Bloodwitch (The Witchlands, #3)

Their owner was as bright as sunshine too, his skin and curling hair a gleaming gold that Safi would have fallen boots over brains for.

Trickster. The name flitted across Iseult’s mind—the Moon Mother’s youngest, most devious brother, with the coloring of the sun but lucent shimmer of the moon. Like this young man, Trickster always wore pale gray. The color of dawn, of dusk, of the dappled forests in which he hid.

In the stories, Trickster was the most dangerous of the family, his loyalties as fickle as the breezes he loved to ride. Luckily, those were just stories, though—while this man was very real.

Iseult let the flap fall back into place. She would remember that man’s face. She would remember his Threads too.

If they ever met again, she would be ready.





THIRTEEN


Habim Fashayit.

General Habim Fashayit.

Uncle Eron’s man-at-arms, the mentor who had trained Safi to fight and raised her like a father. Who had taught her to be a wolf in a world of rabbits. He was here in Azmir. Here in the imperial palace. And he was a general.

Safi had always known Habim must have been an officer of some kind for the Marstoki armed forces. When, after years of badgering, neither Habim nor Eron nor even Mathew had ever opened up about Habim’s specific past, though—or about how he’d ended up in the employ of a Cartorran dom—Safi had eventually stopped wondering and simply accepted Habim as he was: stern, implacable, a skilled fighter, an even more skilled tactician, and prone to assigning far too many essays on the history of warfare.

Between one heartbeat and the next, all of Safi’s childhood questions blazed back to life, a thousand times hotter than they’d ever been ten years ago. Her whole chest felt aflame. She wanted to laugh, she wanted to skip, she wanted to grab her Threadstone and scream at Iseult, wherever she might be, that Habim Fashayit was here! General Habim Fashayit was here in Azmir! In the imperial palace!

Never had Safi been so glad for shadows and solitude. For a moment to react in private before anyone saw her face.

The tiny trapdoor that led into the wall clicked behind Safi. Afternoon air twined against her. She gulped it in, smoothing her face into the same expression she always wore around Rokesh and the Empress: dutiful focus, blank disinterest. After a quick check that her attempted Truthstone was tucked into a pocket, she swiveled toward the Adder.

He said nothing, so she said nothing, and once she was out of the wall, the remainder of her Adder guards stepped into tight formation around her. They crossed into the main garden. Sunshine poured over Safi’s face, and the midday breeze carried the scent of roses, lilac, and honeysuckle. Insects whirred while birds chirruped from the bushes and the trees.

Situated upon three terraced levels, the imperial gardens overlooked Lake Scarza’s glittering blue waters, offering a full view of crowded Azmir on the sunlit shore. Usually, Safi savored these walks—a chance to be outside in the open. Right now, though, she only had space for Habim.

Goat tits, she wished the Adders would walk faster. Habim was so near. Move, Nursemaid, move.

Finally, after crossing the top level, they reached a familiar marble terrace where a fountain bubbled and wind chimes rang. Then they were to the sloping entrance into Vaness’s private library, where Safi had come only a few hours before.

No pause, no break in stride while the Adders—and Safi—coasted inside. Shelves lined the walls, every spine bound in matching garnet leather. Books lay stacked upon desks and honey satin chairs. And of course, iron adorned every spare inch: in the sconces, on the table legs, and around the shelf frames. It was a library fit for an Empress, for an Ironwitch.

Two doors led out of the library. One made of oak carved with sunbursts that fed into Safi’s and Vaness’s quarters. Safi knew this door; she had used it. The other, a simple door barely large enough to duck through, led to the Empress’s personal office. It was a space Safi had been expressly forbidden to enter. Guest status, it would seem, only carried one so far.

It was to this door they now marched, and excitement wound hotter in Safi’s belly. Her hands were sweating too. Stasis, she told herself, just as Iseult always did. Stasis in your fingers and in your toes.

Rokesh moved to the lead, and after he pushed open the simple door and slunk through, Safi was able to follow inside.

It was not what she expected. Where the rest of the Floating Palace was marble or sandstone tile with wide windows to stream in light, this room was paneled with oak stained almost black—and with no windows at all. Candle chandeliers hung from an arched ceiling, their waxes and wicks all perfectly sized and burning with smokeless Firewitched flame.

Then Safi glimpsed Habim across the room, straight-backed and staring at her from familiar line-seamed eyes. He stood opposite a long table, its surface covered by an intricate relief of the Witchlands.

Habim did not meet Safi’s gaze. Instead he strode around the table and declared, “This is not the Empress.”

Safi’s eyes prickled at the sound of his gravelly voice. Gods below, it was good to hear it. Stasis. Do what Iz would do.

“The Empress is detained.” Rokesh bowed low. Then he sidestepped and motioned to Safi.

Habim gave her an appraising glance. “You must be the Truthwitch, then.”

“Yes,” Safi said, though her voice almost cracked. His scrutiny, his eyes raking up, raking down. It was so customary, so Habim. The grim slant to his lips, the slight pucker between his brows. Her whole life, he had looked at her to assess her weaknesses. Right now, though, she felt he was assessing her strengths. Her health, her safety.

No doubt he wondered why she had a new scar above her eyebrow and on her thumb. Or why her hair only reached her shoulders—or why she clearly favored standing on one leg instead of the stable, even stance he’d raised her with. And there was no missing how his eyes caught on the iron belt at her waist and steel chain around her neck.

Habim had come to Azmir for Safi. That truth swelled inside her chest, and suddenly, Safi’s eyes burned even more. She forced herself to pull back her shoulders and puff out her chest.

“I am the Truthwitch,” she said, louder. Full of the domna training he had instilled in her. “May I ask who you are?”

Habim sniffed, angling back to Rokesh. “This child’s presence means you do not trust me. I expected a better welcome, Adder.”

Rokesh opened his gloved hands. Part apology, part shrug. “Nineteen years in retirement is a long time, General.”

“And it would have been longer if the Twenty Year Truce had not ended so suddenly.” He snapped a hand toward miniature troops, ships, and supply chains placed across the table. “I had thought Her Imperial Majesty possessed a steadier head than her parents, yet breaking the Truce to claim a young woman who is rumored to be a Truthwitch…” His chest expanded with a deep inhale, as if he were tamping down the urge to shout.