Truthwitch

by Susan Dennard

  Then again. “Sever, sever. Twist and sever.” It was the same rhythm as the crowds’ strumming Threads, their pulsing fear. Iseult latched on to that four-beat song and three-beat bass …

  Then she gave them what they wanted to see.

  She gave them a Puppeteer.

  “Sever, sever. Twist and sever. Threads that break. Threads that die.” The words she screamed were gibberish. Iseult couldn’t touch these people’s Threads and she certainly couldn’t control them. But the Nomatsis didn’t know that, so on she chanted: “Sever, sever. Twist and sever. Threads that break. Threads that die.”

  Louder, Iseult shrieked until there was enough space for her to straighten. For her to inhale and yell all the more. Until at last the bloodthirsty Threads began to drown beneath the blinding white Threads of fear. Corlant was nowhere to be seen.

  Then a new distraction arrived: a firepot flew through the air and Gretchya’s voice lashed out, “Ignite!”

  The pot exploded. Iseult dropped to the ground as flaming shards whistled down. Her mother hadn’t abandoned her.

  People ran; Iseult ran too. Toward her mother’s voice—toward her mother’s house. Yet as her feet pounded the dirt and exploding pots flashed on other houses, ignited thatch rooftops, and sent the Nomatsi into panicked flight, Iseult felt the Threads around her shift once more.

  It always happened—that moment when a mark realized he’d been cheated—and it was happening now. The people were noticing they’d lost their Puppeteer, yet their taste for blood had not been sated; it had only grown.

  Iseult reached the edge of her mother’s house—but Gretchya was nowhere in sight.

  “Iseult!”

  Her gaze snapped left. Alma bolted toward her on an unsaddled mare. Its brown coat and black legs were almost invisible in the darkness—as was Alma’s black gown.

  Alma reined the horse to a stop and heaved Iseult onto the bay in front of her. A traditional Nomatsi shield was strapped to Alma’s back—a wooden square meant to protect a Nomatsi on the run.

  Alma set the bay into a gallop toward the gate. The keen of the peoples’ Threads stretched tighter. Pulsed faster. They knew they had been duped.

  Which was why stones began to zip toward the girls, why the unmistakable thwang! of loosed bows filled the air along with Corlant’s roars, “Stop them! Kill them!”

  But Iseult and Alma were to the oaks by the wall now. The stones pounded into tree trunks; arrows clattered through branches—and thunked into Alma’s shield.

  “Where’s my mother?” Iseult shouted. The gate was closing in fast—and it was shut.

  No … not shut. Cracked. Swinging ajar.

  Alma aimed the horse for that widening gap. The bay changed the trajectory of her gallop, briefly exposing the girls’ right sides. Something punched into Iseult’s right bicep.

  The force of it knocked her sideways, into the cage of Alma’s arms. She didn’t know what had hit her—a stone, perhaps … But the pain throbbed. She looked down, alarmed, and saw the tip of a needle arrowhead poking through the skin above her elbow. A long cedar shaft with black and white cock feathers came out the other end.

  She threw back a single glance and saw Corlant, lowering a bow and wearing a satisfied smile on his moonlit face. Then Alma’s voice was shrieking in her ear, “Hold on!”

  So Iseult turned away and held on as they galloped into the moonlit meadow—the cries of the villagers briefly blocked out by the gate. Iseult’s legs squeezed tight and her toes pointed up like her mother had taught her.

  Mother.

  Iseult squinted, and she thought she saw a figure on horseback bouncing over the grass with a smaller figure right behind. Scruffs. Gretchya must have opened the gate and made a run for it, trusting Alma to get Iseult out.

  Corlant clearly knows what Alma and I have planned. That was what Gretchya had said … A plan. A plan against Corlant, who clearly wanted Iseult dead—even if Iseult couldn’t possibly fathom why.

  For half a breath, Iseult wished she’d faced the Bloodwitch instead of Corlant. Instead of the tribe. Yet that idea vanished almost instantly, for at least now she lived. Had the Bloodwitch tried to shoot her, she didn’t think he would’ve missed.

  Corlant had almost succeeded, though. If his arrow had gone three inches to the left, Iseult’s chest would have been pierced. A single inch to the right would have ruptured a vital artery.

