Bloodwitch (The Witchlands, #3)

Vivia and her Windwitches arrived home right as the nineteenth chimes were ringing. They landed at the Southern Wharf, where the main barracks and naval academy were.

“We can fly you to the palace!” the captain had roared atop her winds. “Drop you beside the gate!”

Vivia had refused, claiming she was not the one who’d drained all her energy in the flight. The truth, though, was that she had hoped to find Stix. As awkward as things were between them, Stix was the only person Vivia had to talk to. The only person Vivia wanted to talk to.

Stix wasn’t at the school, though. Nor the barracks, nor anywhere along Hawk’s Way as Vivia and a flank of four new, freshly awake soldiers strode ever closer toward Queen’s Hill. She slowed on the street below Stix’s apartment, briefly wondering if she ought to walk up …

She decided against it. Vivia wanted to see her friend alone—not with this escort hounding her every move.

Soon, Vivia reached her bedroom in the royal wing of the palace, the familiar threadbare rugs and creaking floors so welcome after a day in that land of sandstone and white. A quarter clanging of the chimes after that, and she was down to her underclothes and sitting on the edge of her bed.

She stared at the Wordwitched paper. It had gotten flattened on the flight home, and now—as she unrolled it—six lines creased down the page.

Her words and Vaness’s still remained, as well as a new phrase at the bottom.

Did you arrive home safely?



Vivia wet her lips. Then pressed the page upon her lap and tried to smooth out the wrinkles. Her attempts failed completely, and she supposed after several minutes that she did not really care. Vaness did not need a reply.

Vivia rolled up the letter and stowed it on a low table beside her bed. Then after whispering to her lone Firewitched lamp, she settled beneath her iris blue blankets and tried to sleep.

An hour later, when sleep still eluded her, Vivia crawled from her bed. A pen and inkpot waited on her desk, and with only moonlight streaming through a warped window to light the page, Vivia once more unfurled the letter.

I made it home safely.



She paused here, wondering what more to say. Wondering why she wanted to say more. After several minutes, the perfect sentence came to mind. She scribbled it down, and this time, when Vivia crawled into bed, she fell asleep right away.





TWENTY-ONE


The half-galley skipped lightly over Lake Scarza. Spindrift misted the skin around Safi’s eyes. Nursemaid Rokesh had insisted she don an Adder shroud, and though the silk was surprisingly cool given how much it covered, it still stifled.

As did Habim’s words upon the map.

Do nothing. I have a plan.

Well, Safi had a plan too—and she wasn’t abandoning it just because Habim Fashayit had arrived. If she could actually make a Truthstone, then she could leave. No waiting necessary.

Waiting had never been one of her skills. Safi initiated; she did not complete.

And gods thrice-damn it, she was sick of being told what to do. At the very least, Habim could have given her more information. He had had an entire map with him, after all. How hard would it have been to offer details, so that she would not be—yet again—racing blindfolded into nothing?

Halfway through the return journey, the Tidewitches steering the ship changed course, aiming the half-galley for the main shore of Azmir instead of the Floating Palace. Safi had known this was coming. Unlike Habim, Vaness had actually informed her of the evening’s plan.

“A birthday procession,” the Empress had explained wearily the day before. “Very long, very tiresome. Yet I must do it every year.” This was why Safi had been given the Adder uniform and shroud: it was one thing to claim one had a Truthwitch, and quite another to parade her before hundreds of thousands of people.

The City of Eternal Flame grew on the horizon, framed by the red Kendura Hills and whitecapped Sirmayans beyond. The golden spires that spanned across the city, one for each district, shone like torches beneath the ember glow of sunset.

A crow swooped overhead, and Safi prayed it didn’t shit on her head.

“Are you ready to turn twenty-seven?” Safi asked, joining Vaness at the bulwark. “I have heard it’s much better than twenty-six.”

Vaness offered a sideways sigh—a sure sign she was un-empressed. Though she did at least say, “When I made this same trip a year ago, Safi, there were no armies at my doorstep. And though General Fashayit might blame me for starting the war, he is wrong. The end of the Truce was inevitable. War always is. Besides,” she added lightly, “by being the first to break the Truce, I can choose the terms of what comes next.”

Despite her tone, Safi knew Vaness was anything but light and flippant. Even without her magic, ferocious truth resounded off everything Vaness did. Her ideals aligned with her actions; she demanded nothing from others she would not do herself; and she put the well-being of Marstok above everything else, even her own life.

“Well,” Safi murmured eventually, “happy early birthday.” And this time, she earned a smile. True, true, true.

When at last the ship reached the main wharf of Azmir, it did not berth, but rather coasted to a stop beside an isolated dock, where waiting sailors laid out a gangplank.

Rokesh led the way, guiding them into a long, open tent mounted upon iron struts and poles. Gold canvas and green banners flapped against the breeze, while soldiers in matching gold and green stood at attention in neat rows around it. A perfect rectangle to enclose the tent.

As soon as Vaness reached the heart of the tent, she swung up her arms. The iron lifted. Then the iron—and the tent attached—followed overhead as she glided down the dock.

Safi’s fingers curled tightly into her uniform while the entire procession walked. Her calves ached to run, her knees itched to kick high. This was her first time outside the Floating Palace since reaching Azmir. This was her first glimpse of its people, its streets, its buildings old and new. Vaness had failed to mention what route they might travel through the city, and Safi hardly cared.

They could walk into a pit of vipers, and it would be perfectly acceptable. She was out, and that was all that mattered.