The Raider King treated with no one, though. Vivia had tried; Vaness had tried; others had tried before them. No messengers ever returned.
Of course, for each strategic faction in the Battle Room, no one within the groups could agree on specific tactics or technique. Some wanted more soldiers, others fewer. Some wanted to attack from land, others by river.
The only point upon which all could agree was that death marched this way.
And that Nubrevna was not ready.
Vivia’s own plan had earned support from only one person: Stix’s father, Vizer Sotar. He approved her approach of sending a portion of the troops north, to escort refugees to safety and slow the Raider King’s advance, while maintaining the bulk of the Nubrevnan forces in and around Lovats.
“What does the king say?” Vizer Quihar demanded. His words boomed out, loud enough to fill the room, loud enough to shatter arguments midsentence.
Silence abruptly ruled the space. All eyes cut to Vivia.
And with those stares—with that blighted question, What does the king say?—Vivia felt her shoulders rise straight to her ears. Her father was no longer King, she wanted to point out. Nor was he Admiral.
And her father, she wanted to then add, had refused to attend this High Council meeting. She had gone to his room earlier that afternoon, to pay her respects—not to grovel, as she knew he expected her to do, but simply to reiterate that his wisdom was welcome. In falsely light tones, he had insisted he harbored no anger. “You are Queen-in-Waiting,” he’d said. “I only act for your sake. I know you are strong, but the Council does not.”
Then he had claimed he was too tired to join the meeting, and Vivia had recognized it all for the lie it was. Withholding, withholding, withholding. That was her father’s favorite means of punishment, be it information he knew she wanted or his own presence when it was required. He knew exactly what Vivia needed most, and then he refused to let her have it.
And the truth of the matter was that she did need him here. The High Council still respected him, still trusted him. His word carried weight.
There was nothing she could do about it now, though. No more time to be wasted on begging, on waiting. If he would not help her because he was angry, then Vivia would simply have to help herself.
“My father,” Vivia clipped out at last, all eyes still pinned on her, “is currently busy. As your Queen-in-Waiting and Admiral, the final decision falls to me. Not my father.”
As soon as Vivia uttered those words, she regretted them. Vizer Quihar’s nostrils fluttered and Vizer Eltar’s eyes bulged. The room erupted once more: “You are not ruler until you wear the crown!”, “Your father has fought in more battles than you have years!”, “He protected this city under siege!”, and “The people of Nubrevna trust their King more than some untested Queen!”
Each passive—and sometimes direct—insult Vivia bore with nothing more than a slight twitch to her eyelids and tight smile upon her lips. Hye, her teeth were grinding, her fingers rubbing at her thighs, but none of the High Council seemed to notice. Or care.
Until Vizer Quintay piped up with, “The King will speak to the Raider King! He negotiated the Twenty Year Truce. He will negotiate something again!”
And it was the final grain of sand to flood the sea. Like her father claiming he had fought with a knife in his thigh, this was too far.
“No.” Vivia’s voice cracked through the room, and with that single word—with that single truth—came six jets of water. One from each cup clutched by vizers fool enough to drink near a Tidewitch.
It was just a display of magic to silence them. Nothing more. Six streams of water to shoot up toward the vaulted ceilings, circle once, and plummet back into their cups. But the room quieted once more—and this time, it was on Vivia’s terms.
“How quickly you all have forgotten,” she said softly, dangerously. “It was my mother’s name on that document, not my father’s. For it was my mother who traveled to the original Truce Summit and signed it.”
One by one, she dragged her gaze over each face in the room. Some vizers looked away. Some held her eyes, defiant. Most, though, stared back and simply listened.
“I have heard your opinions,” she continued, “and I will take each one into account as I solidify our course of action. I swear this to you. Yet every moment we waste arguing here is a moment the Raider King gains to his advantage. Inaction will only dig our graves deeper. We must move now, we must move quickly.”
