“Or maybe,” Hermin went on, “my magic is the problem. Maybe I’m too old.”
Merik’s frown deepened to a scowl. Age didn’t diminish a witchery. Hermin knew it and Merik knew it too, so if the old man was trying to soften what was obviously going on—that the Voicewitches in Lovats were ignoring Merik’s calls—then there was no point.
If Vivia’s words turned out to be true and Merik’s father really had ordered the Aetherwitched miniature, then Merik would deal with that later. For now, he just had to get his men ashore and away from Marstoki flames.
He glanced at the leg irons—at Safiya—only to find Ryber crouched beside her.
“Take the helm,” Merik snarled, already stalking for the companionway. Then he lifted his voice in a roar. “Ryber! Get away from there!”
The ship’s girl jerked to attention, yet Safiya kept her head bowed as Merik slammed onto the main deck and advanced on Ryber. “You,” he growled, “should be swabbing.” He thrust a finger at the nearby new recruit, who diligently scrubbed water off the deck. “That is your duty, Ryber, so if I catch you shirking again, you’ll be whipped. Understand?”
The domna lifted her chin. “I called Ryber over here,” she rasped.
“Someone needs to check on Iseult,” Evrane inserted, her voice hoarse. “The girl is still healing.”
Merik ignored Safiya and Evrane, his fingers reaching for his collar. “Swab the deck,” he told Ryber. “Now.”
Ryber saluted, and once she was out of sight, Merik wheeled toward the domna, ready to shout that she leave his sailors alone.
But her head was tipped back, her eyes closed and mouth open. Even with only lantern light to shine on her skin, there was no missing the wobble in her throat. The flick of her tongue.
She was drinking the rain.
Merik’s rage vanished. Dread swallowed it whole, and he tore out the Hasstrel agreement. The signatures were still there.
Of course they are, he thought, annoyed with himself for caring. Safiya isn’t bleeding. Yet his fingers trembled—and distantly he wondered why that might be. Perhaps this fear had nothing to do with the contract.
That thought tickled at the base of his skull—and he hastily tamped it down, buried it deep, and returned the contract to his pocket. Then he dug out the leg-iron keys. Whatever the reason for this hollow fear, Merik would dwell on it later—along with his unshakable worry over King Serafin, Vivia, and Kullen.
Right now, though, this punishment had to end.
Crouching beside Safiya, Merik unlocked the first fetter. She seemed wearily surprised. “I am free?”
“Free to stay locked in your cabin.” Merik undid the remaining irons and then stood. “Get up.”
She drew in her soaked legs and tried to rise. The ship rocked. She toppled forward.
Merik lunged for her.
Her skin was slick and cold, her body shivering. With a grunt, he hefted her up, cradled her close. His men watched on, and Merik didn’t miss the nod of approval from Hermin as he strode toward the ladder belowdecks.
The domna had served her punishment; the men respected that.
Safiya’s face was near, her eyelashes thick and wet. Her damp clothes rubbed against Merik’s skin, and her breaths were shallow. Merik firmly ignored it all, focusing on getting one foot in front of the next until at last he pushed into the darkened passenger room. Iseult slept, shuddering on her pallet.
“Iz,” Safiya murmured, shifting in Merik’s arms and straining for her Threadsister. Merik carried her to the pallet, bent slightly, and then dropped her. She fell beside Iseult, who shook awake.
As Iseult scrambled to help Safiya, Merik whirled about and left the room, telling himself that Safiya was taken care of. That he wouldn’t think of her now. That he wouldn’t think of her ever again.
Yet when at last he reached the tiller of his father’s ship and caught sight of the Lonely Bastard piercing the horizon ahead, his arms were still warm—his neck still humming from Safiya’s grip.
*
Before Safi had returned, Iseult had been trapped in her nightmares again …
Sever, sever, twist and sever.
Fingers tore at Iseult. Yanked at her hair, her dress, her flesh.
Threads that break, Threads that die!
An arrow ripped through her arm; pain exploded through her entire being. And magic, magic—black, festering magic—
“Nasty dream you’re having.” The shadow’s voice jolted Iseult from the nightmare.
“You tremble and quake so much today,” the shadow continued, a syrup on its voice that was overly gleeful. “What upsets you? It wasn’t just the dream—you have that one all the time.”
Iseult tried to turn away, but every direction she shifted, the shadow followed. Every kick or mental thrust, the shadow avoided. Every desperate retreat, the shadow dug its talons in deeper.