Bloodwitch Page 21

And for the first time ever, Vivia watched the Empress of Marstok flush. Then, to Vivia’s even greater awe, the Empress’s grace briefly failed her. With an embarrassed, almost agitated speed, she snatched the sheepskin-wrapped graphite off the floor.

Her bracelets clanked, her cheeks burned brighter, and Vivia was forced to admit that Vaness might just be the most beautiful woman who had ever lived. It was almost … well, laughable that anyone could be that pretty.

Vaness regained her poise mere heartbeats later, bending over the table with the same air of purpose she always wore. “These pages are Wordwitched. When I write on one, like so…” She scribbled something and straightened.

“Now, look at your letter.”

Vivia did so, only to find her eyes immediately widening. This is my handwriting was written across the top in smooth, compact Nubrevnan letters.

“You may respond.” Vaness offered Vivia the pencil.

Vivia made no move to take it. “What,” she began slowly, “am I meant to do with this?”

“Respond.” She wagged the pencil at Vivia.

“Why?”

“I would have thought it obvious. You are a busy woman, I am a busy woman. With this, we can negotiate a treaty from afar. When we reach the end of the page, it will clear itself, and we may start our conversation anew.”

“How will I know it’s you?”

“Because that is my script. I can write several more sentences if that would help—”

“No.” Vivia laid the paper on the table. “I have no need for you or your … Or your…” Her eyes met Vaness’s.

And suddenly, just like that, Vivia was too tired to even go on.

Always, she played the part of anger. Always, she maintained the role of power and control, of impatient Nihar rage. Always, she stormed in, she stormed out. She yelled loudest, fought hardest, and kept others—be they friends, be they empires—at bay. Why, though? In all her years of doing this, of mimicking her father and wearing the mask of a bear, it had never served her well.

The High Council wouldn’t hold her coronation, Stix didn’t want to be near her, and scarcely seven hours ago, her father had stolen the triumph she had worked so hard to earn.

Now, the Empress of Marstok, with her eight million fancy titles, was offering Vivia a chance. Vivia, not her father. And fool though she was, Vivia had believed Vaness when the woman had said she was impressed by the Foxes.

No matter how Vivia looked at this, she could see no reason to refuse.

“All right.” The words fell from Vivia’s tongue like water from an ancient faucet: rusty and strained. “All right,” she tried again, less stilted, and this time forcing herself to nod. “Please write a few more words, and I will do the same.”

Vaness smiled. A real, rich thing that scrunched her eyes and relaxed the muscles in her jaw. Far too beautiful.

Several minutes passed with only the gentle scratch of the pencil to fill the air between them. Vivia watched as what Vaness wrote appeared in real time upon her paper.

This is my handwriting. I am Vaness, the only daughter of Rishra and Alalm and the Empress of Marstok. I look forward to negotiating with Nubrevna.

She passed the pencil off to Vivia. The sheepskin grip was warm to the touch. This is my handwriting, Vivia wrote. I am Vivia, the only daughter of Jana and Serafin, and the Queen-in-Waiting of Nubrevna. I hope you do not screw me over.

This earned her a chuckle, and as Vivia handed back the pencil, Vaness waved it aside. “Keep the pencil,” she urged. “I have others.”

“As do I.” Vivia set it on the table. “We are not that poor, Empress.”

Another chuckle, another smile, and moments later the meeting ended.

This time, when Vivia crossed the Empress’s quarters, the imperial wing, and finally departed the palace entirely, she found there was a different spring in her step. She wasn’t so foolish a little fox as to think that anything productive would come out of this talk, but maybe, just maybe, she could get away with a little hope.


FOURTEEN


It is overcast on the day the monster wakes up.

The boy and his black-furred terrier—a gift from his father six months ago, named Boots—play outside the family tent. Their tribe has set up camp in a hot corner of the Contested Lands.

Boots pants and pants, even though the sun hides behind grim clouds, so the boy takes him to the swampy river nearby. They will swim, he decides, and he tells himself it is for the dog’s sake that he wants to go.

