Bloodwitch (The Witchlands, #3)

And with those stares—with that blighted question, What does the king say?—Vivia felt her shoulders rise straight to her ears. Her father was no longer King, she wanted to point out. Nor was he Admiral.

And her father, she wanted to then add, had refused to attend this High Council meeting. She had gone to his room earlier that afternoon, to pay her respects—not to grovel, as she knew he expected her to do, but simply to reiterate that his wisdom was welcome. In falsely light tones, he had insisted he harbored no anger. “You are Queen-in-Waiting,” he’d said. “I only act for your sake. I know you are strong, but the Council does not.”

Then he had claimed he was too tired to join the meeting, and Vivia had recognized it all for the lie it was. Withholding, withholding, withholding. That was her father’s favorite means of punishment, be it information he knew she wanted or his own presence when it was required. He knew exactly what Vivia needed most, and then he refused to let her have it.

And the truth of the matter was that she did need him here. The High Council still respected him, still trusted him. His word carried weight.

There was nothing she could do about it now, though. No more time to be wasted on begging, on waiting. If he would not help her because he was angry, then Vivia would simply have to help herself.

“My father,” Vivia clipped out at last, all eyes still pinned on her, “is currently busy. As your Queen-in-Waiting and Admiral, the final decision falls to me. Not my father.”

As soon as Vivia uttered those words, she regretted them. Vizer Quihar’s nostrils fluttered and Vizer Eltar’s eyes bulged. The room erupted once more: “You are not ruler until you wear the crown!”, “Your father has fought in more battles than you have years!”, “He protected this city under siege!”, and “The people of Nubrevna trust their King more than some untested Queen!”

Each passive—and sometimes direct—insult Vivia bore with nothing more than a slight twitch to her eyelids and tight smile upon her lips. Hye, her teeth were grinding, her fingers rubbing at her thighs, but none of the High Council seemed to notice. Or care.

Until Vizer Quintay piped up with, “The King will speak to the Raider King! He negotiated the Twenty Year Truce. He will negotiate something again!”

And it was the final grain of sand to flood the sea. Like her father claiming he had fought with a knife in his thigh, this was too far.

“No.” Vivia’s voice cracked through the room, and with that single word—with that single truth—came six jets of water. One from each cup clutched by vizers fool enough to drink near a Tidewitch.

It was just a display of magic to silence them. Nothing more. Six streams of water to shoot up toward the vaulted ceilings, circle once, and plummet back into their cups. But the room quieted once more—and this time, it was on Vivia’s terms.

“How quickly you all have forgotten,” she said softly, dangerously. “It was my mother’s name on that document, not my father’s. For it was my mother who traveled to the original Truce Summit and signed it.”

One by one, she dragged her gaze over each face in the room. Some vizers looked away. Some held her eyes, defiant. Most, though, stared back and simply listened.

“I have heard your opinions,” she continued, “and I will take each one into account as I solidify our course of action. I swear this to you. Yet every moment we waste arguing here is a moment the Raider King gains to his advantage. Inaction will only dig our graves deeper. We must move now, we must move quickly.”

She motioned to Vizer Sotar at her right, and his broad shoulders stretched broader. “Sotar here has agreed to spare his family’s personal guard to help protect the northern provinces. If any of you are also willing to spare your guards, I promise that they will be put to good use.”

No one raised their hand, but Vivia hadn’t expected them to. They would come to her after, once they had conferred with their families and evaluated what they prioritized most: personal safety or protection of the nation. Some would choose the former, some the latter—and Vivia could guess which vizers would choose which. She would not force them either way, for there were only two outcomes when soldiers were pressed into service: desertion or death. Vivia would not risk either.

She leaned onto the table and motioned to a map of the northern lands. Small markers had been laid out according to the detailed information Vivia now had from the watchtowers.

“He has Red Sails on foot.” She pointed to red tiles. “Baedyeds on horseback.” These were yellow. “And then a hundred other fringe groups, tribes, and witches that have banded together. They all have something to prove to the empires.”

“And they all want us dead,” Sotar murmured. It was as if a great sigh settled across the space at those words. Shoulders sank, foreheads pinched, and attention latched onto the map. Bit by bit, Vivia elaborated on her plan. She indicated where specific units would mobilize, where the Firewitched weapons she had stolen would be sent, and which roads would be used for supply chains.

Any questions raised during her explanation were civil, and all protests or counter-plans were offered in polite, if urgent, tones. The frantic mayhem from before was now a low-lying tension that trembled in the air. Threads unseen, but there all the same.

At the fourteenth chimes, the High Council finally dispersed. Purpose now marked each vizer’s movements as they left—Vivia just hoped it was to aid her in her strategy. She suspected that at least three of them still clung to arguments and plans of their own, but there was no time for her to fret over them. No time for her to even think.

“Vizer Sotar,” she called. He paused at the table’s end, and Vivia approached, smoothing at her coat front. “Have you—” Her voice cracked. She tried again. “Have you seen Stacia recently?”

His lips twisted down. “No. Should I have?”

And at those words, at that expression, Vivia’s stomach turned to stone. Her mask fell away, her breath hissed out. She had to rest a hand on the table; her shoulder suddenly ached.

“I haven’t seen her,” she said, her voice so distant. “She didn’t come to our morning briefing today, she hasn’t been at her apartment in … I don’t know how long, and she hasn’t been at the Sentries or barracks or anywhere. I’ve searched and searched. All I know is that she took our skiff, sailed out of Lovats yesterday, and no one has seen her since.”

Now Sotar leaned against the table. “A whole day. And you did not think to tell me sooner?”

“I’m so sorry.” Vivia shook her head. “The raiders.” She waved numbly at the table, but it was a poor excuse. She should have told him sooner. She should have reached out to him the instant Stix didn’t turn up. “I know you promised your guard,” she offered, “but I understand if you need them to find Stix—”