Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(76)

As Evrane scrubbed, her movements practiced and sure, Iseult was suddenly struck by how many knives Evrane must have wiped clean in her lifetime. She was a healer monk, but she was a fighter too—and she’d lived at least half of her life during the Great War.

When Iseult and Safi oiled their blades, they wiped away fingerprints and sweat—protected the steel against everyday handling.

But when Evrane—and when Habim and Mathew … and even Gretchya too—polished their swords, they scraped away blood and death and a past Iseult couldn’t imagine.

“Tell us,” she said softly, “what happened to Nubrevna.”

“It started with the Cartorrans,” Evrane said simply, her words dancing away on the breeze. “Their Earthwitches tainted the soil. A week later, the Dalmotti Empire sent its Waterwitches to poison the coast and the rivers. Last, but hardly least, the Marstoki Firewitches burned our entire eastern border to the ground.

“It was clearly a concerted effort, for you must understand: Lovats has never fallen. In all the centuries of war, the Sentries of Noden and the Water-Bridges of Stefin-Ekart have kept us safe. So I suppose the empires thought that if they briefly allied, they might topple us once and for all.”

“But it didn’t work,” Iseult said.

“Not right away, no.” Evrane’s cleaning paused, and she stared into the middle distance. “The empires focused their final attacks during the months leading up to the Truce. Then, when their armies and navies were forced to withdraw, their magic was left behind to finish us off. The poison spread through the soil, moved upstream, while the Marstoki flames burned whole forests to the ground.

“Peasants and farmers were forced inland. As close as they could get to Lovats. But the city was already too crowded. Many died, and many more have died since. Our people are starving, girls, and the empires are very close to toppling us once and for all.”

Iseult blinked. There was finality in Evrane’s voice, a rose-colored acceptance in her Threads.

Beside her, Safi’s breath slithered out. “Merik truly needs this contract,” she whispered, her voice devoid of emotion. Her Threads muted and frozen—as if she were too shocked to feel. “Yet my uncle has made it impossible for him to claim. It’s too specific—no spilled blood…”

A pause hung in the air. The wind and the shouts of the sailors dulled. Then suddenly, it all snapped forward—too fast. Too bright.

Safi lurched away from the bulwark, her Threads avalanching outward with more colors than Iseult could follow. Red guilt, orange panic, gray fear, and blue regret. These weren’t the frayed Threads that break but rather the tough, reaching Threads that build. Each emotion, no matter the color, surged out of her, reaching across the deck as if trying to connect with someone—anyone—who might feel as wildly as she.

Then Safi turned to Iseult and said in a voice made of stone and winter, “I’m so sorry, Iseult.” Her gaze slid to Merik, and she said it again, “I’m so sorry I dragged you into this.”

Before Iseult could assuage—could argue that none of this was Safi’s fault—a white Thread flared in the corner of her eyes. Terror. She jerked around right as Kullen, standing on the main deck, started to cough. Then doubled over.

Then fell.

Iseult ran for him, Safi and Evrane on her heels. They reached Kullen as a girl with braids did too, her skin a stark contrast to Kullen’s deathly pallor. Yet Merik was already there. Already pulling Kullen into a sitting position and massaging the man’s back.

Massaging his lungs, Iseult realized as she skidded to a stop several paces away. Safi paused beside her. Evrane, however, pushed all the way to Kullen and dropped to a crouch.

“I’m here, Kullen,” Merik said, voice ragged. His Threads burned with the same white terror as Kullen’s. “I’m here. Relax your lungs and the air will come.”

The first mate’s mouth worked like a fish, gulping at nothing. Though air seemed to squeak out, he could get no breath in. And each cough that shattered through him was weaker than the last.

Then, eyes huge and cheeks pale, Kullen turned to Merik and shook his head.

Safi dropped to the deck beside them. “How can I help?” She looked first at Merik, then to the girl, and finally to Kullen—who stared back at her.

But the first mate could only wag his head at Safi before his eyes rolled back and he fell forward into Merik’s arms.

Instantly, Merik and the younger girl flipped him onto his back, and Merik tipped Kullen’s mouth wide. He lowered his lips to Kullen’s, and then exhaled full gusts of magicked air into his Threadbrother’s throat.

Over and over, he did this. An eternity of puffing and heaving, of urgent, terrified Threads. Sailors gathered around, though they seemed smart enough to hang back. Safi threw a panicked look at Iseult, but Iseult could offer no solutions. She had never seen anything like this before.

Then a tremble moved through Kullen’s chest. He was breathing.

Merik gaped for several long seconds at Kullen’s ribs before doubling over in relief. His Threads blazed with the pink light of Threadbrothers—pure and dazzling.

“Thank you, Noden,” he mumbled into Kullen’s chest. “Oh, Noden, thank you.”

The same sentiment shimmered through the Threads of every sailor—through Safi’s and Evrane’s as well.