Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(65)

Merik’s lies were becoming truth right before his eyes.

He supposed he could try to stop his sister with some new tale about the trade ship abruptly changing course … But he doubted she would believe him. In all likelihood, she was already in position, waiting for her unsuspecting prey to sail past.

“I have dug us a deep grave,” Merik said, voice rough.

“But you’ll dig us back out again.” Kullen spread his hands. “You always do.”

Merik tugged at his collar. “I was careless. Blinded by my excitement over a thrice-damned contract, and now…” He exhaled sharply and turned to Kullen. “Now I need to know if you can do what needs doing.”

“If you mean,” Kullen said impatiently, “how are my lungs? Then they are perfectly fine.” The temperature dropped further; snow flickered around Kullen’s head. “I’ve had no issues in weeks. So I promise”—Kullen placed a fist over his heart—“that I can fly to Vivia’s ship and keep her from piracy. At least until you arrive.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” Kullen shook his head. “It is sheer luck that we are here and not in Ve?aza City. If we were still on the other side of the sea, then we wouldn’t be able to intervene at all.” A pause. Then the air warmed slightly. “There is something else we should discuss before I go.”

Merik didn’t like the sound of that.

“The ’Matsi girl belowdecks,” Kullen went on. “Do you have a plan for her?”

Merik inhaled wearily and checked his shirt—still tucked in. “I’m working on it, Kullen. I won’t let her die, all right? But the Jana and our people must come first.”

Kullen nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Then I will do what needs doing.”

“As will I,” Merik said. “Now gather the crew and summon the Tidewitches. It’s time to haul wind.”





TWENTY-THREE

It was nearing sunset, and Evrane had departed to find food, leaving Safi to contemplate Iseult and Lady Fate all alone. Surely the odds of Iseult encountering the same monk who’d helped her were high—after all, how many Carawen monks could there possibly be on the continent?

And surely this reunion was more akin to chance and probability—like Ryber drawing the Paladin of Foxes from the taro deck—than it was to some ancient poem steering the monk’s life.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, Safi’s thoughts scattered. The cabin door creaked open to reveal Merik, a wooden bowl in hand.

Her lips curled back. “Come to fight me again?” It was a churlish comment, but Safi couldn’t bring herself to care.

“Should I?” He strode into the cabin and toed the door shut. “You don’t seem to be misbehaving.”

“I’m not,” she grumbled—and it was true. Despite wanting to snarl and shout and make him regret ever puting iron against her skin, she wasn’t stupid enough to waste the energy. Now, more than ever, she needed a plan.

“Good.” Merik marched over and set the bowl within grabbing distance—though he wisely stayed back.

Chains jangling, Safi peeked into the bowl. Pale soup with a dry roll floating on top. “What is it?”

“What we always have.” Merik sank into a crouch. Their eyes met. His were a rich, dark brown. Yet he seemed distracted, the triangle on his forehead sunk to a frown. “It’s mostly bone broth, and whatever else we can find for the pot.”

“Sounds … delicious.”

“It isn’t.” He shrugged. “But look, I’ll even break your bread.” He plucked the roll from the bowl and, with an almost apologetic smile, he ripped it apart and dropped each bite-size chunk into the broth.

Safi watched him through half-lowered lashes. “Is this some trick? Why are you being nice to me?”

“No trick.” More bread plopped into the bowl. “I want you to know that I understand why you … attacked me.” Slowly, he pulled his gaze back to Safi’s. It was somber now. Bleak even. “I would have done the same thing in your position.”

“Then why don’t you stop? If you understand, why don’t you take Iseult ashore?”

Merik’s only response was to grunt noncommittally and drop the last of the bread into the bowl. Safi stared at it, bobbing in the broth, and frustration boiled up her shoulders.

“If,” she said quietly, “you expect me to be grateful for soup—”

“I do,” he interrupted. “We don’t have much food on this ship, Domna, and you’re eating my dinner ration. So yes, a bit of gratitude would be nice.”

Safi had no retort for that. In fact, she had absolutely no words at all—and her wariness suddenly doubled. What did Merik want from her? Her magic sensed no deception.

Merik nudged the bowl. “Eat, Domna … oh, wait! I almost forgot!” He withdrew a spoon from his coat. “How is that for service? Do you know how many men onboard would kill for the use of a spoon?”

“And do you know,” she retorted, “how many men I can kill with a spoon?”

That earned her a lazy smile, but when she reached for the spoon, Merik didn’t release it. Their fingers touched …

And heat coiled up Safi’s arm. She flinched, her hand and the spoon shooting back.