Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(95)

Merik’s breath expelled roughly. “You mean you didn’t know before then?”

She shook her head, avoiding Merik’s eyes—though she felt them sear into her. “I didn’t know my uncle would stage this wild escape either. He had mentioned big plans, but never in a million years could I have guessed that I’d be stolen from Ve?aza City, hunted by a Bloodwitch, and forced onto your ship. It has been a huge, endless cascade of surprises. At least, though, it keeps me out of Henrick’s clutches.” She gave another tense laugh and tried to lean forward, to pretend to examine the map. But seconds slid past without her absorbing a single river or road. It was as if the power in the room was shifting—tumbling out of her hands and into Merik’s.

Then Merik reached across the map to tap at a snaking line of blue. His arm brushed hers.

It was a seemingly accidental touch, yet Safi knew—knew—from the way Merik moved, confident and determined, that it wasn’t accidental at all.

“We’ll set up camp here,” he said. “Yoris said this stream is clean.”

Safi nodded—or tried to. Her heart was stuck somewhere in her throat, and it made her movements jerky. Frantic, even, and she couldn’t seem to meet his stare. In fact, she stared at every part of his face but his eyes.

He had stubble on his chin, on his jaw, and around the curve of his lips. The triangle between his brows was creased in, but not with a frown. With concentration. It was the hollow of Merik’s throat, though, that grabbed her attention—the pulse that she thought she saw fluttering there.

Finally, she risked flicking her gaze upward—and found Merik’s eyes roving across her face. To her lips. To her neck.

The door flew wide. Safi and Merik jerked apart.

Evrane strode in … then instantly reared back. “Am I … am I interrupting something?”

“No,” Safi and Merik intoned, stepping apart two paces. Then a third, for good measure.

Iseult tottered into the room behind Evrane, her face pale and the Carawen hood pulled back. She looked like she might vomit or pass out—or both.

Safi lurched for Iseult and grabbed her arm, guiding her to a stool. Then Safi unfastened the Carawen cloak from Iseult’s neck and shoved it toward Evrane. “You’re sweating too much. Are you sick?”

“I just need rest,” Iseult answered. Then, she nodded gratefully as Merik handed her a glass of water. “Thank you.”

“She needs more than rest,” Evrane insisted. “She needs healing.”

Cold terror caught Safi’s breath. “Firewitch healing?”

“Not Firewitch healing,” Evrane rushed to assure her, “but more than I can offer right now. I am drained from days of tapping into my power…” She trailed off, her gaze moving to Merik. “If we could go to the Well, then I could help her.”

Merik stiffened, the triangle on his brow deepening. “The Well hasn’t healed anyone for centuries.”

“It might augment my witchery, though,” Evrane countered. “At the very least, we can wash Iseult’s wound there, where the water is completely pure.”

“It ain’t far,” said a new voice. Yoris. He stepped over the knee-high threshold and mopped his sleeve on his brow. “There’s a path along the river. Shouldn’t take more than ten minutes to reach.”

“What about your men,” Merik asked, brow still folded. “Do they patrol that area?”

“Of course. All the way to the edge of the Nihar lands.”

A pause. Then Merik nodded, and his expression melted into something almost calm. “Aunt,” he said, twisting toward Evrane, “you can take Iseult to the Well. Heal her, if you’re able, and I’ll come for you at the next chime.”

Evrane’s breath sighed out. “Thank you, Merik.” She slid a hand behind Iseult’s back. “Come. We’ll go slowly.” Iseult rose, and Safi moved to follow … but then paused.

She turned to Merik, who stared at her. “I would like to join,” she said. “But I won’t go if you think it’s a risk to the contract.”

He straightened slightly, as if startled she’d considered the contract. Considered him. “The contract should be fine. Although…” He stepped in close, and with aching slowness, he reached out to slide his fingers around Safi’s left wrist. When she didn’t resist, he lifted her hand, palm up.

“If you run, Domna,” his voice was a low thrum that shivered into Safi’s chest, “I will hunt you down.”

“Oh?” She arched an eyebrow, pretending Merik wasn’t touching her. That his voice wasn’t making her abdomen gutter and spark. “Is that a promise, Prince?”

He laughed softly, and his fingers slipped behind her wrist. His thumb trailed fire over her palm … Then he dropped her hand, leaving no indication of why he’d picked it up in the first place.

“It’s a promise, Domna Safiya.”

“Safi,” she said, pleased to note her voice was steady—and that Merik was actually smiling now. “You can call me Safi.”

Then she bowed her head once and left the room to follow Iseult and Evrane to the Origin Well of Nubrevna.

*

The path to the Water Well was no easy walk, and Iseult was bone-tired before Noden’s Gift was even out of sight. In fact, she wasn’t even convinced that Evrane followed a real path. It was steep, overgrown by stinging nettle (that Safi stepped in and proceeded to howl over), and the insects and birds chattered so loudly, Iseult thought her ribs might shatter from the vibration of it all.