Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(75)

No, four fires. The barrels of chum were aloft and aflame. Heat rolled off them—as did the stench of roasting fish, and nearby was Kullen. His breath came in punctuated gasps and his eyes bulged from his head. But he kept his hands out, the barrels aloft, and his magic true.

“Kullen,” Merik yelled, already on his feet and sprinting for the drum. “Get the first barrel in position!” He yanked up a mallet and then waited while the closest flaming barrel flipped and floated before the drum.

Merik pounded the mallet. Air punched out and grabbed hold of the barrel. It sped over the water, still burning bright. Then it splashed down, before the nearest Marstoki galleon.

“Next barrel!” Merik called, and moments later, the second one launched out. Then the third and the fourth. Each one splashed in front of the Marstoks.

“It’s leaving,” Iseult said. Her gaze followed under the ship and then beyond—toward the now-sunken chum. “It’s chasing the barrels.”

“They are creatures of carnage,” Evrane said, and Safi jumped. She’d forgotten all about the monk, who slouched wearily nearby. “They like the taste of charred flesh.”

Safi kept her eyes on the water, watching as two black shadows sped away from the boat, then erupted from the waves in the distance. They attacked the flaming barrels; tangled and fought for the chum.

All the while, the Marstoki galleons sailed closer—right for the sea foxes. For a brief second, Safi almost pitied the Marstoks, whom she doubted had chum to catapult away for distraction.

But the moment passed when she caught sight of Iseult, sweating and wincing. As Safi turned her attention to helping Iseult, a wind—a magicked wind—swept over the Jana and hauled into her sails.

With a resistant groan, the warship set off to the east.





TWENTY-SIX

Despite the tiny Painstone and Firewitch healer’s work, Iseult’s arm pulsed with a low, insistent pain, and she found it hard to remain stoic as the gray Jadansi and distant shore melted past. A magicked wind from the admiral and his first mate practically lifted the Jana off the sea in a race to carry her from the Marstoks.

Iseult and Safi sat on the forecastle, their lungs billowing for air, and Iseult kept glancing at Evrane beside them. She couldn’t help it. This woman had guided her—saved her, really—six and a half years ago. She was both everything Iseult remembered and nothing at all.

The Memory-Evrane had been so angelic. And taller. But Real-Evrane was scarred and toughened and textured—not to mention, a whole half a head shorter than Iseult.

But the monk’s hair—that was as glossy and radiant as Iseult recalled. A halo fit for the Moon Mother.

Iseult broke her curious gawk—it was hard to stare for long. Evrane and Safi and everyone else wore Threads of a thousand brilliant shades. They pressed down on Iseult no matter where her eyes landed. On sailors who were terrified or triumphant, who were giddy off violence or ready to collapse with exhaustion.

And then a few nearby Threads shivered with revulsion. Their owners had spotted Iseult’s skin and eyes. None seemed hostile, though, so Iseult blocked them out.

After what might have been hours or minutes, the Jana began to slow. The magical wind stopped entirely, leaving a hole in Iseult’s ears where it had roared. A tenderness on her skin where it had kicked. Only a natural breeze carried the ship now, and a full moon shone overhead.

“Welcome to Nubrevna,” Evrane murmured.

Iseult pushed to her feet, the Painstone briefly flaming bright, and shuffled to the bulwark. Safi and Evrane followed.

The land was not so different from the coast north of Ve?aza City—rocky, jagged, pounded by wild waves. But in place of forests, large, white boulders dotted the cliff tops.

“Where are all the trees?” Iseult asked.

“The trees are there,” Evrane answered tiredly. “But they do not look like trees anymore.” With a snap, she unbuckled her cleaver’s sheath. Then she plucked an oily cloth from her cloak.

Safi’s breath hitched. “Those aren’t boulders, are they?” She turned to Evrane. “They’re tree stumps.”

“Hye,” the monk answered. “Dead trees do not stand for long when a storm blows through.”

“Why … why are they dead?” Iseult asked.

Evrane seemed briefly surprised, and she glanced from Safi to Iseult, as if to verify the question was genuine.

Upon seeing it was, Evrane frowned. “All of this coast was razed in the Great War. Cartorran Earthwitches poisoned the soils from the western border to the mouth of the River Timetz.”

Cold sank into Iseult’s lungs. She glanced at Safi, whose horrified Threads were shrinking inward.

“Why,” Safi asked Evrane, “have we never heard that before? We’ve studied Nubrevna, but … our history books always described this land as vibrant and alive.”

“Because,” Evrane said, “those who win wars are those who write history.”

“Still,” Safi said, voice rising, Threads scattering outward, “if it was all a lie, I should’ve known it.” She grabbed hold of Iseult’s hand, clenching so tight that it hurt through Iseult’s Painstone. Throbbed into Iseult’s wound.

But the pain was refreshing. Iseult embraced it, glad that it made her spine straighten and her throat open. Her gaze settled on Evrane’s saintly, concentrated face as the monk cleaned her cleaving knife—the one Iseult had used. Sea fox blood still crusted the swirling steel.