Windwitch (The Witchlands #2)v(117)
“No.”
Iseult didn’t believe him. Nose twitching with a smile, she slid her own gaze to the lights twinkling among the pines. The air, the sky, the water—it was so much like their encounter two nights ago.
Yet also nothing like it at all. Iseult and the Bloodwitch had been enemies then, bound only by coins. Tonight, they were allies bound by … Well, Iseult didn’t know precisely. Owl, certainly, and perhaps the mountain bat too.
Iseult sucked in air, marveling at how her lungs could feel so full against her ribs. Then she closed her eyes. She wanted to make a wish, but there were too many choices. She wished for Safi at her side. She wished for Habim and Mathew too. And, though she couldn’t quite understand why, she wished for her mother.
More than anything, Iseult wished for answers. About her magic. About the Cahr Awen.
I wish I could learn what I am.
Her eyelids fluttered open. Aeduan was still observing the fireflies. “Did you make a wish?” she asked, and to her surprise, he nodded. A curt bounce of his head. “What did you wish for?”
He flexed his hands. Then shrugged. “If it comes true, then maybe one day I will tell you.” He pivoted and set off across the shore, slowing only once at the trees, to call back, “Be careful when you return, for the bat has stretched its tail across your rock.”
Iseult watched him until he was nothing more than another streak of darkness within the pines.
She realized she was smiling then—though over Aeduan, over the wish, or over Safi, she couldn’t quite say.
After easing onto the rocks, Iseult removed her boots and dipped her toes into the pond. The cold braced her. Grounded her, so when she clutched at the Threadstone and whispered to Safi once more, the connection was almost instant.
The night slid past. Perfect in all its dimensions, while Iseult and Safi giggled and listened and shared every tale that they’d been saving for the past two weeks.
All the while, the pine trees swayed, the pond rippled, and the fireflies danced.
FORTY-ONE
The Battle Room. Yet again, Vivia faced its oak doors—but this time, the footmen hopped too.
This time, Vivia wheeled her father before her.
First came the scent of rosemary mingling with sage. Then came the sea of iris-blue robes, with more than thirty faces swimming above. The vizers and their families turned as one at the opening doors. Their murmurs quieted, and a wave rippled out as they collectively rose and bowed.
Vivia’s dress boots clicked, her own robe swishing in a living counterbeat to the squeak of the wheels on her father’s rolling chair.
“Highness, Majesty,” Vizer Eltar’s eldest daughter murmured as Vivia approached. She curtsied, and Vivia couldn’t help but smile in return. This was the first time in her memory that other women had joined her in the Battle Room.
After today, after the memorial, Vivia intended to make it the first time of many.
Upon reaching the head of the table, she knelt to lock her father’s chair in place.
It was meant to be a day of grief, yet no one at the table wore sadness on his or her brow. How could they lament, truly, when the city had survived such seafire and storm? When, despite all odds against them, they had come out stronger for the fight?
The people of Lovats now knew of the under-city, and already engineers and witches combed through the streets to ensure it was habitable. Already, the first shipment of supplies from Hasstrel farms in Cartorra had arrived, and already a new treaty with the Empire of Marstok was being drafted—for now that Vaness apparently lived, she had a very different set of negotiations in mind.
It was especially hard for Vivia to be anything but buoyant today. She knew something these people did not. While the city believed the Fury had helped her on the water-bridge, she knew it had been Merik.
Merik lived.
He had said he would leave the city though. That he and his two friends—the girl Cam and another who’d just arrived named Ryber—would head north into the Sirmayans.
“Ryber says we can find answers to my … condition.” He’d waved at his face, steeped in the shadow of his hood. “And there is little good I can do here. You have everything well handled.”
Vivia hadn’t agreed with that sentiment, but she also hadn’t argued. Merik had found her in the main hall of Pin’s Keep, where a hundred other voices competed for space in her brain. Where she hadn’t the time or space to offer him a suitable response.
Besides, if Merik truly wanted to leave, she felt she had no claims to stop that. So she’d nodded and said, “Please update me when you can, Merry. The royal Voicewitches work all hours.”
“I’ll try,” had been his only answer. Then he’d ducked deeper into his hood—a new hood, for Vivia had insisted he be well clothed before departing—and sauntered out of Pin’s Keep forever.
He wouldn’t try to contact her. Vivia had known that at Pin’s Keep, and she knew it now as she tugged at the itchy wool collar on her robe.
Vivia rose and cleared her throat. The vizerial families all thought her father would speak, now that he was well enough to return. They certainly all stared at him expectantly. Yet Serafin had urged Vivia to “be the queen they need and soon a true crown will follow.”
She cleared her throat again. All eyes snapped to her. Finally, no resistance.
“Though we’ve gathered to remember my brother,” she said, using the same forceful boom she’d heard her father use a thousand times, “there are many more we must also honor. Hundreds of Nubrevnans died in the attack three days ago. Soldiers, families, and … one of our own. A member of this very council.”