Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(60)

The potent truth behind these stories made Safi’s ankles bounce and her fingers curl. The world that Ryber described was nothing like the one Safi had left behind. There was poverty in the Dalmotti Empire—of course there was—but there wasn’t starvation.

Perhaps … perhaps Merik did need trade—even with a cursed estate like the Hasstrels.

Just as Safi towed in her leg to stand—to return to the cabin and check on Iseult—Evrane’s voice hit her ears.

“So you will let the girl die?” Evrane’s shouts swept up from the nearby ladder. Louder than the drilling sailors. Louder than the pounding drum. “You must take us ashore!”

Ice slid down Safi’s spine. Splintered through every piece of her. She rolled onto her knees, onto her feet. Then she stood, ignoring Ryber’s whispers to stay hidden. Just as she lifted above the barrels, Merik’s dark head appeared on the ladder. He climbed deftly onto the deck, his aunt’s cloaked figure behind.

Merik strode several paces forward, head swiveling as if he searched for someone, and sailors cleared aside.

Evrane stalked to his side. “That girl needs a Firewitch healer, Merik! She will die without one!”

Merik didn’t answer—even when Evrane’s voice lifted with fury and she demanded that Merik take them ashore.

Safi’s fingers flexed. Her toes, her calves, her gut—everything tensed for action.

If Merik wasn’t willing to save Iseult’s life, then that simply confirmed he wasn’t Safi’s ally. So, contract or not, enemy sailors or not, Admiral Nihar was now Safi’s opponent and this ship was her battleground.





TWENTY

Merik had gone belowdecks to check on the domna. He didn’t like how he’d left her in the cabin. Her Threadsister was ill, and Merik understood how that could wrinkle a person’s disposition.

Whenever there were wrinkles, Merik had to smooth them out.

Besides, this was basically the only wrinkle he could fix at the moment. Vivia’s Voicewitch was hounding Hermin, demanding that Merik tell her where the Dalmotti trade ship was and refusing to back off until she had seen this new Hasstrel contract for herself.

Merik had lied—again—and claimed the trade ship was only half the distance it actually was, but he had a feeling Vivia was starting to catch on.

Before he could reach the passenger cabin, his aunt intercepted him at the bottom of the ladder. “We need to stop,” she declared, her face dark in the shadows but her silver hair glowing. “Iseult is too ill to survive much longer. What ports are near?”

“None that we can visit. We’re still in Dalmotti territory.” Merik tried to step onward.

Evrane cut him off, bristling. “What do you not understand about ‘too ill to survive’? This is nonnegotiable, Merik.”

“And this is not your ship to command.” Merik didn’t have the patience for this right now. “We stop when I say we stop, Aunt. Now stand aside so I can visit the domna.”

“She is not in the cabin.”

And just like that, the familiar pressure ignited beneath Merik’s skin. “Where,” he asked softly, “is she?”

“Topside, I assume.” Evrane flicked her wrists disinterestedly at the cargo space, as if to say, You do not see her here, do you?

“Yet,” Merik continued, his voice still dangerously low, “she was supposed to stay belowdecks. Why didn’t you keep her in the cabin?”

“Because that is not my responsibility.”

At those words, Merik’s temper fanned into flames. Evrane knew what was in the Hasstrel contract. She knew that Safiya had to stay belowdecks for safety reasons. A single drop of her blood could mark the end of the contract entirely.

And the thought of Safiya spilling blood … of her getting hurt …

He sprang up the ladder, his aunt’s words following him. “So you will let the girl die? You must take us ashore!”

Merik ignored his aunt. He would find Safiya and explain to her—gently, of course, and not with this fire controlling him—that she absolutely could not leave her cabin. She would listen, obey, and then Merik could relax again. No more wrinkles in sight.

Merik barked at his men to stand aside as he aimed for the quarterdeck. His magic wanted release, and try as he might, he was helpless to smooth it away.

“Admiral!”

Merik ground to a halt. That was Safiya’s voice. Behind him.

He twisted back slowly, his chest heaving now. His winds throbbing inside, worse than before. Worse than they’d been in years. His control was slipping away.

It shattered completely when he saw her standing at the center of the deck, a cutlass in hand.

“You will take us ashore.” Her tone was cold and exact. “You will take us now.”

“You disobeyed orders,” Merik said, inwardly cursing. What happened to a gentle explanation? “I told you my word is law, I told you to stay belowdecks.”

Her only response was to raise the cutlass high. “If Iseult needs a Firewitch healer, then we will go ashore.”

Distantly, Merik realized that the wind-drum had stopped pounding. That the ship had started to rock without the Tidewitches to keep it calm.

Merik swept out his own cutlass. “Go belowdecks, Domna. Now.”

That made Safiya smile—a vicious thing—and she stepped calmly up to Merik’s blade. Then she rolled back her shoulders and pushed her chest against the tip. Her shirt dimpled in. “Get a Firewitch healer, Admiral, or I will make sure your contract is ruined.”