Safi wagged her head slowly. “It’s … an incredible coincidence?”
“Not coincidence, Domna, but Lady Fate at work. Do you know ‘Eridysi’s Lament’?”
“You mean the song that drunken sailors sing?”
Evrane chuckled softly. “That is the one, though it is actually part of a much longer poem. An epic, really, that the Carawen monks believe to be…” She paused, her gaze unfocusing as if she searched for the right word. “A foretelling,” she finally said with a nod, “for Eridysi was a Sightwitch, you see, and many of her visions eventually came to pass.
“Ever since I joined the Monastery, I have felt, Domna, that I was part of that Lament.”
Safi turned a skeptical eye on Evrane. From what she knew of the song’s lyrics, it was all about betrayel, death, and eternal loss. Hardly the sort of thing one would want to be real—much less a prophecy of one’s own personal path.
Yet when Evrane spoke again, it was not of Lady Fate or foretellings, and her attention had returned to Iseult’s delicate face. “Iseult is very sick,” she murmured, “but I swear by the Origin Wells that she will not die. I will die before I let that happen.”
Those words shook through Safi, resonating with such intense truth that Safi could only nod in return. For she would do the same for Iseult, just as she knew Iseult would always do for her.
*
Merik stared at the table of charts before him—at the Aetherwitched miniature Vivia had procured. Kullen leaned against the wall nearby, stiff and expressionless. The cold in the air was the only sign of his anxiety.
Sunlight peeked through the clouds, and the Jana dipped and rose with the ocean’s roll. On the map, the miniature Jana cruised smoothly onward … But not the Dalmotti trade ship. It had slowed significantly and would soon reach the exact place Merik had told Vivia it would be—and it would arrive at the exact moment he’d told her as well.
Merik’s lies were becoming truth right before his eyes.
He supposed he could try to stop his sister with some new tale about the trade ship abruptly changing course … But he doubted she would believe him. In all likelihood, she was already in position, waiting for her unsuspecting prey to sail past.
“I have dug us a deep grave,” Merik said, voice rough.
“But you’ll dig us back out again.” Kullen spread his hands. “You always do.”
Merik tugged at his collar. “I was careless. Blinded by my excitement over a thrice-damned contract, and now…” He exhaled sharply and turned to Kullen. “Now I need to know if you can do what needs doing.”
“If you mean,” Kullen said impatiently, “how are my lungs? Then they are perfectly fine.” The temperature dropped further; snow flickered around Kullen’s head. “I’ve had no issues in weeks. So I promise”—Kullen placed a fist over his heart—“that I can fly to Vivia’s ship and keep her from piracy. At least until you arrive.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me.” Kullen shook his head. “It is sheer luck that we are here and not in Ve?aza City. If we were still on the other side of the sea, then we wouldn’t be able to intervene at all.” A pause. Then the air warmed slightly. “There is something else we should discuss before I go.”
Merik didn’t like the sound of that.
“The ’Matsi girl belowdecks,” Kullen went on. “Do you have a plan for her?”
Merik inhaled wearily and checked his shirt—still tucked in. “I’m working on it, Kullen. I won’t let her die, all right? But the Jana and our people must come first.”
Kullen nodded, seemingly satisfied. “Then I will do what needs doing.”
“As will I,” Merik said. “Now gather the crew and summon the Tidewitches. It’s time to haul wind.”
TWENTY-THREE
It was nearing sunset, and Evrane had departed to find food, leaving Safi to contemplate Iseult and Lady Fate all alone. Surely the odds of Iseult encountering the same monk who’d helped her were high—after all, how many Carawen monks could there possibly be on the continent?
And surely this reunion was more akin to chance and probability—like Ryber drawing the Paladin of Foxes from the taro deck—than it was to some ancient poem steering the monk’s life.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, Safi’s thoughts scattered. The cabin door creaked open to reveal Merik, a wooden bowl in hand.
Her lips curled back. “Come to fight me again?” It was a churlish comment, but Safi couldn’t bring herself to care.
“Should I?” He strode into the cabin and toed the door shut. “You don’t seem to be misbehaving.”
“I’m not,” she grumbled—and it was true. Despite wanting to snarl and shout and make him regret ever puting iron against her skin, she wasn’t stupid enough to waste the energy. Now, more than ever, she needed a plan.
“Good.” Merik marched over and set the bowl within grabbing distance—though he wisely stayed back.