Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(70)

“No.” Evrane’s lips puckered into a grim line. “We cannot bring an enemy sailor onto this ship. That goes too far—even for me. Yet we can reverse your plan and bring Iseult to the healer.” The monk withdrew a key from her cloak and held it up.

Safi gasped. “How did you get that?”

“I stole it from Merik.” She flashed a humorless grin and pushed to her feet. “Unlock yourself, and then wake up Iseult. While I ensure the coast is clear, you need to get her standing. We will have only one chance to make a run for it.”

Safi nodded, release winding through her shoulders. Through her legs. She was finally acting—and even better, she was running. That was something she knew how to do well.

In the back of her mind, though, something poked and scratched: Merik would be furious over this. After all, she was putting his contract at risk, and he’d already chained her up for that.

But the consequences were worth it—Iseult was worth it.

So, with a bolstering breath, Safi plucked the key from Evrane’s hand. Then, as the monk darted from the cabin, Safi slipped the key into her first manacle. It opened with a satisfying clink.

*

Merik flew to the Marstoki war galley, moving so fast that he left his stomach behind. Kullen soared beside him, almost invisible in the wildness of their winds. Yet through it all, Merik still managed to pick out Vivia.

Stocky and dark-haired like Merik, she roared orders beside a gangway connecting the Marstoki galleon to her ship. Nubrevnan sailors led submissive Marstoks across and then organized them in seated rows across the main deck.

Merik’s feet touched down, yet he didn’t tow in his magic. Instead, he spun once and lashed it across the deck.

It spun around his sister, yanking her to Merik. But she only grinned, landing gracefully beside her brother.

“You lied,” he growled, tearing off his wind-spectacles, “about what the miniature was.”

“And you lied about where it was.”

Dimly, Merik was aware of sailors fleeing—as if a giant wave might be spiraling toward him. But Vivia’s magic was slow and Merik’s rage all-consuming. He freed his pistol and pressed it to her head.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she snarled. Water splashed as she abandoned her wave. “I am your sister and your future queen.”

“You aren’t queen yet. Return these men to their ship.”

“No.” The word was almost lost to the wind, the voices. “Nubrevna needs weapons, Merry.”

“Nubrevna needs food.”

Vivia only laughed—a crowing sound that had mocked Merik his entire life. “There is a war coming. Stop being so na?ve and start caring about your countryme—” Her words broke off as Merik cocked his pistol, readying the Firewitch spell within.

“Never,” he hissed, “say that I don’t care for my countrymen. I fight to keep them alive. But you … You’ll bring the fires of Marstok upon their heads. What you have done here violates the Twenty Year Truce. I will present you to the vizers and King Serafin for punishment—”

“Except that it doesn’t violate it,” Vivia snapped, lips curling back, “so don’t get all formal on me, Merry. No one is hurt. My crew has peacefully escorted the Marstoks onto my ship—which I will give up to ensure the Truce stays intact.”

“Your crew will escort the Marstoks right back. We leave this vessel, Vivia, and we leave its contents.” With a final thrust of muscle and magic, Merik spun on his heel, ready to end this “peaceful escort.”

“So will you tell Father, then?” Vivia shouted. “Will you tell him that you lost the ship he sought?”

Merik’s feet stopped, and he angled back toward his sister. Her eyes—dark and identical to Merik’s—blazed.

“What did you say?”

She bared her teeth in a full smile. “Who do you think ordered that miniature, Merry? This was all Father’s idea and Father’s orders—”

“Lies.” Merik burst forward, pistol rising—

A wall of wind blasted him. He stumbled, almost fell, and then hazily thought, Kullen.

A second wind returned his balance—and his sanity too. His Threadbrother—wherever the Hell he was—was finally putting a stop to something Merik never should’ve begun. Never would’ve begun if there weren’t so much at stake. This was his sister, for Noden’s sake.

Kullen reeled into Merik’s path, eyes huge and face red. “We have a situation,” Kullen panted. “It’s bad.” He gestured weakly toward the galleon’s mizzen mast and kicked into a jog.

Merik sprinted after him, all thoughts of Vivia or his father gone, swallowed by a new tide of fear.

“I thought it … odd,” Kullen yelled between gulps for air, “that there was only a skeleton crew here. There’s no way … this ship could have crossed the Jadansi … with so few men. So I checked belowdecks.” He skirted the ladder, pointing as he passed. “There were more men.”

“I don’t understand,” Merik shouted over his pounding feet. “You think what? That some of the crew left?”

“Exactly.” Kullen slowed to a stop beside the broken mizzen mast. His chest trembled much too fast as he added, “I think … most of this crew boarded … other ships. And then these men … Well, look for yourself.” He pointed to the mast, which was broken at Merik’s chest-level. Then Kullen waved to something else—something resting against the balustrade only a few feet away.