Bloodwitch (The Witchlands, #3)

All these years, Vivia had thought that she needed to be stronger than her mother, that she needed to fight the darkness to wear the crown. But that was wrong; that was her father speaking.

Jana had been strong—stronger than Serafin. Stronger than anyone realized, for she had lived with shadows every day and still ruled, still guided, still loved. Rather than nurture that strength, though, Serafin had nurtured the shadows. He had undermined and manipulated, just as he undermined and manipulated Vivia now.

For hye, Vivia had shadows inside her too, but they were not like Jana’s. These were all her own, as unique as the foxfire arrangements that glowed beneath the city. And twenty-three years of living with them had made Vivia stronger than anyone realized.

Stronger than Serafin realized.

Only two weeks ago, he had promised, Be the queen they need and soon a true crown will follow. But now Vivia saw he’d never meant those words. He had betrayed her. He had gone behind her back and stolen the power she had worked so hard to earn and worked so hard to use with wisdom and compassion.

Yet she did not need a crown to protect Nubrevna from the Raider King. She could be the queen they needed, with or without one. Just as she could be the queen they needed, even if madness thrummed in her veins—or perhaps because madness thrummed in her veins.

No more backstabbing and mind games, no more seeking approval from people who thought her unqualified or unhinged. No more tiptoeing around a room because women oughtn’t to run, to shout, to rule.

And above all: no more regrets.

Vivia was ready to be Queen.





FORTY


Merik awoke in the night to Esme’s voice. She spoke to someone he could not see, and twice, he thought he heard Iseult, where are you? I cannot find you. Iseult?

But it might have been a dream. Waking and nightmare—there was no separating the two. Dancing skeletons and moonlight on a magic pool. Armies of shadow and knives through the heart. They all smeared together on a canvas.

It was the cold that eventually woke Merik. Ice had spindled into his bones while he slept, and each breath felt thin and sharp. Shivering, he opened his eyes.

“Hello, Threadbrother,” crooned a familiar voice. “Happy to see me?”

Merik blinked—then blinked again, until Kullen came into sharp focus before him. He leaned against the wall, arms folded over his wide chest and a foot hooked behind his ankle. His right ear was mangled and half missing, black blood clotted at the edges. Merik felt no satisfaction at his handiwork.

Frost laced the stones around Kullen, swelling and shrinking in time to his breath. Esme was nowhere to be seen. “You don’t look so good,” the Fury said.

Merik didn’t feel so good, but he would not give Kullen the satis faction of hearing that. He just dragged himself into a groggy sitting position and examined the mud coating his boots, the loose spot where his breeches had come untucked.

The old Merik would have fixed that the instant he saw it. Wherever there were wrinkles, he liked to smooth them out. Now, Merik couldn’t be bothered. His best friend was so near in body, but in mind, he was a thousand thousand leagues away.

For weeks, Merik had wondered if scar tissue would ever grow atop his heart. It was bad enough to lose his best friend to cleaving. Then, he’d had to learn his Threadbrother had also become a monster. The Fury.

Now he knew this wound would stay open and raw forever. Merik missed Kullen. He missed his steadiness, constant as the tide to the sea. He missed Kullen’s awkward grin, and the dry, sarcastic jokes he always cracked. Above all, he missed knowing there was at least one person in the world who understood him, and one person he understood in return.

But Merik did not understand the Fury. He did not know who that creature was, how he had claimed Kullen’s mind and body, or how a Threadbond had saved Merik’s life during the Jana’s explosion. Esme’s magic was beyond his ken; the Fury’s magic even more so.

There was one thing Merik did know, though: if a Northman could return from cleaving, then so could he and Kullen. He had to cling to that hope. He had to believe it could be true.

Kullen laughed, a harsh, crowing sound that chased away Merik’s thoughts. “I must admit, Merik, it amuses me to see you this way, after all those people you put in the irons. How many was it, do you think?” He started ticking off fingers, but quickly gave up and shrugged. “The list is too long to even remember. Discipline, you always called it, but tell me true: you enjoyed punishing the fools, didn’t you? You liked watching them writhe.”

Merik’s teeth ground, but he held his tongue. Even as Kullen pushed off the wall and sauntered closer. Even as ice crackled his way and Kullen declared, “I certainly enjoy watching you writhe. Reduced to the same fate you once doled out. How does the old saying go? You know, the one your aunt always used to say.” He twirled a hand in the air. “Whatever you have done will come back to you tenfold, and it will haunt you until you make amends. Because the Fury never forgets, Merik.” Kullen sank to a squat, a single pace away. “I never forget.”

Merik drew in a frozen breath, but still he did not lift his gaze to Kullen’s.

“No words for your Threadbrother? Come now. I only want to help you, Merik. I only want to free you. Kings should not be in chains.”

At those words, Merik finally looked up. “I am no king.”

The air warmed; Kullen smiled. “You could be, though. You should be, in fact—and trust me when I say that I know these sorts of things.” Hands braced on his knees, he pushed back to his feet. “You know, all I have to do is say the word, and the Puppeteer will let you go. Just one little word.”

“Then say it.”

“You must first agree to join me.”

“Fine.” Merik bounced a shoulder. His chains clinked. “I agree to join you. Now let me go.”

A laugh split Kullen’s lips. The air abruptly turned to sweltering. “Very clever, but you must know I cannot trust you so easily.” He wagged a finger Merik’s way. “You have not been a loyal Threadbrother, and there is too much at stake to risk another betrayal.”

“Then let me prove myself.” The words surprised Merik as much as they seemed to surprise Kullen. Merik didn’t know where they’d come from, but the quickly gathering heat in the room suggested that they had been the right ones.

Kullen’s eyes thinned with thought. “And how would you do that, Merik? How can you possibly prove to me you are a loyal friend?”

Merik’s pulse quickened. His impulsive words had earned him a chance—a good one that he couldn’t squander. Move with the wind, Master Huntsman Yoris had taught him—and taught Kullen too. Move with the stream. Too fast, Prince, and your prey will sense you long before you reach ’em.

And as Aunt Evrane had also trained him, Information is better earned through conversation.