  So Iseult sent a silent thanks to the moon they now galloped beneath—along with a prayer that Safi was still out there waiting for her …

  And that the Bloodwitch was not.

  ELEVEN

  The Bloodwitch named Aeduan was bored. There was only so much wrist-rolling, finger-flexing, and ankle-wiggling he could do to keep his muscles primed for fighting—or keep his temper at bay.

  Four chimes had passed since he’d first stretched out on this rafter in the Doge’s palace ceiling, and he had long ago pulled back his hood, and even undone the buckles along the top of his cloak. Since the only people to see him were the sixteen other hired guards in the rafters—and a family of pigeons who hadn’t stopped cooing since Aeduan had sprawled out beside their nest—he wasn’t particularly worried about this breach in Carawen protocol reaching the Monastery.

  Even if it did, the old monks cared more about mercenary missions than they did about respecting the Cahr Awen. After all, the Cahr Awen was just a myth, but bronze piestras were quite real.

  Yet always just out of Aeduan’s reach. Yotiluzzi had declared a bounty on the two girls who’d held up his carriage, and Aeduan wanted that bounty. Badly. So he’d tracked the Truthwitch to the Southern Wharf District … only to lose her scent.

  Shortly after, by sheer luck, he’d run into that Nomatsi girl along the canals—except that she’d eluded him too. Worse, Aeduan hadn’t been able to follow her, for she’d possessed no blood-scent.

  Never in Aeduan’s twenty years of living had he encountered someone whose blood he could not smell.

  Never.

  This surprise had … unsettled him. Had made his molars grind even more than losing the valuable Truthwitch had. Now here Aeduan was, trapped in a ceiling instead of hunting those two girls.

  Aeduan pressed his thin, bronze spyglass to his eye and peered through a spy hole carved into the ceiling. People streamed over marble floors. Vibrant shades of orange, green, and blue velvet sprinkled with pastel silks. It was such a waste of time. Nothing was going to happen at the diplomatic ball, for as Aeduan’s father always said: the Twenty Year Truce made people lazy and unambitious.

  When the first throbbing strands of a Nubrevnan four-step hit Aeduan’s ears and heels began to stamp, he opted for a change of scenery. After a crocodilian scrabble through the tiny space, Aeduan reached a ladder. He passed two other mercenaries, who eyed him nervously.

  “A demon from the Void,” they whispered, and Aeduan pretended not to hear. He liked those rumors. After all, there were perks to having people fear him, such as the best choice of stakeout spots. Even the Cartorran Hell-Bards and the Marstoki Adders, Empress Vaness’s personal bodyguards, had let Aeduan enter the palace walls first.

  When Aeduan hit the edge of the ceiling, a hole opened up—more spying space behind the ballroom wall. A rope ladder of absolutely no quality or defensive use spanned the fifty feet to the floor. It was just another example of how lax the Dalmottis (and everyone else) had become. Should there be any actual need for the guards in the ceiling, it would take them much too long to descend.

  Just as the four-step shifted into its second movement, Aeduan’s boots hit the floor. The violins sang into the shadowy wall space, shaking the dust and the wood with their vibrato. Over them was the light tapping of heels that Aeduan recognized as a vine-like dance.

  Aeduan actually knew the Nubrevnan four-step. Not well, and he would rather gut himself on a roasting spit than ever engage in it. But he did know the moves. His mentor had forced him to learn it during those first few years at the Monastery.


  Aeduan was just aiming left when a familiar blood-scent hit his nose. Venom-laced secrets and endless lies. Aeduan didn’t know if the rumors were true—if a Marstoki Adder’s blood was truly made of acid—but he did know that the Poisonwitch bodyguards were best avoided, if for no other reason than how their scents hurt his nose.

  So Aeduan abandoned his leftward trek and moved right instead. When at last he found a spy hole, even smaller than those in the ceiling, and pressed his eye to it, the third movement of the four-step had begun.

  And Aeduan’s eyebrows shot high.

  It was only two dancers, their heels and toes clattering against the marble at a speed Aeduan had never seen—and, even more impressive, a wind had begun to swirl around them. One of the dancers clearly had some form of air magic.