Dogs do not sweat, his mother once told him. They cannot cool off as we do. The boy thinks he is being charitable, considering his dog’s comfort as he does. It will only be an exciting side benefit if he also happens to see the crocodiles in the water that Alma told him about.

For hours, he and Boots splash with the fat, slippery catfishes that make their home among the reeds. They hunt grasshoppers as big as the boy’s hands. He tries to catch them; he fails. He tries to teach Boots to catch them, but Boots only stirs up the water and frightens away the bugs.

The clouds part. The boy forgets entirely about crocodiles. Eventually, he hears his mother calling that it is time for supper. He tromps dutifully back to shore.

He is halfway there, the water barely to his thighs, when sunlight glints on two specks nearby. Then the reeds begin to move, and the boy realizes something approaches. Something larger than he is. Something that skates and slithers across the water as easily as the quicksilver in his mother’s timepiece.

Boots starts barking. That high-pitched yip his father says the boy ought never to ignore. The boy doesn’t ignore it. He also doesn’t move, though. There’s nowhere for him to go. The crocodile’s yellow scales coalesce within the reeds—sharper, sharper by the second. Directly between the boy and the shore.

Before he can formulate a scream, Boots lunges.

And the crocodile’s jaws snap. Boots yips. The crocodile spins.

Water churns, and Boots is trapped within the beast’s jaws. No barking now, only water, thrashing and wild.

Blood dyes the brown marsh red. So dark. So thick. Even the foam riled up by the attack is red, red, red.

And the sight of it does something to the boy. It pinches at the thumping in his chest. It sends cold walking down his spine. For some reason, his eyes feel hot, and his muscles feel strong. Even his lungs feel different—hollower and bigger than they did only a moment before.

He inhales.

And he smells … Freedom. Pure and rich and alive. And alongside the freedom is … Loyalty. Somehow, he knows this scent belongs to Boots. Just as he somehow knows the other scent—the freedom and the ancient, eternal hunger—belongs to the crocodile.

Without thinking, without even understanding what he does, the boy walks into the fray. His fingers graze the crocodile’s spinning scales. Water thunders around him.

Stop, he tells the beast. Stop.

And the crocodile stops.

Release Boots, he commands, and yet again, the creature obeys. Blood, so much blood—but the freedom and the loyalty somehow still burn strong.

Hold on, the boy tells Boots, and with a strength he didn’t know he had until right now, he scoops up his bloodied, whimpering best friend.

Then he aims for shore, and this time, he remembers how to scream.

* * *

When Iseult finally returned to the White Alder, a precious scene awaited her. Owl asleep on the bed, Aeduan asleep on the floor beside her—seated, his head lolled back on the mattress.

The evil Bloodwitch did not look so evil with sunset to warm his sleeping face. Even the demon-child looked sweet in this light. Neither awoke when Iseult crept in with her satchel full of supplies. Nor when she eased down the items and grabbed the pitcher beside the washbasin. Nor even when she left the room to fill said pitcher at the Waterwitched faucet at the end of the hall.

A man was already there, water splashing as he filled his room’s pitcher and three canteens. His bored Threads shifted to grassy interest at the sight of Iseult. He saw a feminine shape; he was keen. Iseult checked her hood, her sleeves, then she slouched as far back against the wall as she could without risking losing her place in line, should anyone else arrive.

This was a mistake. It only increased the man’s curiosity. It was so predictable: a man feeling entitled to a woman’s attention. He craned, he rocked, he stretched—all subtle at first, and all with the intent of peeking under her hood. He gave up on subtlety once he had finished getting water, and when he shuffled by, he darted in close, jutting his head low and peering straight into Iseult’s face.

The result was instant. Iron gray hostility hit his Threads. His face crumpled into a sneer. At least he was blessedly silent as he left, offering no slurs or threats. Yet Iseult didn’t like how she could still sense his Threads, even once he had entered his room—or how the two other sets of Threads with him shivered into aggressive hate. She did not bother filling her pitcher all the way before hurrying back to Aeduan and Owl. And once ensconced in their room again, she checked and double-checked the lock.

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