Truthwitch

by Susan Dennard

  True, it said. Always and forever true.

  FORTY

  When Aeduan had seen the Cleaved attack his mentor, he had acted without thought—diving in to retrieve her bloodied form. Hacking, slashing, disemboweling anyone in his way.

  Once he was to her—once he had her limp form in his arms—Aeduan had latched on to Evrane’s blood to keep the hole in her neck from bleeding out.

  Then Aeduan had sprinted from Lejna as fast as he could, his witchery fueling him on. He would take Evrane to the Origin Well, for that was the only place he could think of. If its waters were indeed flowing once more, then it might just save Evrane from the hole in her neck.

  When he couldn’t sprint anymore, Aeduan jogged.

  When he couldn’t jog anymore, he walked, his magic never releasing Evrane’s blood. Distantly, he knew he had lost his chance to claim the Truthwitch, but he didn’t care. Not right now.

  Aeduan carried Evrane league after league, cliff after cliff, step after staggering step and, for the first time in years, he was afraid.

  It took him half the day to recognize what he felt. The emptiness in his chest, the endless loop of his thoughts—Don’t die. Don’t die.

  He knew this went beyond life-debts. Against everything Aeduan wanted to be—against everything he believed himself to be—he was afraid.

  Before he saw the river, he heard its rumble over the buzz of afternoon insects and screeching birds. He felt the mist off its rapids, mingling with the day’s humidity. He also smelled the eight soldiers waiting by the Origin Well’s stairs. Someone must have found Prince Leopold and thought Aeduan might return.

  So Aeduan used what little power he had left to choke off the soldiers’ breaths. It took forever. Aeduan was weakened; the eight men were not. Aeduan swayed in the wind, listing as wildly as the trees. He would drop Evrane if he had to stand much longer.

  The soldiers finally thumped to the earth, and Aeduan stumbled by. Then he climbed, slowly but purposefully, up the worn steps to the Origin Well. Over the flagstones to the ramp. Into the water to float Evrane on her back.

  She began to heal.

  Aeduan sensed it more than he saw it. Whatever power was at work here moved so gradually that it would take days for her body to fully repair. Yet Aeduan felt her blood start to flow on its own. He felt the new flesh grow where her throat was cut.

  Still, he kept a firm hold on her blood until enough of her throat had mended for her to breathe. For her heart to pump unhindered.

  Then Aeduan carefully floated Evrane to the Well’s ramp and eased her onto the stones. He kept part of her legs submerged—so the healing would continue—before he clambered out of the Well, spraying water on the flagstones. Despite the extra weight of saturated clothes, he was surprised to find his spine erect. His witchery fully restored …

  And his mind unable to ignore what was clearly before him: the Origin Well was alive again. Even if he hadn’t seen the magic at work, when he’d stood in that water, he had felt sentience.

  Oneness.

  Completion.

  This Well was opening a single, sleepy eye, and it wouldn’t be long before it awoke entirely.

  Which meant—as impossible as it was for Aeduan to accept—the Truthwitch was half of the Cahr Awen and Iseult …

  That Nomatsi Threadwitch with no blood-scent—and another Aetherwitch too …

  She was the other half. They were the pair that Aeduan had pledged his life to protect. The vow he’d sworn when he was thirteen—before his father had reentered his life—was now being called upon, yet Aeduan couldn’t decide if he should answer.

  He’d never thought this day would actually come—a day when all his training and his future would be given up to the mythical, ancient Cahr Awen.

  It was easy for Evrane. She’d spent her entire life a believer. It completed her to have the Cahr Awen return.

  But for Aeduan it was a hindrance. He’d been forced into the Monastery by circumstance, and he had stayed there because he’d had nowhere better to go—nowhere else that wouldn’t kill a Bloodwitch on sight. Now, though, he had plans. Plans for himself. Plans for his father.

  Aeduan didn’t know to whom he owed his loyalty—his vows or his family—yet he was at least certain of one thing: he was grateful the Well had saved Monk Evrane.

  Perhaps that was why Aeduan found his feet carrying him to the nearest cypress tree. Its trunk glowed red in the brilliant dawn sun, its green, vibrant branches rustled on the humid breeze.

