Truthwitch (The Witchlands, #1)(99)

But once the prince was invisible, Aeduan thrust aside thoughts of Leopold. Safiya was all that mattered now.

As Aeduan crept toward the thunderous river, his magic latched on to many scents—too many. This place was crowded, and there was no way he or Leopold could sneak by. The river was also a problem. Aeduan could easily cross it on his own, but he couldn’t tow the prince over too.

They would have to find another route and try to regain Safiya’s trail at some later point.

Stealing back to the prince, Aeduan debated the best direction for travel—and also how quickly he could move the prince, even at a willing top speed.

He knelt beside the fallen log, ready to offer a hand to the prince.

Leopold wasn’t there.

Instantly, Aeduan sniffed for the prince’s blood—grappled for the new leather and the smoky hearths.

But it wasn’t there either. There was nothing but the faintest lingering of Leopold’s scent. Aeduan fell to all fours and scrabbled under the fallen oak, just in case a Glamourwitch deceived him or there was some hidden escape below.

Neither was the case; Prince Leopold was gone.

Aeduan crawled back out and rolled to his feet, his pulse ratcheting up and a violent sort of fear winding through him. Should Aeduan search for the prince or should he leave him?

A burst of wind lashed through the trees, breaking Aeduan’s thoughts—and then smashing them completely. There was a second blood-scent here. One that he had smelled before.

Clear lakes and frozen winters.

Aeduan’s hand instantly moved to his sword hilt. He scanned the forest, his witchery racing to pin down that scent. To identify and remember.

When the recognition hit, Aeduan almost rocked back. He’d smelled this blood in Ve?aza City at the pier.

Which meant someone had followed him to Nubrevna—and now that someone had kidnapped Prince Leopold fon Cartorra.





THIRTY-THREE

Merik never knew riding a horse could be such a contradicting experience of misery and pleasure.

The afternoon sun cut through dead oak branches and speckled the dusty path in a lace of shadows. Thirty leagues east of Noden’s Gift and life was gone again. A silent graveyard reigned, and the only sound was the crunching hooves of Merik’s chestnut mare, the jingle of her tack, and the clomp of Evrane’s and Iseult’s roan twenty paces behind.

Yoris had given Merik the best steeds he could spare, and he’d outfitted Merik’s party with food, water, bedrolls, and an alert-stone—an Aetherwitched chunk of crystal that would flare to life if danger reached the camp. It would let them sleep that night without the need for watch duties.

Merik welcomed sleep. It had been so long since he’d had any.

The tang of salt filled Merik’s nose—carried on a fresh burst of wind. Though the Jadansi was hidden behind the sun-faded forest, the path never veered too far from its breeze.

Not that the breeze did anything to cool Merik. Not with Safiya fon Hasstrel sharing his saddle.

Though Merik had every excuse to be flush against the curves of her body, to have his arms around her and holding the reins, it also meant his knees rubbed all the more and his legs kept turning to pins and needles. He had a feeling, when they stopped to make camp, he’d be hobbling like Hermin.

Still, his muscles were the furthest thing from his mind as the mare ambled easily down the barren trail. Each of the horse’s steps jostled his thighs, his hips, his abdomen against Safi’s lower back, and though he tried to think of Noden’s Gift—to replay the welcome he’d received and to hold tight to that heady pride—Merik’s brain had other topics in mind.

The shape of Safi’s thighs. The slope where her shoulder met her neck. The way she’d challenged him in the captain’s cabin—a four-step with eyes and words and casual touch.

Since then, the pressure of Merik’s magic—of a rage that might not be rage at all—writhed beneath his skin. Too hot. Too hard.

At least, though, he and Safi were on better terms, and she was easier to talk to now. A thousand questions rolled off her tongue. How many people live in Lovats? Is Noden the god of everything or just water? How many languages do you speak?

Merik answered each question as it came. Around 150,000 people are in Lovats, though that number can quadruple during war; He’s God of everything; I speak bad Cartorran, decent Marstok, and excellent Dalmotti. Eventually, though, he had a question of his own.

“Are the Cartorrans or the Marstoks close? Can your power tell me that?”

She gave a tiny headshake. “I know when people tell the truth or lie. And if I look at a man, I can see his true heart—his intentions. But I can’t verify facts or claims.”

“Hmmm. A man’s true heart?” Merik offered water to Safi. As she sipped carefully, he added, “So what do you see when you look at me?”

She stiffened in his arms, and the slightest hum of static trilled into his chest. Then she relaxed, laughing. “You confuse my witchery.” She handed back the water bag. “It says right now that I can trust you.”

He grunted lightly and tipped back the water. It was hot from the sun. Two gulps and he stopped.

“Can I trust you?” She peered at him over her shoulder.

He smiled. “As long as you follow orders.”

He was pleased—inordinately so—when this earned him a haughty sniff.