Bloodwitch (The Witchlands, #3)

She had been so self-absorbed. So stupidly, stupidly naive as to think she could leave this city for a day with no consequences. If she had just stayed here, then Stix would not have left—at least not without some kind of explanation. And if Vivia had just blighting stayed here, then she would know where to begin searching.

Vivia suddenly knew all too keenly how Merik had felt a year before. His Threadbrother Kullen had vanished in the Sirmayans while building watchtowers, and Merik had stretched resources to obscene lengths trying to find him.

Those lengths seemed absolutely reasonable now. Paltry, even. Now, Vivia would do whatever it took and use whatever she could to find out where her best friend had disappeared to.

So many regrets, but she just had to keep moving, keep searching.

Stix was somewhere. Vivia would find her.



* * *



It was nearing midday by the time Vivia reached Queen’s Hill once more. She was aimed for the Sotar estate at the top of the hill; perhaps the vizer himself would know where his daughter had gone. And if not … well, he needed to know she was missing.

She was stopped halfway up the road when a hand landed on her shoulder. She whirled around, the name “Stix” flaring through her mind—but instead of Stix’s cavalier grin, a scruffy-mustached boy in royal livery faced her.

Rat, her father’s youngest page.

“Highness, your father wishes to see you.” His voice jumped octaves every few words. “He is in his bedroom, too weak to leave.”

Vivia felt the blood drain from her face. First Stix, now Serafin … It was too much for one day. She shoved past Rat and charged up the crowded street. She cared none for the cries or the glares as she elbowed her way into a jog. For once, she would have welcomed her guards to help clear a path.

The King Regent had been healthy and whole only yesterday. He had bellowed with all the force Vivia had grown up with. This is your fault. You left because you were upset, and now he’s sick again. And Stix is gone too. Everything you do is wrong. Selfish, selfish—how could she have been so thrice-damned selfish?

Vivia was panting by the time she reached the royal wing of the palace, sweating through her frock coat, her hair glued to her forehead. Rat, who had scurried behind her the entire way, now scampered in front so he could open the door.

“Your daughter—” he began, but Vivia swept into the room before he could finish.

She had expected darkness, as her father had required at the peak of his illness. Instead, she found sunlight streaming in from the ceiling-high windows. And instead of her father lying in bed, eyes closed and breath wheezing, she found him standing—not even seated in his rolling chair, but standing beside the blazing hearth.

He looked even better than he had yesterday. Shoulders strong, color warm in his cheeks. Even his hair seemed thicker.

Serafin did not react at Vivia’s entrance, nor look away from the fire as she approached. Orange light glittered across him.

“Your Majesty,” she asked hesitantly, “are you ill?”

A muscle feathered along his jaw. “Where have you been? I have been waiting for you since the ninth chimes.”

“You sent no summons.”

“I should not need to.”

At last, he angled away from the hearth, although not toward Vivia. Instead, he crossed to his desk beneath the window. A stiffness marked his movements, and pain flashed across his face.

Vivia’s chest stuttered. “Have the healers come?” She saw no signs of the amber draughts or tubs of salve they usually left behind. “I will fetch them, Your Majesty.” She twisted toward the door.

“Stay.” Heat lightning laced the King Regent’s voice.

Vivia froze.

“We need to discuss my plans for the troops.”

“The … troops?” She angled back. “I don’t understand, sir.”

He snorted, a sound that suggested Vivia was being intentionally obtuse. “As Admiral, I decide when, where, and how we face this Raider King. So I have done just that.” Without waiting for Vivia to respond to such an announcement, he launched into a description of his plans for advancing troops into the Sirmayans—plans he’d made with generals and lower admirals in the Royal Soil-Bound and Navy.

Plans he had apparently made over the last two weeks. Without once consulting her.

And all Vivia could do was stare. Serafin clearly didn’t realize she had gone to Marstok yesterday. In fact, he seemed to have no idea she’d left the city at all.

More importantly, he was not Admiral of the Royal Forces. As Queen-in-Waiting, Vivia was the one who appointed that position. As of yet, she had named no one—and as of yet, she still wore that title herself. Meaning all of these plans he had made were both unwelcome and unhelpful.

She couldn’t say that, though. Not to Serafin. Just the thought of raising such a point made her heart quake like a field mouse. Which was ridiculous, of course. Everything her father did was for her sake.

Is it, though? nudged a new voice. Just because he says that doesn’t make it true. After all, he did steal your speech—

No, no. Vivia snapped her head sideways. She wouldn’t think like that. She had been upset yesterday because she had been surprised. She was better now.

Serafin rambled on, thoroughly oblivious, lifting papers off his desk and rattling them in the air with all the emphasis and power the old Serafin used to command.

“At their current pace, the raiders will reach our borders in four days. His Icewitches are powerful, so we will need to eliminate them first.”

“Ice … witches?” Vivia heard how stilted she sounded, but she had no idea what her father was talking about. Nor any idea what all these papers he was shaking actually said.

And for the first time since Vivia had entered the room, her father’s expression relaxed. “Of course, of course. You have not read all the missives from the watchtowers.” He smiled, a warm, charming thing that was so different from the man of two weeks ago, still bedridden and scowling.

Vivia ought to love seeing her father smile like that. She ought to love seeing him stand tall and true. Instead, nausea gathered in her chest.

She swallowed. “What missives from the watchtowers? Why have I not seen these?”

“Because I am Admiral.”

“I am Queen-in-Waiting. They should come to me.”

“Hye, Vivia, hye. If you truly wish, I can have them sent to you. I only want what’s best for you.” He flashed that smile again, but now it was tinged with condescension. Like she were a child insisting on eating supper with the adults. “Your mother never did want them, though, so I assumed you wouldn’t either. You are so very like her, you know.”

Her mind blanked out at those words, her throat went dry. She didn’t want to be like her mother, with madness in her brain. She wanted to be sure and strong like Serafin.

Do you, though? the voice persisted. Just because he has always told you that you do, doesn’t make it true. Yet again, Vivia thrust that thought aside. “What,” she forced out, “do all these messages say?”