North of Ve?aza City. I was a little girl, and I’d lost my way. I had a ragdoll.”

Air hissed between the woman’s teeth. She rocked back, Threads shining with confused tan. Then her head shook faster, her Threads now turquoise with disbelief …

Until suddenly, she was leaning in close, blinking and blinking and blinking. “Your name is Iseult?”

Iseult nodded, briefly distracted from her pain. The monk’s eyes gleamed strangely, as if tears welled. But perhaps that was the darkness of the room. The angle of the sun. The monk’s Threads showed no blue grief—only plum eagerness and giddy pink.

“That was you,” the monk continued, “on the coast six and a half years ago?”

“I was twelve,” Iseult said. “M-my doll’s name was … Eridysi.”

Again, a sharp exhale from the monk. A swaying backward as if felled by what she heard. “And did you learn my name? Did I tell it to you?”

“I don’t think so.” Iseult’s voice was weak and distant, but she couldn’t tell if it was because her ears or her throat had stopped working. The fire in her arm was kicking upward now, like a rising tide.

The monk drew back, quickly becoming the capable healer once more. She laid a warm hand on Iseult’s shoulder, just above the arrow wound. Iseult flinched, then relaxed as sleep tugged at her.

But Iseult didn’t want sleep. She couldn’t face the dreams again. Wasn’t it bad enough that she’d been beaten and mobbed in real life? To have to relive it in her sleep …

“Please,” she said thickly, reaching for the monk’s cloak once more—not caring about the dirt. “No more dreams.”

“There will be no dreams,” the woman murmured. “I promise, Iseult.”

“And … Safi?” The pull of slumber rippled down Iseult’s spine. “She’s here?”

“She is here,” the monk confirmed. “She should return at any moment. Now sleep, Iseult, and heal.”

So Iseult did as she was told—not that she could have resisted even if she’d wanted to—and sank beneath the tide of a healing sleep.





EIGHTEEN

Far north of the Jana and yet in the same waters, Aeduan the Bloodwitch awoke. He was roused by the annoying sensation of fingers poking his ribs.

As the clouds of unconsciousness receded, Aeduan’s senses expanded. Sunlight warmed his face and water caressed his arms. He smelled brine.