Sparks ignited in his chest. “Never,” he growled, “question my desire to feed Nubrevna.”
“You claim you want it, yet when I give you a way to gather food—a way to teach the empires a lesson—you don’t jump at the chance.”
“Because what you propose is piracy.” Merik found it hard to look at Hermin as the Voicewitch continued to croon Vivia’s words.
“What I propose is evening the odds. And may I remind you, Merry, that unlike you, I’ve attended summit meetings before. I’ve seen how the empires crush us beneath their heels. This Aetherwitched miniature is a means of fighting back. All you have to do is tell me when the trade ship reaches the Nubrevnan coast, and then I’ll do all the dirty work.”
All the killing, you mean. It took every piece of Merik’s fragile self-control not to shout that at Vivia … But there was no point. Not when two Voicewitches and a hundred leagues stood between them.
He rolled his shoulders once. Twice. “What,” he finally continued, “does Father say about this?”
“Nothing.” Hermin drawled that word exactly as Vivia would. “Father is on the verge of death, and he stays as silent as when you left. Why he roused himself to name you as envoy and admiral, I’ll never understand … Yet it seems to be working in our favor, for we have an opportunity here, Merry.”
“One that fits very neatly into your strategy for an empire of your own, you mean.”
A pause. “Justice must be served, little brother.” An edge coated Vivia’s words now. “Or have you forgotten what the empires did to our home? The Great War ended for them, but not for us. The least we can do is pay back the empires in kind—starting with a bit of noble piracy.”
At those words, the heat in Merik’s chest lanced outward. Coiled into his fists. Were he with Vivia, he would let this storm loose—after all, she had the same rage simmering in her veins.
When Merik was a boy, his father had been certain that Merik was a powerful witch like his sister, that Merik’s tantrums had been manifestations of a great power within. So at seven years old, King Serafin had forced Merik into the Witchery Examination.
Yet Merik’s tantrums hadn’t been a sign of power at all. Merik had barely been deemed strong enough for a Witchmark, and King Serafin had barely been able to hide his disgust in front of the Examination Board.
That same morning, on the carriage ride back to the royal palace and with Merik’s new diamond tattoo burning on the back of his hand, Merik had learned in sharp, unyielding detail how deep his father’s distaste ran. How a weak prince served no purpose to his family. Merik would be joining his aunt, the Nihar outcast, on the family lands in the southwest.
“You forget,” Hermin said, still articulating Vivia, “who will lead when Father dies. You may have authority right now, but you are only a temporary admiral. I will be queen and admiral when the watery sleep finally claims Father.”
“I know what you will be,” Merik said softly, his anger falling back in the face of cold fear.
Vivia as queen. Vivia as admiral. Vivia sending Nubrevnans like lambs to the slaughter. The farmers and the soldiers, the merchants and the miners, the shepherds and the bakers—they would die on Cartorran swords or in Marstoki flames. All while Vivia watched on.
And Merik’s one solution—rebuilding trade and proving to Vivia that there were peaceful ways to keep Nubrevnans fed … That plan had failed.
The worst of it, though, was that even if he refused to help Vivia in this piracy endeavor, Merik knew she would find another way. Somehow, she would hoist the Fox flag—and somehow, she would condemn all of their homeland to Noden’s Hell.
In the momentary pause while Merik struggled for some solution out of this nightmare, a knock sounded at the cabin door.
Ryber, the ship’s girl and Kullen’s Heart-Thread, poked her head in. “Admiral? I’m sorry to interrupt, sir, but it’s urgent. There’s a man here to see you. He says his name is fon…” Her dark face scrunched up. “Fon Hasstrel—that was it. From Cartorra. And he wants to discuss possible trade with you.”
Merik felt his jaw drop. Trade … with Cartorra. It seemed impossible, yet Ryber’s earnest expression wasn’t changing.
Noden Himself was interfering on Merik’s behalf—and He did so right when Merik needed it most.
Merik wouldn’t ignore a gift like that, so he rounded back to Hermin. “Vivia,” he barked, “I’ll help you, but on one condition.”
“I’m listening.”
“If I can negotiate a single line of trade for Nubrevna, then you’ll stop your piracy. Immediately.”
A pause. Then a slow, “Perhaps, Merry. If you do somehow establish trade, I’ll … consider lowering the Fox flag. Now tell me: Where is the Dalmotti miniature right now?”