Bloodwitch (The Witchlands, #3)

“That the Raider King has begun his advance.” Again, Serafin shook papers at her. “That his Icewitches freeze the Timetz, and that his forces are vast. However, we Nubrevnans know that terrain better than he or his raiders. But I just said all this—were you not listening, Vivia?”

Hye. She had been listening, and now she had enough information to fill in the gaps and understand the full meaning behind his strategy to topple the Raider King.

He intended to send all of their forces, soil-bound and naval, to the northern borders. He intended to use their knowledge of the terrain against the raiders, stopping them before they ever reached Nubrevna. And on the surface, that strategy was a sound one; Vivia would have expected no less from her father. But there was also one gaping hole in it.

“What happens if you lose? Then there will be no soldiers left to defend the city.”

“That won’t happen.” Serafin chuckled, a sound to make others feel small. “We will face him, and we will win.”

But what if you don’t?

Had this exchange happened two years ago, before the wasting disease had struck, Vivia would have gone right along with her father’s plans, no questions asked vocally or internally. Right now, though, all she could see were the holes.

If all of their troops died, then Lovats would once more be under siege. And while siege had always been Nubrevna’s salvation during wartime, this city was not the city it had been twenty years ago. The storerooms were not the storerooms from twenty years ago.

Vivia knew Lovats, inside and out. From its buildings, stacked atop one another and growing higher every day, to its inner veins and passages and waterways. She had explored and studied every inch, first with her mother as a child, then on her own. And what she had learned after twenty years was that, when Jana had died, any concern for the city’s infrastructure had died too.

Serafin had seen how easily the dam had broken two weeks ago, yet somehow, he still believed these walls and bridges were strong enough to hold back an army. And somehow, he believed these walls and bridges were strong enough to support hundreds of thousands of refugees.

“I have dealt with raiders before, Vivia.” His patronizing smile left his eyes. “I understand exactly what awaits me at the border.”

“What awaits you?” Now she was well and truly shocked.

“Hye. I am Admiral. That means I will lead the forces into battle.”

“You aren’t well enough to lead forces.”

“Excuse me?” His shoulders notched up. His nostrils flared.

“You aren’t well. You only just began walking without the aid of your chair a week ago. How can you expect to lead soldiers into a fight?”

“I have fought—and won—with worse ailments than this disease, Vivia. I fought the Marstoks in the Hundred Isles while a knife wound bled out from my thigh. This disease no longer controls me, so I—”

“No.” The word loosed from Vivia’s throat. Too fast to stop. Too fast to consider. Then she said it again: “No. You didn’t. You didn’t command that battle in the Hundred Isles. You passed out the moment you were struck, and your first mate coordinated the entire thing.”

Evrane had told Vivia the story long ago, before Serafin had banished his sister from the city forever.

“And,” Vivia continued, “as the Queen-in-Waiting, I decide who wears the title of Admiral of the Royal Forces. And I haven’t appointed you. I still remain Admiral, and so I will form all strategy moving forward. Meanwhile, you will cease all planning with the navy and soil-bound, and whatever steps you have taken for advancing north are now over.

“As for these messages you have been getting, that ends today. From now on, those missives will come to me. The city of Lovats and the people of Nubrevna must—and will—come first in this war.”

As Vivia spoke these words, as they bubbled up from some place in her spine she’d never known existed, her father transformed. In seconds, the Nihar rage had ignited. She could see it in the rising of his shoulders, in the compression of his lips. And if she wanted to, she could still prevent it. If she wanted to, she could stop the explosion from snapping free.

All she had to do was apologize. Grovel and beg. Exactly as she’d done her entire life.

And perhaps that was what a good daughter would do. That was what a loving, loyal daughter would do. But maybe she wasn’t any of those things, and maybe she had no interest in sharing the glory or sharing the blame.

Not anymore. Not with him.

“You are welcome to attend the High Council meeting this afternoon,” she said, popping her chin high. “Your advice and experience are always appreciated, Father.” Then, without another word and without a backward glance, Vivia left the royal bedroom.

No regrets, keep moving.

No shouts followed her, but they would come eventually. They always came eventually.

Three steps into the hallway became ten, and still no bellows sounded from Serafin’s room. It was not until she turned out of the royal wing, her guards moving into formation around her, that her father’s roar finally crashed out.

She merely walked onward with a new purpose in her stride. For the Raider King was on his way, and Vivia had a city—and an army—to get ready.





TWENTY-NINE


The Cleaved marked Merik’s way. In Poznin, they lined up shoulder to shoulder, just as they had the night before, circling around trees and ponds and fallen homes. He passed city squares that had once been open to the night sky, but now were thick with oaks and beech. He saw statues choked by ivy, graveyards swallowed by thorns, and gallows reduced to skeletons by moss and rot.

All of it was overrun by Cleaved. Always the Cleaved, standing sentry with eyes that stared into nothing and faces gaunt with hunger. Merik didn’t understand how they lived when clearly they did not eat, drink, or perhaps even move.

Merik himself was ravenous. Esme had offered him no food since Kullen had dropped him here, and even water had been scarce. Twice, she had admitted she perhaps ought to feed him, but both times she’d forgotten. Or perhaps her words were no more than another game, another experiment. Knife wounds had not claimed him, but maybe starvation would.

Near the northern edges of Poznin, Merik passed a half-collapsed, half-flooded building. White stone turned to brown, wood flooring had long since rotted away, and the roof had fallen in, leaving only high, crooked walls and a staircase leading nowhere. All of it surrounded a murky pool lined with cattails. Sunlight gleamed down, a beautiful view, were it not for all the corpses.

Tens of them, all ages and races, floated atop the water. And Merik couldn’t help but wonder if the Cleaved had entered because they had wanted to or if the Puppeteer had commanded these deaths upon them.