  Observers pulled back like a tide as the dancers spun, their feet moving stormily onward though their faces remained still, their eyes thinned and focused. The wind continued to sweep up, twirling in time to the music. In time to the steps. It tossed the girl’s skirts, her hair, and it tugged at the gaping viewers as the couple spun past.

  Yet the longer Aeduan watched, mildly entertained by the skill needed to dance with such speed and grace, the more an itch began to tickle Aeduan’s nose.

  Instinctively, he scanned the nearest faces and sniffed. He smelled … a sharp blood. A wild one.

  One that reminded him of mountain ranges and cliffsides; of meadows laced with dandelions and of a truth hidden beneath the snow.

  A thrill rose in his gut. The Truthwitch was here—at this very party.

  The final bouncing notes of the four-step rang out, drawing Aeduan’s eyes back to the dancers. The wind was dying down; they were marching apart for the final pose of the dance. The Nubrevnan man was clearly someone of importance, judging by the way people gazed upon him with fear or respect. But he held little interest for Aeduan, for his blood-scent was unfamiliar.

  It was the girl that drew Aeduan’s eye—drew his witchery. Aeduan’s smile widened, and his fingers reached for a stiletto strapped over his heart. A heart she had impaled only yesterday.

  Yet, as he wondered who such a woman might be—surely Aeduan would have heard of a Truthwitch domna—a loud clapping took over the ballroom. It was from a single source, and though all the other spectators joined in with the applause, this clap remained the loudest.

  Aeduan’s limited gaze finally latched on to the pale-haired imperial heir, Leopold. He stood near Empress Vaness and waited for people to clear a pathway before he lifted his foot to approach the dancers.

  “Well done,” Leopold finally called, still clapping. But there was an overdone layer to his applause. “Such magnificent dancers.”

  The Nubrevnan rounded a shining, flushed face toward the imperial prince. He bowed low. “Prince Leopold.”

  Leopold only gave him a nod. “Prince Merik—you have stolen Safiya from us.” There was no missing the blackness in his tone, nor the intentional way he dismissed the other prince to look pointedly at his uncle, the squat Cartorran emperor who stood nearby.

  Safiya’s expression shifted from its dance-drunk intensity to simple, pink-faced embarrassment. “Polly,” she murmured, almost inaudible over the crowds. “I’m sorry—I lost you in all the people.”

  “No need to apologize.” Leopold spoke in a far louder voice than her proximity required and spread his arms wide. “Another dance! Let’s make this a Pragan waltz.” Then he swept the Truthwitch a regal bow and clasped her arms.

  Aeduan’s fingers tapped out an excited rhythm on his stiletto. This night had just become very interesting. The Truthwitch who had tried to rob Guildmaster Yotiluzzi was now dancing with not one, but two princes.

  Oh, the Bloodwitch named Aeduan was no longer bored. No longer bored at all.

  And now he had work to do.

  * * *

  Safi was sick of dancing. Literally, she felt ill from all the spinning, and her breath—she’d not had a single moment to catch it since … Merik.

  Prince Merik.

  The man who couldn’t dress himself properly had turned out to be royalty. The man who’d thrown himself against a Cleaved was a prince. It was almost impossible to conceive, yet it explained his high-chinned bearing, his lack of fear when Safi pushed him—and his willingness to push right back.

  Something had happened between Safi and Merik during their dance. Something as powerful as the wind and the music that had gusted around them. A shift in the air that preceded a storm.

  Hell-flames, Safi needed Iseult now. She needed her Threadsister to help her sort through this wildness in her chest.

  As the room and the faces spun past her in another stomach-tilting waltz, as lies and truths crashed over Safi from all directions, she knew she needed to stop. To leave.

  Yet, just as something had shifted within Safi after the dance—after Merik—something had shifted within the room. A tension coiling inward like a waiting serpent.

  And the dancing—it never stopped. Six times, Safi was swept over the floor in Leopold’s arms. Then six more times the Emperor himself insisted on partnering with her. Her hands were clammy and gripped too tightly. Sweat seemed to gather in his pocked skin, and Safi wished Leopold would step back in.

  Until the music abruptly stopped and the dancing halted with it.

  Until Henrick called for silence in the room and beckoned for Safi to join him at a low dais.

