Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(84)

“You’re freezing,” Iseult said. “Get under the blanket.”

“I’m fine.” Safi forced a smile. “Really. It’s just a bruised ego and some rain. But are you all right? How’s your arm?”

“Better.” Iseult’s expression didn’t budge—a good sign. “It hurts now that the Painstone is dead.” She jiggled her wrist to show Safi the dull quartz. “But it’s not as bad as before.”

Nodding, Safi sank onto the mattress. Hay wuffed out the corners. “And how do you feel here?” She thumped her chest. “You were talking in your sleep. Was it … was it the curse?”

“Nothing so awful.” Iseult settled beside her. “It was just a nightmare, Saf.”

Gingerly, Safi touched the bandage on Iseult’s right arm. “Tell me what happened.”

The lines on Iseult’s face smoothed and with her gaze fixed on some middle distance, she explained how—to escape the Bloodwitch—she’d been forced to travel home. Her voice stayed flat and hollow as she went on to describe the settlement, the Cursewitch, the mob.

Safi’s gut turned harder. Harder still. Guilt stirred up her throat.

For this was her fault. Like everything else that had gone wrong in the past two days, Iseult’s near-death was Safi’s fault.

And somehow the lack of inflection—the fact that Safi knew Iseult didn’t blame her—only made it worse.

Before Safi’s lips could open and apologies scrape out a smile flickered over Iseult’s face. It was so at odds with the tale she’d just told—so startling, too.

“I almost forgot—I have a gift for you.” Iseult plied a leather cord from her blouse and tugged it over her head.

Safi’s forehead crinkled, her thoughts and guilt swirling away. “Is this a Threadstone?”

“Yeah.” Iseult nudged her with her left elbow. “It’s a ruby.”

“But aren’t Threadstones for finding Heart-Threads?”

“Not necessarily. They can be used to find anyone in your Thread-family.” Iseult eased a second stone from her dirty blouse. “I have a match, see? Now, when either of us is in danger, the stones will light up. They’ll dim the closer we get to each other.”

“Wells bless me,” Safi breathed. The stone suddenly felt twice as heavy on her palm. Twice as dazzling beneath the pink threads—and a thousand times more valuable. The power to find Iseult wherever she was—the power to protect Iseult from the hell like she’d experienced last night—that was a gift, indeed. “Where did you get these?”

Iseult ignored the question. “That stone,” she said, “saved your life. It was how I found you north of Ve?aza City.”

North of Ve?aza City. Where Iseult had gotten the arrow punched through her arm by her own people. No wonder she didn’t want to talk about it.

Safi draped the cord around her neck. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “You’ll never have to go back to the Midenzis. Ever.”

Iseult scratched her collarbone. “I know, but … where will we go, Safi? I don’t think we c-can go back to Ve?aza City now.”

“We’ll go with the prince. To Lejna, so I can fulfill his contract.”

“With the prince,” Iseult echoed. Though her face stayed smooth, there was the slightest tic in her nose. “And after Lejna?”

Safi drummed her fingers on her knee. What could she say that would make Iseult smile? Where would her Threadsister possibly feel safe again?

“How about Saldonica?” She offered her goofiest grin. “We’d make great pirates.”

Iseult didn’t even ghost a smile back. Instead, her nose twitched more obviously and she glanced at her hands. “My mother is there. I-I … don’t want to see her.”

Gods thrice-dammit. Of course Safi would pick a place where Gretchya would be. Before she could suggest other options—ones that were guaranteed to make Iseult smile—the cabin door banged open.

Evrane staggered in, with two sailors prodding her from behind. The monk slammed the door in their faces before stumbling for the girls—and Safi didn’t miss how Iseult’s spine erected. How her shoulders rolled properly back.

“Let me examine you,” Evrane croaked, sinking onto the floor beside Safi. “You’re bruised, Domna.”

“It’s nothing.” Safi tucked in her legs.

“The bruises might not hurt, but this isn’t about you anymore.” Evrane threw a glance at the window—a moonlit shore streamed by. “A bruise is spilled blood beneath the skin. We should not mock the contract’s demands.”

Safi eased out a long breath, her mind careening back to Merik. The prince. The admiral. He was never far from her thoughts, and she’d barely thought of anything else for all those hours in the irons. She’d barely looked at anything but his rain-slicked hair and hard gaze while he steered the Jana toward his home.

After Evrane seemed satisfied with Safi’s health, she examined Iseult’s arm and Safi moved to the window to watch the approaching shore. Her muscles burned from the movement, from the strain of simply standing. She liked it, though. It kept away the cold, the thoughts of Merik, the horrors of Iseult’s tribe, and all the other things that were best ignored.