  More leaves had grown since yesterday.

  Aeduan knelt on the flagstones. Water dripped, dripped, dripped—from his clothes, from his hair, and even from his baldric, which he’d forgotten to remove. He barely noticed and simply curled over, flat against his knees and with his palms resting on the cypress trunk. Then he recited the prayer of the Cahr Awen.

  Exactly as Evrane had taught him.

  I guard the light-bringer,

  And protect the dark-giver.

  I live for the world-starte,

  And die for the shadow-ender.

  My blood, I offer freely.

  My Threads, I offer wholly.

  My eternal soul belongs to no one else.

  Claim my Aether.

  Guide my blade.

  From now until the end.

  When he’d finished the memorized words, he was glad to find them as tasteless as they’d always been—and he was also glad to find a mental list already scrolling through his brain. My blades are wet; I’ll need to oil them. I need a new salamander cloak—and a horse too. A fast one.

  It was liberating to know he could ignore his Carawen vow so easily, even with the Origin Well right beside him. For the time being, he had a box of silver talers to give his father, and that was all that mattered.

  Aeduan gave a final glance to his old mentor, the monk called Evrane. She had color in her cheeks now.

  Good. Aeduan had finally repaid one of his life-debts to her.

  So with his fingers flexing and wrists rolling, the Bloodwitch named Aeduan set off to join his father, the raider king of Arithuania.

  * * *

  With great effort and all the strength left inside her, Iseult heaved and rolled and shoved wooden beams off Merik Nihar. Shafts of morning light broke through gray clouds. The first pier and an entire block of buildings had been leveled. Reduced to splintered timbers by Kullen’s storm—a storm that must have claimed the first mate as well. No souls or Threads moved alongside the now gentle waves. No birds winged, no insects sang, no life existed …

  Except for a swarm of green, flying into the horizon. At the very center, Iseult sensed the faintest hint of dazzling Threads.

  Safi.

  She was gone. Gone. Iseult had lost her, and it was just one more mistake to add to her soul.

  But she muscled past those thoughts and continued her back-bending fight against the building frame. All the noise and movement roused Merik from unconsciousness, his Threads abruptly raging into life. Iron pain and blue grief.

  He lay on his back, hunks of skin gone and glass shards burrowed deep.

  “What hurts?” Iseult asked, dropping beside him. No stutter held her tongue. No emotions held sway.

  “Everything,” Merik rasped, eyes cracking open.

  “I’m going to check you for broken bones,” Iseult said. Or for worse. When Merik didn’t argue, she set to gently kneading his body, from the top of his head to the tips of his boot-clad toes. She had done this a hundred times with Safi over the years—Habim had taught her how—and she sank into the forgiveness of a cold, methodical movement.

  Stasis. The breeze skipped through someone else’s wet clothes and kissed someone else’s skin. Merik’s wounds—they all bled on someone else—and Iseult wouldn’t think of the Puppeteer. Of the Cleaved. Of Evrane or Kullen or Safi. Stasis.

  Throughout the inspection, Iseult’s eyes darted to Merik’s Threads, checking for any flash of brighter pain. Each plucking out of glass sent them flas
hing, but only when Iseult hit his ribs did they erupt with agony. A groan rolled off his tongue. His ribs were broken; it could be worse.

  Next, Iseult turned her attention to Merik’s skin, checking that none of the removed glass or wood had opened any dangerous cuts. Blood stained the street, and as she wrapped his own torn shirtsleeve around a gash on his forearm, Merik asked, “Where … is Safi?”

  “The Marstoks took her.”

  “Will you … get her back?”

  Iseult loosed a tight breath, surprised by how much her lungs ached with that movement. Would she get Safi back?

  In a panicked rush, she finished the makeshift bandage and wrenched out her Threadstone. No light flickered, which meant Safi was safe. Unhurt.

  It also meant Iseult had no way to follow her Threadsister. But what had Safi told her? One of Eron’s men would be coming here—to a coffee shop. Iseult could wait—would have to wait—for that person. He would help Iseult reach Safi, whoever he was.

