Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(82)

Henrick. Merik had always disliked that foul old man. To think that Safiya was his betrothed. To think she would marry—would bed—a man three times her age …

Merik couldn’t reconcile that thought. He’d believed Safiya was different from other nobility. Impulsive, yes, but loyal too. And perhaps as alone as Merik was in a world of cutthroat political games.

But it turned out Safiya was just like the rest of the Cartorran doms and domnas. She lived with blinders on, attuned only to those she’d deemed worthy.

Yet even as Merik nursed his fury, even as he told himself he loathed Safiya, he couldn’t keep the “buts” from churning in his stomach.

But you would have done the same for Kullen. You would have risked lives to save him.

But maybe she doesn’t want to marry Henrick or be Empress. Maybe she is on the run to avoid it.

Merik shoved aside those arguments. The simple fact remained that if Safiya had only told Merik of her betrothal from the beginning, he could have returned her to Dalmotti and been done with her immediately. He never would have been on this side of Jadansi where he’d been forced to fight a sea fox, battle the Marstoks, and ultimately push Kullen too hard.

“Admiral?” Hermin hobbled onto the quarterdeck, expression bleak. “I still can’t make a connection with the Lovats Voicewitches.”

“Oh.” Mechanically, Merik brushed rain off his coat. Hermin had been linked into the Voicewitch Threads for hours, trying to get through to Lovats. To King Serafin.

“Might be,” Hermin mused, tipping his voice over the waves and rain, the squeak of ropes and the grunts of seamen, “that all the Voicewitches are busy.”

“In the middle of the night?” Merik frowned.

“Or maybe,” Hermin went on, “my magic is the problem. Maybe I’m too old.”

Merik’s frown deepened to a scowl. Age didn’t diminish a witchery. Hermin knew it and Merik knew it too, so if the old man was trying to soften what was obviously going on—that the Voicewitches in Lovats were ignoring Merik’s calls—then there was no point.

If Vivia’s words turned out to be true and Merik’s father really had ordered the Aetherwitched miniature, then Merik would deal with that later. For now, he just had to get his men ashore and away from Marstoki flames.

He glanced at the leg irons—at Safiya—only to find Ryber crouched beside her.

“Take the helm,” Merik snarled, already stalking for the companionway. Then he lifted his voice in a roar. “Ryber! Get away from there!”

The ship’s girl jerked to attention, yet Safiya kept her head bowed as Merik slammed onto the main deck and advanced on Ryber. “You,” he growled, “should be swabbing.” He thrust a finger at the nearby new recruit, who diligently scrubbed water off the deck. “That is your duty, Ryber, so if I catch you shirking again, you’ll be whipped. Understand?”

The domna lifted her chin. “I called Ryber over here,” she rasped.

“Someone needs to check on Iseult,” Evrane inserted, her voice hoarse. “The girl is still healing.”

Merik ignored Safiya and Evrane, his fingers reaching for his collar. “Swab the deck,” he told Ryber. “Now.”

Ryber saluted, and once she was out of sight, Merik wheeled toward the domna, ready to shout that she leave his sailors alone.

But her head was tipped back, her eyes closed and mouth open. Even with only lantern light to shine on her skin, there was no missing the wobble in her throat. The flick of her tongue.

She was drinking the rain.

Merik’s rage vanished. Dread swallowed it whole, and he tore out the Hasstrel agreement. The signatures were still there.

Of course they are, he thought, annoyed with himself for caring. Safiya isn’t bleeding. Yet his fingers trembled—and distantly he wondered why that might be. Perhaps this fear had nothing to do with the contract.

That thought tickled at the base of his skull—and he hastily tamped it down, buried it deep, and returned the contract to his pocket. Then he dug out the leg-iron keys. Whatever the reason for this hollow fear, Merik would dwell on it later—along with his unshakable worry over King Serafin, Vivia, and Kullen.

Right now, though, this punishment had to end.

Crouching beside Safiya, Merik unlocked the first fetter. She seemed wearily surprised. “I am free?”

“Free to stay locked in your cabin.” Merik undid the remaining irons and then stood. “Get up.”

She drew in her soaked legs and tried to rise. The ship rocked. She toppled forward.

Merik lunged for her.

Her skin was slick and cold, her body shivering. With a grunt, he hefted her up, cradled her close. His men watched on, and Merik didn’t miss the nod of approval from Hermin as he strode toward the ladder belowdecks.

The domna had served her punishment; the men respected that.

Safiya’s face was near, her eyelashes thick and wet. Her damp clothes rubbed against Merik’s skin, and her breaths were shallow. Merik firmly ignored it all, focusing on getting one foot in front of the next until at last he pushed into the darkened passenger room. Iseult slept, shuddering on her pallet.

“Iz,” Safiya murmured, shifting in Merik’s arms and straining for her Threadsister. Merik carried her to the pallet, bent slightly, and then dropped her. She fell beside Iseult, who shook awake.