She motioned to Vizer Sotar at her right, and his broad shoulders stretched broader. “Sotar here has agreed to spare his family’s personal guard to help protect the northern provinces. If any of you are also willing to spare your guards, I promise that they will be put to good use.”
No one raised their hand, but Vivia hadn’t expected them to. They would come to her after, once they had conferred with their families and evaluated what they prioritized most: personal safety or protection of the nation. Some would choose the former, some the latter—and Vivia could guess which vizers would choose which. She would not force them either way, for there were only two outcomes when soldiers were pressed into service: desertion or death. Vivia would not risk either.
She leaned onto the table and motioned to a map of the northern lands. Small markers had been laid out according to the detailed information Vivia now had from the watchtowers.
“He has Red Sails on foot.” She pointed to red tiles. “Baedyeds on horseback.” These were yellow. “And then a hundred other fringe groups, tribes, and witches that have banded together. They all have something to prove to the empires.”
“And they all want us dead,” Sotar murmured. It was as if a great sigh settled across the space at those words. Shoulders sank, foreheads pinched, and attention latched onto the map. Bit by bit, Vivia elaborated on her plan. She indicated where specific units would mobilize, where the Firewitched weapons she had stolen would be sent, and which roads would be used for supply chains.
Any questions raised during her explanation were civil, and all protests or counter-plans were offered in polite, if urgent, tones. The frantic mayhem from before was now a low-lying tension that trembled in the air. Threads unseen, but there all the same.
At the fourteenth chimes, the High Council finally dispersed. Purpose now marked each vizer’s movements as they left—Vivia just hoped it was to aid her in her strategy. She suspected that at least three of them still clung to arguments and plans of their own, but there was no time for her to fret over them. No time for her to even think.
“Vizer Sotar,” she called. He paused at the table’s end, and Vivia approached, smoothing at her coat front. “Have you—” Her voice cracked. She tried again. “Have you seen Stacia recently?”
His lips twisted down. “No. Should I have?”
And at those words, at that expression, Vivia’s stomach turned to stone. Her mask fell away, her breath hissed out. She had to rest a hand on the table; her shoulder suddenly ached.
“I haven’t seen her,” she said, her voice so distant. “She didn’t come to our morning briefing today, she hasn’t been at her apartment in … I don’t know how long, and she hasn’t been at the Sentries or barracks or anywhere. I’ve searched and searched. All I know is that she took our skiff, sailed out of Lovats yesterday, and no one has seen her since.”
Now Sotar leaned against the table. “A whole day. And you did not think to tell me sooner?”
“I’m so sorry.” Vivia shook her head. “The raiders.” She waved numbly at the table, but it was a poor excuse. She should have told him sooner. She should have reached out to him the instant Stix didn’t turn up. “I know you promised your guard,” she offered, “but I understand if you need them to find Stix—”
Sotar cut her off with a hand. “No matter what, my guards remain yours. The realm comes first, above all else.” He offered a stiff bow, fist over heart. “I will send word to the Sotar estate. Maybe Stacia traveled there to see her mother. When I hear from my
wife, I’ll let you know.”
For several long moments, Vivia simply watched him go. She watched the door creak open and bang shut. She watched the dust motes swirl and sway.
One shallow breath became two. Then a third and a fourth, bludgeoning faster by the second. And for once, she just let herself sink into the madness of standing still.
Because what a stupid, stupid little fox she had been. She should never have gone to Marstok. She should have told Vizer Sotar the instant Stix vanished. She shouldn’t have lost her temper at her father, but instead found a way to ease him out of the Admiralty.
Should, should, should. Nothing Vivia did was ever right. Nothing she did was ever enough. And in the end, there was nothing to be done for it—nothing she could do to fix these messes of her own creation.
There was also no one to pick her up and dust off her knees. Jana was dead. Merik was gone. Her father had shut her out again. And Stix …
Stix was missing.
Which left Vivia all alone with the whole of Nubrevna depending on her. A little fox would never—could never—be enough. Her people needed a bear, so a bear she would have to be.