  She dropped the Threadstone. It thunked against her breastbone. Then she returned her attention to Merik and said, “You need a healer.” As soon as the words were out, she wished she could swallow them back, for, of course, Merik raggedly asked, “My … aunt?”

  The urge to lie was overwhelming—and not just a lie for Merik, but a story that Iseult could cling to as well.

  It wasn’t my fault, she wanted to say. The Cleaved got to her, and that wasn’t my fault either.

  But it was Iseult’s fault, and she knew it.

  “Evrane was attacked by the Cleaved.” Iseult’s tone was colorless. Deliberate. A thousand leagues away and coming from a different person’s mouth. “I don’t know if she survived. I followed her, but she left the city.”

  Merik’s Threads gave out then. The blue grief took hold completely, and he blinked back tears, his breaths choking in a way that must have sent pain shattering through his broken ribs.

  That was when the glacier finally cracked, and Iseult gave up her control. She curled onto her knees beside Merik and, for the second time in her life, Iseult det Midenzi cried.

  She had killed so many people today. Not on purpose, and not directly, yet the burden seemed no less vast. No less complete.

  She almost … she almost wished Corlant’s curse had killed her in the end. At least then all of these lost souls might still be alive.

  Eventually, Merik was too ill for her to ignore. He was pale, shaking, and his Threads were fading too fast.

  So Iseult shoved aside everything she felt—every Thread that was never meant to hold sway—and she scooted closer to Merik. “Where is the Jana?” she asked, thinking his crew could get him to a healer. She and Safi had left the horses, and Iseult had no idea where the nearest living city might be. “Highness, I need to know where the Jana is.” She cupped his face. “How can I reach it?”

  Merik was shivering now, his arms clutched to his chest, yet his skin roasting to the touch. His Threads were growing paler and paler …

  But Iseult would be damned if she was going to let him die. She leaned in close. Made him meet her eyes. “How can I contact the Jana, Highness?”

  “Lejna’s wind … drum,” he croaked. “Hit it.”

  Iseult released his face, her gaze flying over the street … There. At the eastern corner of town, only a few blocks away, was a drum identical to the one on the Jana.

  Iseult scrabbled upright. The salty morning spun, and her muscles felt like shredded glass. But she put one foot in front of the other … until at last she reached the drum.

  She hefted up the mallet—there was only one, and she prayed it was a bewitched one, able to blast wind far and true. Then Iseult pounded the drum. Over and over and over again.

  As she hammered—as she slammed her soul and her mistakes into the hide drumhead—she strategized. Because she still had that. She still had the skills to analyze her terrain and her opponents. She still had the instincts to pick the best battlegrounds.

  Safi had initiated something a bit larger this time—getting kidnapped by Marstoks was definitely a new high—but no matter what it took, Iseult would figure it out.

  She would get Merik to a healer.

  She would find a way to stop the Puppeteer—to keep that shadow girl from ever cleaving anyone again.

  She would get answers about Corlant’s curse—and perhaps find Gretchya and Alma again too.

  And, above all, Iseult would go after Safi. Just as she beat this wind-drum, just as she ignored the screaming in her arms and the exhaustion in her legs, she would follow Safi and she would get her back.

  Threadsisters to the end.

  Mhe verujta.

  * * *

  Merik was unconscious when the Jana arrived. By the time he reached Noden’s Gift and the Origin Well, he was almost dead. There was saltwater in his wounds, his witchery had been pushed too far, and his three broken ribs didn’t want to heal.

  When he finally awoke on a low bed in an upside-down cabin in Noden’s Gift, he found his aunt beside him, her silver hair as radiant as always. Her tender smile shaking with relief.

  “I have good news,” she told him, her grin quickly shifting to a concentrated frown as she dabbed salve onto Merik’s arms, his face, his hands. “The Voicewitches in Lovats have been calling Hermin nonstop all day. It would seem that, despite their attack on Lejna, the Marstoks want to open trade. Yet they will only negotiate with you, Merik—and I imagine that has Vivia frothing at the mouth.”

  “Ah.” Merik sighed, knowing he should be happy. Trade was all he’d ever wanted, and now he had proven that he could bring it back to Nubrevna.

  Yet the triumph tasted like ash, and he couldn’t convince himself it had been worth the cost.

