TWENTY

Merik had gone belowdecks to check on the domna. He didn’t like how he’d left her in the cabin. Her Threadsister was ill, and Merik understood how that could wrinkle a person’s disposition.

Whenever there were wrinkles, Merik had to smooth them out.

Besides, this was basically the only wrinkle he could fix at the moment. Vivia’s Voicewitch was hounding Hermin, demanding that Merik tell her where the Dalmotti trade ship was and refusing to back off until she had seen this new Hasstrel contract for herself.

Merik had lied—again—and claimed the trade ship was only half the distance it actually was, but he had a feeling Vivia was starting to catch on.

Before he could reach the passenger cabin, his aunt intercepted him at the bottom of the ladder. “We need to stop,” she declared, her face dark in the shadows but her silver hair glowing. “Iseult is too ill to survive much longer. What ports are near?”

“None that we can visit. We’re still in Dalmotti territory.” Merik tried to step onward.

Evrane cut him off, bristling. “What do you not understand about ‘too ill to survive’? This is nonnegotiable, Merik.”

“And this is not your ship to command.” Merik didn’t have the patience for this right now. “We stop when I say we stop, Aunt. Now stand aside so I can visit the domna.”

“She is not in the cabin.”

And just like that, the familiar pressure ignited beneath Merik’s skin. “Where,” he asked softly, “is she?”

“Topside, I assume.” Evrane flicked her wrists disinterestedly at the cargo space, as if to say, You do not see her here, do you?

“Yet,” Merik continued, his voice still dangerously low, “she was supposed to stay belowdecks. Why didn’t you keep her in the cabin?”

“Because that is not my responsibility.”

At those words, Merik’s temper fanned into flames. Evrane knew what was in the Hasstrel contract. She knew that Safiya had to stay belowdecks for safety reasons. A single drop of her blood could mark the end of the contract entirely.

And the thought of Safiya spilling blood … of her getting hurt …

He sprang up the ladder, his aunt’s words following him. “So you will let the girl die? You must take us ashore!”

Merik ignored his aunt. He would find Safiya and explain to her—gently, of course, and not with this fire controlling him—that she absolutely could not leave her cabin. She would listen, obey, and then Merik could relax again. No more wrinkles in sight.

Merik barked at his men to stand aside as he aimed for the quarterdeck. His magic wanted release, and try as he might, he was helpless to smooth it away.

“Admiral!”

Merik ground to a halt. That was Safiya’s voice. Behind him.

He twisted back slowly, his chest heaving now. His winds throbbing inside, worse than before. Worse than they’d been in years. His control was slipping away.

It shattered completely when he saw her standing at the center of the deck, a cutlass in hand.

“You will take us ashore.” Her tone was cold and exact. “You will take us now.”

“You disobeyed orders,” Merik said, inwardly cursing. What happened to a gentle explanation? “I told you my word is law, I told you to stay belowdecks.”

Her only response was to raise the cutlass high. “If Iseult needs a Firewitch healer, then we will go ashore.”

Distantly, Merik realized that the wind-drum had stopped pounding. That the ship had started to rock without the Tidewitches to keep it calm.

Merik swept out his own cutlass. “Go belowdecks, Domna. Now.”

That made Safiya smile—a vicious thing—and she stepped calmly up to Merik’s blade. Then she rolled back her shoulders and pushed her chest against the tip. Her shirt dimpled in. “Get a Firewitch healer, Admiral, or I will make sure your contract is ruined.”

Heat pounded behind Merik’s eyeballs. Safiya would open her own skin. She would spill blood, and Merik would lose everything he’d worked for. Somehow, she knew what the contract said, and she was testing him.

So Merik lowered his blade.

Then he gave into his rage. The winds swept free, blasted over his sailors. “Kullen! Take her air!”

Safiya’s face drained of blood. “Coward!” she snarled. “Selfish coward!” She attacked.

Merik barely had enough time to launch himself backward toward his cabin before her blade slashed the air where his head had been.

He flew toward the quarterdeck, the word “coward” hitting his ears from all directions. It writhed from his sailors’ lips, and as he lowered to the deck, he found Kullen’s eyes in the crowd. The first mate shook his head—a sign that he would not help this time.

Then Merik understood why: his father’s sailors only saw a woman—a Cartorran woman at that—who’d called their new admiral a “coward.” If Vivia or Serafin were leading this ship, then justice would be swift, thorough, and violent. These men expected that. Demanded it.

And it wasn’t as if they knew about the Hasstrel contract.

Which meant Merik was going to have to fight Safiya fon Hasstrel, and he would have to do it without spilling her blood.

Merik’s feet touched down, and there was the girl, hurtling toward him with her braid flying behind. Sailors dispersed from her path, their attention on what would come next.

Then Safiya was before him, cutlass arching out. Merik met it with his own. Sparks blazed along the steel—this girl was strong. He needed to get the blades out of this fight as soon as possible. Even the slightest nick could be too much for the contract.