  Until a heavy, impossible sentence fell from Henrick’s mouth: “Behold Safiya fon Hasstrel. My betrothed and the future Empress of Cartorra.”

  Safi’s knees gave way. She fell against Leopold, who—thank the gods—was nearby. Somehow he managed to sweep her upright and twirl her toward a room filled with stilted applause—as if everyone were as shocked by the announcement as she.

  “Polly,” she rasped, gaze fixing on his face. “Polly, please … tell me … Polly—”

  “It’s true,” he murmured, squeezing her hand.

  She tried to draw back, her heart threatening to punch its way from her chest. She’d trusted Leopold. She’d trusted Uncle Eron too. Yet this … She was not acting as a domna, but as a bride.

  Leopold wouldn’t release her, though. His sea green eyes had become steely. The gentle slope to his jaw had tensed with an unexpected determination.

  Safi gasped. “You knew this was coming. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  His only response was to tow her—forcefully, yet not unkindly—toward his uncle. The Emperor.

  Safi’s future husband.

  “To many happy years together!” Leopold shouted, thrusting Safi forward. She staggered into Henrick’s grasp. His sweating hands closed over hers.

  Safi almost jerked back at his touch and his crooked-toothed smile. Almost shrieked that this was not the freedom she’d been promised. Marrying an emperor was as far from freedom as Safi could imagine, so what was that horseshit of a story her uncle had fed her?

  As far as Safi could see, this was it. This was the end of everything.

  She scanned every face in the crowd, her arm quaking in Henrick’s. She searched for Uncle Eron’s blue eyes. For Mathew’s red head. Anyone, for rut’s sake. She just needed someone to hold her gaze and reflect back that it was all right to be furious. To be bone-deep scared.

  But no one in the crowd was familiar. She even looked for Prince Merik, in his silver gray coat, but he and the rest of the Nubrevnans had vanished from the ball as well.

  Safi was alone with her shaking knees. With the sickness in her throat. With Henrick’s clammy palms crushing her fingers.

  Then Safi’s frantic gaze landed on a wrinkled face and stout body that she vaguely remembered from her childhood: Domna fon Brusk. The woman’s hairy chin moved like a cow chewing cud, and she bobbed a curt, reassuring nod at Safi.

  As the twenty-fourth chimes began to ring and the applause subsided, Domna fon Brusk navigated toward Safi. Her eyes never left Safi’s face, her pace never slowed. Four steps in time to eac
h tolling bell.

  Then the final chime rang out. It reverberated through the room.

  Every flame in the ballroom, in the gardens, and on the harbor hissed out. The party descended into black.

  * * *

  Aeduan was still in the wall when the lights went out.

  He had slunk along from spy hole to spy hole, never losing sight of the Truthwitch—or her blood-scent—since she’d followed the summons of Emperor Henrick.

  The girl clearly hadn’t known what was coming. Never had Aeduan seen the blood drain from a person’s face so quickly—and for the briefest fraction of a moment, Aeduan had felt pity.

  Yet as Aeduan watched the girl tumble toward Emperor Henrick, the hairs on his arms pricked up. Then the hairs on the back of his neck.

  He had just enough time to think, Magic—and then feel his power specify, Firewitch—before every flame wuffed out.

  In two lung-stretching inhales, Aeduan’s Bloodwitchery roared to the height of its power—and he made a blood-recognition for every shrieking person in the ballroom—and every guard in the walls, the ceilings. It was just a cursory recording of different scents so he could move without sight.

  And so he could follow who else moved without sight.

  For someone had just orchestrated this blackout, and Aeduan knew immediately that it was linked to the girl, Safiya—because her scent was leaving.

  As was a second someone with the acrid scent of battlefields and burning bodies. And a third someone who smelled of mountain peaks … and vengeance.

  Aeduan set off toward the nearest of two wall exits when the lamps flared back to life in a second rush of hair-raising magic. Relieved whimpers and sighs drifted through the walls—and pinpricks of yellow light shot through spy holes.

  Aeduan darted for the nearest, and his gaze flew to where his Bloodwitchery told him the girl would be …

  The space was empty. Completely empty. Where the girl had been standing … she still stood. Somehow, she had not moved from Henrick’s side. Aeduan honed in on her scent.