  “Where is … Iseult?” he asked, voice reedy and weak.

  Evrane’s expression soured. “Your crew left her in Lejna. Apparently, she convinced Hermin that she was fine by herself—that she had someone coming to meet her at a coffee shop.”

  As Merik tried to puzzle through whom Iseult could possibly meet, Evrane went on to describe how Prince Leopold had vanished from Noden’s Gift. “One moment, he was in the brig, under heavy guard, and the next, his cell was completely empty. All I can guess is that a Glamourwitch somehow helped him escape.”

  It was too much for Merik’s grief-addled, pain-stricken brain. He shook his head, mumbled something about dealing with it all later, and then settled into a magically induced, healing sleep.

  Two days later—and three days after losing Kullen—Merik finally trekked from Noden’s Gift to the Nihar cove. Evrane parted ways with him, claiming she had to go to the Carawen Monastery immediately, and Merik couldn’t push past his pride long enough to ask her to stay.

  She had been coming and going since he was boy, and why should that change now?

  So, with Hermin limping at his side, Merik hiked past trunks and branches—all of them spindly with new bursts of life. Lichen, insects, green, green, green—Merik couldn’t explain it … and he couldn’t help wishing that Kullen were here to see it.

  In fact, Merik couldn’t seem to move past Kullen. Memories burned behind his eyeballs, and loss throbbed at the base of his skull. Even as he watched living birds swoop over the cove, even as Hermin rowed him to the warship and fish inexplicably splashed in the waves—all of it tasted of ash.

  Merik’s crew was lined up on the main deck when he finally dragged himself onto the Jana. Each man wore strips of iris-blue linen around his biceps to mourn their fallen comrade, and they all gave a crisp salute as Merik walked past.

  He barely noticed, though. There was only one person he wanted to see—the one person who would understand how Merik felt.

  He glanced at Hermin. “Bring Ryber to me, please.”

  Hermin cringed. “She’s … gone, sir.”

  “Gone?” Merik frowned, that word incomprehensible. “Gone where?”

  “We don’t know, sir. She was on the ship when we came to you in Lejna, and we thought she was
on it when we reached the Nihar cove again. But … we aren’t sure. All we know is she ain’t on the ship now.”

  Still, Merik frowned—for where would Ryber go? Why would Ryber go?

  “She did leave a note, although it doesn’t say a thing about where she went. It’s on your bed, sir.”

  So Merik heaved into his captain’s cabin, ribs shrieking their protest at that burst of movement. He took long, almost jogging steps to cross the room, where he found his wrinkled coat draped across the mattress. Resting atop it was a slip of paper.

  Merik snatched it up, eyes flying over Ryber’s almost illegible scrawl.

  My Admiral, my Prince,

  I’m sorry to go, but I’ll find you again one day. While I’m gone, you have to become the king that Kullen always believed you to be.

  Please. Nubrevna needs you.

  Ryber

  (Also, check your jacket pocket.)

  Merik’s forehead tightened at those final words. His jacket pocket? The trade agreement.

  Merik grabbed for his coat, hands shaking, and gently towed out the contract. On the last page, ashy fingerprints were everywhere—along with a fat scribbling.

  Uncle:

  Don’t be such a horse’s ass about this trade agreement. Prince Merik Nihar has done everything he could to get me to Lejna unharmed, so

  Merik flipped over the page.

  if I get hurt on the way or I don’t even reach this pier that you’ve arbitrarily chosen, you can’t blame him. Prince Merik and Nubrevna deserve a trade agreement with the Hasstrels. I promise you this, Uncle: if you don’t fulfill this contract and open up trade with Nubrevna, then I will simply write an agreement of my own. It will be a terrible one that gives Nubrevna all the advantage and all the money.

  Remember: my name carries power, and contrary to your beliefs about me, I don’t lack initiative entirely.

  Then, in hideously uncoordinated script, was a signature:

  Safiya fon Hasstrel

  Domna of Cartorra

  Something hot scratched up Merik’s throat. He whipped the contract back over and saw that his signature and Dom Eron’s were still there—while any reference to “spilled blood” had been removed entirely.