Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(59)

“And drag them to their graves,” Safi finished. “The mountain bat legend is the same. But what I want to know is if you’ve actually seen a sea fox.”

“No. Although,” the girl rushed to add, “some of the older crew claim they fought foxes during the War.”

“I see,” Safi drawled—and she did see. Merik and his captains must keep the chum onboard to appease the more superstitious in their ranks—just like Uncle Eron sent sheep to the Hasstrel caves each year for the “mountain bats.”

Throughout her childhood, Safi had scoured the alpine forests around the Hasstrel estate for any sign of a bat-like dragon. She’d combed the nearby caves, where the bats supposedly lived, and she’d spent hours beside the dead Earth Origin Well, waiting for a beautiful woman to suddenly appear.

But after ten years with nary a glimpse, Safi had finally accepted that mountain bats—if they’d ever existed—were as dead as the Well they lived beside.

Sea foxes, Safi decided, were no different.

“My name’s Ryber, by the way.” The girl bobbed her head. “Ryber Fortsa.”

“Safiya fon Hasstrel.”

Ryber bit her lip as if trying to stifle a grin. But then she gave up. “You’re a domna, right?” She flipped up another taro card.

The Witch. It showed a woman, face hidden, staring at an Origin Well—the Earth Origin Well, actually. Except that unlike the Well Safi had grown up exploring, the illustrated version was still alive. The six beech trees around it were burgeoning, the flagstone walkway intact, and the waters swirling.

As with the Paladin of Foxes, the image was nothing like any Witch card Safi had seen.

Ryber tapped the card back into her deck, and Safi returned her gaze to the sailors. One young man had caught her eye, his face sweaty and painfully red—and his skill with a cutlass nonexistent.

In the time it took Safi to crack all of her knuckles, he was disarmed twice by his opponent. The worst of it was that his opponent was not only nearing the age of retirement, but had a crippled leg too.

If Safi needed a cutlass any time soon, then this boy’s was the one to nab. “Your crew,” Safi said, tilting back to catch a fresh scampering of wind, “seems divided. Some can fight, but most can’t.”

Ryber sighed, an acknowledging sound. “We haven’t had much experience. The good ones”—she pointed to the old man with the limp—“fought in the War.”

“Isn’t it your first mate’s duty to make sure you improve?” Safi squinted at the tiller. Wind sent Kullen’s pale hair flying, and he still muttered alongside the other witches. Merik, however, was no longer there. “The mate isn’t even watching the drills.”

“’Cause he’s sailing us. Normally he does push us.”

Something about the defensive way Ryber spoke made Safi inspect the girl more closely. Despite her boyish figure and decidedly unflattering braids, Ryber wasn’t a homely girl. In fact, now that Safi was looking closely, she realized Ryber’s eyes were a brilliant silver. Not gray, but true, shimmery silver.

The First Mate would have to be blind not to fall in love with those eyes.

“So you’re together,” Safi prodded.

“No,” Ryber said quickly—much too quickly. “He’s a good first mate is all. Fair and smart.”

The lie fretted down Safi’s skin, and she had to bite back a smile as she slid her attention to Kullen. All she saw was an enormous man with a powerful witchery—a man who could all too easily take Safi down. Yet perhaps there was more behind his icy exterior.

Ryber heaved a long sigh and plied another card from her deck. The Paladin of Hounds. She stared at the hound-like serpent, also wrapped around a sword, and there was an emptiness in her eyes that spoke of things best forgotten. But then her gaze settled on Kullen; the lines on her face relaxed.

Ryber and the first mate were together, and it was more than just a dalliance. It was serious and it ran deep.

True.

Safi’s lips pursed. She and Ryber seemed to be around the same age, yet here was something Safi knew little about. She’d had romances in Ve?aza City. Flirtations with young men like the Chiseled Cheater, but those encounters had always ended in quick kisses and even quicker goodbyes.

“Does the prince,” she asked absently, “have relations with anyone?” Safi tensed, instantly wishing she could snatch back those words. She didn’t know where they’d come from. “I mean, is it allowed for Prince Merik’s crew to have relations?”

“Not with each other,” Ryber answered. “Also, we’re off Nubrevnan soil, Domna. That makes the prince Admiral Nihar.”

That caught Safi’s attention, and she embraced the distraction wholeheartedly. “The prince’s title changes according to where he is?”

“Sure it does. Doesn’t yours?”

“No.” Safi bit her lip as a fresh burst of salty wind lashed behind the barrels. Rather than cool her, though, it seemed to scald—to make fresh sweat bead on her brow. But this was different heat from before—an angry heat. A frightened heat.

And she only got hotter as Ryber went on to describe how Merik’s rationing of meals had upset a lot of men and only widened the gap between those who supported Merik and those in favor of Princess Vivia. How dirty and overcrowded the capital city had become since the Great War.