Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(77)

Yet none were so bright as Merik’s or the girl’s—and the girl’s shone with the pure red of a Heart-Thread.

“Let me check him,” Evrane said with a gentle hand on Merik’s back. “To be sure he did not damage something.”

Merik shot up, his face contorted with fury. And his Threads …

Iseult flinched from the force. “You disobeyed my orders!” he shouted at his aunt. “You jeopardized my ship and my men! The domna was my only bargaining card!”

Evrane stood still, Threads calm. “We needed a Firewitch healer for Iseult. She would have died without one.”

“We all would have died!” Merik pushed Evrane again. She didn’t resist. “You abandoned your post with no thought for others!”

Safi’s Threads blazed into a defensive fury. She sprang to her feet. “It wasn’t her fault—she was only doing what I ordered.”

Merik swiveled toward Safi. “Is that so, Domna? So you weren’t fleeing your betrothed? You weren’t avoiding capture, Truthwitch?”

Cold tunneled through Iseult’s stomach. Down her muscles. But how did he know?

Doesn’t matter, Iseult told herself, already bending her knees to lunge for Safi. To protect her …

Until Safi’s Threads flared with beige uncertainty—as if she might try to hide this truth from Merik. So Iseult schooled her face into absolute Threadwitch calm. She would not betray Safi’s secret.

“Where did you hear that rumor?” Safi finally asked, her words careful and even.

“The Marstoks know.” Merik leaned toward her. “Their Voicewitch kindly told mine. Do you deny it?”

The world dragged, as if Safi’s inner debate spread around her. The breeze became soft and distant. Don’t admit it. Please don’t admit it. It was one thing for Emperor Henrick to possibly know of Safi’s witchery, but there was no reason for the whole world to learn too. What if Merik decided to use her—or to marry her, as Henrick had? Or what if Merik decided to kill Safi instead, before an enemy could lay claim to her?

Yet as Safi’s Threads melted from gray fear to a lush, determined green, Iseult’s breath rolled out with defeat.

“So what?” Safi squared her shoulders. “So what if I am a Truthwitch, Admiral? What difference does it make?”

In a burst of speed, Merik grabbed Safi’s wrists, flipped her around, and wrenched her arms behind her. “It makes all the difference,” he snarled. “You told me no one sought you. You told me you were not important, and yet you’re a Truthwitch betrothed to Emporer Henrick.” He pushed her arms further back.

Safi’s face tightened, but when Iseult tipped forward to defend—to fight for her Threadsister—Safi shook her head in warning.

When Safi spoke again, her tone and Threads were shockingly controlled. “I thought that if you knew who I was, you would turn me over to the Cartorrans.”

“Lie.” Merik leaned in close, his face inches from Safi’s. “Your magic knows when I speak the truth, Domna, and I told you I never intended harm. All I want is to get food to my people. Why is that so hard for anyone?…” His voice cracked. He paused, his Threads melting from crimson rage to deep blue sadness. “I’ve lost my Tidewitches now, Domna, and the Marstoks hunt me. All I have left are my ship, my loyal sailors, and my first mate. But you almost took them away from me too.” Safi’s mouth opened as if to argue, but Merik wasn’t finished. “We could have escaped as soon as the sea foxes arrived. Instead, we almost died because you were not in your cabin like you should’ve been. I had to find you, and that left us as bait for the foxes. Your recklessness almost killed my crew.”

“But Iseult—”

“Would have been fine.” Merik dipped her back—and Safi’s posture wilted. “I planned to get your friend a Firewitch healer as soon as we hit Nubrevnan soil. You know this is true, don’t you? Your witchery must tell you so.”

Safi met Merik’s gaze. Then, Threads burning with brilliant blue regret and guilty red, she nodded. “I see it.”

Merik’s temper erupted once more. He seized Safi and ordered, “Move.”

To Iseult’s complete shock, Safi did move, her Threads melting into Merik’s and shimmering with hints of a brighter red.

Iseult’s lips parted, her foot rising to charge after Safi. To stop Merik from doing whatever it was he’d planned.

A hand clasped her wrist. “Don’t.”

She jerked her head around and found the girl with the braids shaking her head. “Don’t interfere,” she said in a hollow voice. “A few hours in the irons won’t kill her.”

“In the what?” Iseult whipped around—and nausea swelled in her stomach at the sight of Merik pushing Safi down, yanking out her legs …

And locking her ankles in straps of iron.

The enormous fetters groaned shut, locks clicked, and Safi could do nothing but stare across the ship at Iseult.

Again, Iseult lurched forward, but this time an older sailor sidestepped her. “Leave ’er there, girl. Or you’ll be locked in ’em too.”

As if to prove the point, Evrane shot forward, roaring, “You cannot do this to her, Merik! She is a Domna of Cartorra! Not a Nubrevnan!”