Vivia cracked her neck. Adjusted her collar. And then rubbed at the edges of her face, banishing away the madness. Banishing away the little fox too, into a den where no one would ever see.
No time for regrets. She just had to keep moving.
THIRTY-FIVE
Safi did not care that Vaness was busy.
She did not care that a meeting unfolded in the Empress’s private office. She didn’t care if it was important and key to public safety. If the Adders would not take Safi to Vaness right away, then someone was going to lose an ear.
So the Adders obeyed.
Not once did Safi consider if this was what she should do—just as she would not consider roping herself to the mast during a hurricane. The Hell-Bards were going to die; she had to interfere before it could happen.
“Do not kill the Hell-Bards,” she blurted as soon as she was in the room. “They saved your life yesterday. Please don’t kill them.”
Seventeen sets of eyes arced toward her—eight Sultanate members, eight imperial officers, and the Empress of Marstok. Though bandaged and bruised, Vaness stood at the head of the table with iron in her gaze.
“Truthwitch,” she said, her voice edged with censure. “Now is not the time.”
“Don’t let General Fashayit kill them.” Safi tried to cross the room, but two Adders peeled off the wall and intercepted her. So she stopped and simply begged, “Please, Your Majesty. Was torture not enough? Why do they have to die?”
Vaness sucked in a long, calculating breath—as did the entire room, all attention locked on the Empress. Until at last, without breaking her gaze from Safi, Vaness waved to the nearest Adder. “Bring me the Firewitch general. Now. And Rokesh as well.”
The Adder bowed. The Adder departed.
“And the rest of you,” she scanned the Sultanate and officers, “leave.”
No one dared disobey, although some glared at Safi as they exited. Others pretended she did not exist. Most simply frowned, confused perhaps that Safi held such sway.
“Adders too,” Vaness commanded once the room had cleared. And as one, eleven Adders departed on silent feet.
Then the wooden door clicked shut, and all that remained of Vaness’s iron melted. Her shoulders wilted. She staggered to the nearest stool. “I did not command torture.” She wagged her head, urgency in her words—and absolute honesty. “Why would the general do such a thing?”
Safi didn’t respond. Her voice was hooked low in her belly, anchored by surprise. Before her eyes, Vaness had transformed. She looked ten years younger—twenty years, even. As if Safi now faced the seven-year-old girl who had been thrust into power after her parents’ death.
This was not the jagged grief Vaness had worn in the Contested Lands. This was something new. Something worse.
Safi hurried close, no concern over titles as she said, “What’s wrong?” And no concern over rules as she laid a hand on Vaness’s shoulder.
Vaness did not pull away.
“I am tired,” the Empress murmured. “I am tired and I am…” She hesitated. Then laughed, a harsh sound that set Safi’s teeth on edge. Part fearful, part amused, and part self-loathing. “I am lost.”
Safi’s heart said, True.
“I thought having you here would fix everything,” Vaness went on. “I thought you would clear the corruption from my court as easily as a tide clears the shore. But the rot is too deep, and my power too tenuous. These unknown rebels almost succeeded yesterday. Despite every precaution, they almost succeeded.”
“But they didn’t.”
“Yet.” Her head tipped back. She blinked up at the ceiling. “And who would even mourn me if I were gone? The people do not care who leads.”
“The people love you.”
“They admire me,” Vaness corrected. “And the difference is an important one.”
Safi had no response for this. The fact that Vaness needed comfort was more than Safi’s mind could wrap around. This was not the Iron Bitch she had faced in Lejna, nor the Iron Bitch with whom she’d crossed the Contested Lands. Whatever this was, it was more than Safi knew how to handle. It was real, it was raw, and it was messy.
Before she could summon any sort of words worth saying, a knock sounded at the door. Vaness flinched. Safi’s hand fell away.
“Your Majesty?” an Adder called. “The Firewitch general is here.”
