Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(63)

“I know what the cursed Truce says. But I repeat, they have my uncle’s betrothed. That is already a violation of the Truce.”

Except that it isn’t, Aeduan thought. But he didn’t feel like arguing, so he only gave a sharp nod. “The only way to access Lovats is to sail past the Sentries of Noden—and those stone monuments are heavily guarded by Nubrevnan soldiers. Assuming your fleet could get by—which they couldn’t—they would still have to contend with the bewitched Water-Bridges of Stefin-Ekart.”

“So,” Leopold’s voice was lethally devoid of inflection, “what am I supposed to do, then?”

The admiral, his captains, and the distant Hell-Bards collectively flinched—and Aeduan no longer blamed them. At least Henrick understood war and costs and strategy.

Not to mention basic history.

Yet, this was an opportunity for Aeduan. A good one, the likes of which he might never have again. It was a chance to gain the trust of a prince.

“A single ship,” Aeduan said slowly, twisting his wrists—inward three times, outward three times. “We need the fastest frigate in the fleet as well as every Tide-or Windwitch available. If we can intercept the Nubrevnans before they reach their homeland, we can claim the domna without affecting the Truce … Your Imperial Highness.”

Leopold eyed Aeduan, the Ve?azan breeze lifting his pale curls in all directions. Then, as if coming to some internal decision, he tapped his rapier hilt and nodded at Aeduan. “Make it happen, Monk. Immediately.”

So Aeduan did just that, smugly pleased to have four officers and eight Hell-Bards—all of them eyeing Aeduan’s bloodied chest warily—now forced to take orders from him.

The experience was also … disconcerting. People rarely stared at Aeduan directly, much less stood in such close proximity. So when the planning finally ended and the men returned to ignoring him once more, Aeduan found himself relieved.

It was as he returned to Leopold’s carriage after overseeing the transport of his lockbox onto a Cartorran cutter that a familiar scent wafted into his nose.

He paused, two steps from the carriage, and sniffed the air.

Clear lake water and frozen winters.

Aeduan knew that smell, yet he couldn’t pin down the corresponding blood. Leopold smelled of new leather and smoky hearths; the Hell-Bards stank of the noose and cold iron; and the officers all bore distinctly oceanic blood-scents.

Whoever had recently passed this pier, Aeduan had met them but had not bothered to record their scent.

Which meant they were not important.

So, shrugging aside the smell, Aeduan tugged his hood low. The seventeenth chimes were tolling, which meant Aeduan had just enough time to find 14 Ridensa Street—and to finally update his father on this latest, most lucrative employer.





TWENTY-TWO

Manacles rubbed against Safi’s wrists as she watched Iseult’s sleeping face.

There was an unmistakable line of drool lingering on Iseult’s lips, but Evrane was gone and Safi was chained too far away to do anything.

She could do nothing that mattered, it seemed. She’d acted like a child by letting her temper explode at Merik—and she didn’t care. What she cared about was that her attack had failed. That she’d only made things worse in the end.

The room was dim, clouds rolling over the afternoon sun, and water sloshed behind her. The ship was gaining speed, the rocking all but stopped, and the giant drum booming once more. The stomp of sailors’ feet had also resumed.

Safi drew her knees to her chest. Her chains rattled, a mocking sound.

“That was quite a display.”

Safi lurched upright—and found Evrane in the doorway. Light as a mouse, the monk crossed the room to Iseult.

“How is she?” Safi asked. “What can I do?”

“You can do nothing chained up,” Evrane dropped to the floor and draped a hand over Iseult’s arm. “She is stable. For now.”

Safi’s breath burst out.

For now wasn’t long enough. What if Safi had initiated something she couldn’t complete? What if Iseult never woke up—could never wake up?

Evrane twisted toward Safi. “I should have kept you in the room. I am sorry for that.”

“I would have attacked Merik belowdecks or above.”

Evrane sniffed dryly. “Are you injured from your … sparring?”

Safi ignored the question. “Tell me what’s wrong with Iseult. Why does she need a Firewitch healer?”

“Because there is something wrong with Iseult’s muscle, and that is a Firewitch healer’s domain.” Evrane plucked a glass jar from within her cloak. “I am a Waterwitch healer, so I specialize in the fluids of the body. My salves”—she flourished the jar at Safi—“are from Earthwitch healers, so they can only heal skin and bone.” Evrane set the salve on the pallet. “There is inflammation in Iseult’s muscle that is bewitched. Either the cut on her hand or the arrow wound in her arm was cursed. I … cannot tell which, but it is undoubtedly the work of a Cursewitch.”

“A Cursewitch?” Safi repeated. Then again, “A Cursewitch?”

“I’ve seen spells like this before,” Evrane continued. “I can keep the curse clear of her blood, but I fear it will still spread through her muscle. As we speak, it moves for her shoulder. If it gets much closer, then I will have to amputate—but that is risky to do on my own. It is best done with an Earthwitch healer and a Firewitch healer to help. Of course, even if we had such witches available, most Earthwitch healers are Cartorran. Most Firewitch healers are Marstoki. Merik would never allow such enemies onboard.”