Windwitch (The Witchlands #2)v(99)

A second drum joined in, then a third, until a hundred wind-drums hammered across Lovats. Louder than the winds, louder than the madness.

Attack at Northern Wharf, their cadence bellowed. All forces needed. Attack at Northern Wharf.

Merik didn’t even think. He sucked in his magic, a wind to fly him fast and fly him far. He scooped it beneath his sister’s feet, beneath his own.

Then together, the Nihars flew for the Northern Wharf. The gardens shrank back, revealing grounds that crawled with humanity. The streets of Lovats crawled too, like a tide carves through the sand leaving rivulets of water to chase behind.

Everyone ran in the same direction. Away from the Northern Wharf, away from the pluming smoke—black, choking, unnatural. It swept over the harbor, erasing all details. A cloud to burn through everything.

Yet the closer Merik and Vivia flew, the more Merik caught glimpses of what caused the smoke—of the black flames, spreading fast, with cores of pure, boiling white.

Seafire.

Merik had heard tales of entire fleets burned to ash atop frothy waves. Seafire ate through everything, and water only spread its reach. His own ship had succumbed to it—he had succumbed to it—and more ships burned now. Docks too, and buildings that hugged the wharf.

If the storm swirling above finally broke, then nothing could stop this fire from claiming the city.

Merik’s eyes streamed as he strained to see where, amid the smoke and wildness, the Royal Forces charged. He fell lower, Vivia tumbling behind him. Then lower still until he caught sight of a blockade forming at the end of Hawk’s Way. Stone and sand piled higher, higher, blocking the river. Blocking the streets.

It held back the seafire.

Before Merik could reach the blockade, a familiar whisper trailed down the back of his neck. A leash being pulled. A reel being tightened.

His flight slowed. He flung his gaze back. Toward the storm’s eye. Toward a slithering darkness that tentacled down into the city.

The shadow man.

“What is it?” Vivia screamed over Merik’s winds. Her uniform flapped—dry now—and her hair fanned in all directions. She wobbled and grasped at air.

“It’s the shadow man,” Merik answered. He didn’t shout, but he didn’t need to. Vivia had already seen, had already understood.

She didn’t argue when Merik swooped them lower—faster, faster, smoke rushing over their faces—only to release her near the blockade.

Nor did she argue when Merik didn’t land beside her. When instead he spun away, riding an updraft of thick, flaming air back toward the rooftops.

Rain began to fall.

*

Vivia hit the ground. Shock pummeled through her heels, ankles, knees. She almost fell, but soldiers were there to catch her, to help her to rise. Then they pointed her to the nearest man in charge.

Vizer Sotar.

Stix’s father towered above all others, bellowing commands at Windwitch officers lined beside the blockade. “We must keep the stones dry! Keep the smoke back!”

Spotting Vivia, he charged over. Lines of smoke-clogged rain ran down his face.

“Update me,” Vivia ordered, as soldiers and civilians scurried past, carting stones and bricks for the blockade.

They carted bodies too. Some still living and screaming, but most charred beyond recognition.

“Our Voicewitches received word from Saldonica,” Sotar shouted, “that a ship was on its way with Baedyeds and seafire. We instantly halted all river traffic, but we were too late.” He pointed to where the river fed into the Northern Wharf. “The ship was already here, and when we tried to board for a search, a hose appeared. Seafire started spraying.”

“What ship?” Vivia demanded, having to pitch her voice louder. Having to cover her nose and mouth against the smoke. “How did it get past the Sentries?”

“It’s one of our ships, Highness! A two-masted warship—one that you had authorized yourself.”

Vivia recoiled. “I authorized it? I didn’t…” Oh. But she had. A Fox ship with two masts. A Fox ship that had gone missing off the cost of Saldonica.

“It’s sailing onto the water-bridge now!” Sotar continued. “We fear it heads for the dam, but we haven’t been able to stop it! Every Windwitch we’ve sent out there has not returned.”

Vivia nodded mutely. The rain, the smoke, the heat and the noise—it all settled into a dull background buzz.

No regrets, she tried to tell herself. Keep moving. There had to be a solution here. A way to stop the ship before it reached the dam. And yet …

For half a smoky heartbeat, the world around her smudged into a vague cityscape suffocating with jagged black flames. She doubled over. The cobblestones of Hawk’s Way wavered.

She did have regrets. Thousands of them, and the weight was too heavy for her to keep moving. She was a ship that could not sail, for its anchor—its thousands of anchors—locked it to the sea floor.

“Highness!” Sotar was beside her, saying something. Trying to lift her. She didn’t hear, she didn’t care.

Ever since her mother’s death, Vivia had tried to be something she was not. She had worn mask after mask, hoping one of them would eventually take root. Hoping one of them would force out the emptiness that lived inside her.

Instead, the regrets had built and gathered and swelled. Feeding the emptiness until it could not be denied.