“A moment,” she called back. Then she glanced at Safi, her face still barren and unmasked. “Tell me quickly, Safi: General Fashayit. Can I trust him?”
Everything inside Safi tensed at those words. Can I trust him?
All her life, lying had come so naturally to her. A skill she had inherited from her uncle. A skill she had honed under Mathew’s and Habim’s strict tutelage. But with Threads, with Thread-family, she had never been able to lie. Never. And after everything she and Vaness had endured together …
But does your friendship with her matter more than Habim? He was her Thread-family too. And he could get her to Iseult. Whatever Habim had planned, it was separate from Vaness, just as Safi’s decision to come here had ultimately been separate from Uncle Eron’s schemes.
And whatever Habim had planned, his treatment of the Hell-Bards was separate. She couldn’t dismiss everything simply because she was angry.
If Iseult were here, she’d tell Safi to think with her brain, not her heart. So with her brain at the fore, Safi said, “Yes, Your Majesty. You can trust General Fashayit. He only tortured the Hell-Bards to protect the realm.” And to protect me.
Vaness nodded, relief briefly towing at her shoulders. Rounding in her spine. Two breaths later, though, and she had transformed once more into the Iron Empress, her mask nailed back into place, her posture turned to steel. She pointed a serrated stare at Safi. “Let the general in, then have the Adders lead you back to your quarters.”
“And the Hell-Bards? What will you do to them?”
“They will be brought to the border and sent home.”
True. Safi’s lungs released. “Thank you, Your Majesty. Thank you.”
Vaness swatted her away. “Do not thank me for what I always intended. Simply wash up and get ready for tonight.”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
* * *
Adders led Safi the short way back to her quarters. For several minutes, as they strode through the hallways, she could almost pretend nothing had changed. She walked where she was led, a troop of black around her, and she was court Truthwitch. Nothing more. There were no Hell-Bards tortured inside the island, no Habim with plans to break her free, and no Empress cracking beneath the weight of her crown.
And there was no uncle arrested for treason.
When Safi reached her door, she found Rokesh waiting. His left shoulder hunched several inches higher than the other, as if wrapped in a bandage.
“Nur
semaid,” Safi said. “You got hurt.”
A bob of his head. “It is my job.” His eyes flicked briefly sideways, and Safi knew that in that moment, he remembered other Adders. Ones who had died at the Well. Ones who had died in the Contested Lands.
He opened her door for her. It swung on silent hinges, and her room beyond shimmered in the midday sun.
Safi did not go in. “How many Adders died yesterday?”
“Seven.” He offered this without inflection, without emotion. And that absence was a lie, lie, lie.
Seven women and men whose faces Safi had never seen had battled the flame hawk so Vaness could live. And a hundred soldiers had died too.
“I’m sorry,” Safi said. “Did you … did you know them well?”
His dark eyes shuttered twice. Then a faint wrinkle formed between them, as if he frowned beneath his shroud. As if he did not know what to do with her question.
Until finally he seemed to find words. “In Marstok,” he said thoughtfully, “when magic such as ours manifests, we are given two choices: enter the healing schools or become an Adder. We all choose this life, and we all choose it at the same age. So yes, I knew them very well.”
Safi swallowed, suddenly struck by how big this was. How much space Rokesh’s grief must fill inside his lungs. How much weight Vaness’s doubt and exhaustion must place upon her head. And Safi had no idea how to help them.
“Magic … such as yours?” she asked eventually. Silly words to fill the silence. “You mean Poisonwitchery?”
A soft sigh—almost a laugh. Then a gentle shake of his head. “Waterwitch healing is what I and every other Adder is born with. But the power to cure life can also be the power to take it away. There are two sides to every coin, Truthwitch. Two edges to Lady Fate’s knife. Magic is no different. It is merely what you make of it.”
The truth of that statement bowled into Safi. Like lightning to a tree, it hit her with such force, her whole body snapped upright. For of course magic was what she made of it. And of course there were two sides to every coin, to Lady Fate’s knife.
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