“I have them,” Vaness said, somehow as loud as the ship’s girl, though she did not shout. Somehow flat and detached, like the iron she controlled.
Vivia turned, briefly startled. She hadn’t realized the Empress had returned to the deck or that the woman stood only paces away, braced against the rail and watching the chase unfold.
Now her arms were rising, her face draining of blood as the two shots zoomed in. With a sharp gasp, she stopped both midflight …
Then let them fall into the sea. No sending them back. No using them against the enemy. Her arms dropped. She gripped at the rail, and Vivia knew instantly that such a display could not be repeated.
“And you’re worried I overdid myself?” Vivia hooked an arm behind the woman. “Get back to your quarters.”
Vaness resisted. “Who will stop the cannons?”
“No one, because in just a few moments, we won’t need to—”
“Cannon fire!”
“Shit.” Vivia lurched back to the rail; Vaness stumbled with her, and before Vivia could forcibly stop the Empress, Vaness had her arms high and magic out. Again, she halted the iron shot—three balls this time—but it was slower. Like trying to get a dog to change its course, they dragged to a halt. Then fell, one by one.
Vaness swayed, and again Vivia grabbed her. Rage licked up from her toes. Sharp and fueled by a hot sea. The Empress could barely stay upright. Her eyes were rolling, her posture wilting.
“Take her,” Vivia barked, pushing the woman onto a nearby sailor. Likely she’d get an earful later, but better that than a dead empress on her decks.
She didn’t wait to see what happened. As she’d said, it was only a little longer before the Iris was fully covered. She thrust her magic into the sea, her whole body swelling with power. Faster, she practically screamed at it. Almost there. The first of the rocky outcroppings hissed past, near enough for her to see the barnacles, near enough for her to see slick patches of algae.
Water sprayed against Vivia. Her waters, warm yet cooling. Powerful yet calm. She let her breath ease out and motioned at the Windwitches to do the same.
The sails slackened, and the sailors silenced. The wind-drum silenced too. The Iris was hidden, meaning now was the time for stealth, and tactics like the Foxes of old. “Keep your winds going,” Vivia ordered as she strode past the witches. “But lightly. Very lightly. And sailors, pick up the oars. From here until we lay anchor, your strength is our salvation.”
Her crew obeyed, launching for their stations along the main deck. With muffled attempts at quiet, they unlocked oars and gathered two by two against them.
Vivia reached the tiller, where Sotar stepped aside, fist to his heart. Respect in his eyes. Hell-waters, he looked like Stix. And hell-waters, Vivia missed her first mate. If Stix were here, then they’d already be at the Lonely Bastard. In fact, Stix would have capsized those blighted boats—or at least frozen the sea long enough to hold them back.
But Stix wasn’t here. And might never be here again.
With a sharp sawing of her hand, Vivia set the oarsmen to their grueling work. Wood scraped and water splashed. Muscles rippled and breaths panted, but no one slowed, no one spoke. Soon the Iris skated atop the choppy sea. They passed gaps in the rocks. Sometimes large enough for them to spot the warships. Sometimes large enough for them to be seen in turn and fired at. But always they were covered before any cannon could make contact.
The Lonely Bastard soon appeared, a wicked knife to pierce the sea. Behind it, hidden from view, was a narrow passage in the seaside cliffs. It had been years since Vivia had come to Nihar—a place that had never welcomed her. That had never felt like home. It had been Merik’s domain, not hers.
“Sonja!” Vivia lifted her voice to the crow’s nest, where the ship’s girl waited. The first words uttered since the oarsmen had begun to row. “Do you see the ships?”
“Hye,” the girl called back. “They’re almost through the rocks.”
And once they were fully through, the Iris would be visible. Vivia’s plan for hiding would be ruined. But they were so, so close. She wasn’t going to miss this chance. Oh, the Iris might scrape her hull. Holes might rip through. But if they could reach shore unseen, then the cost would be worth it. It had to be worth it.
“Faster,” she barked at her oarsmen. Then to the witches, “Raise winds.” And then to the water foaming against the planks, Carry us. Timing was key. This was a sharp turn, followed by an even sharper turn after that. Vivia’s strength against the tiller and her magic against the waves would be pushed to their limit.
Do not kill us all, Vaness had said, and Vivia almost laughed at that.
No, she did laugh. She couldn’t help it. The water loved this. Wild, stormy, untamed—the water was reckless decisions and impulsive actions. It was the reason Vivia had earned a reputation for the same fierceness and temper as the rest of the Nihars. People didn’t understand that it wasn’t her, but the waves. She was just a little fox letting power course through her in the name of what had to be done.
“To port!” she screamed as she pushed all of her being, all of her heart into the tiller and into waves. To port, to port. Everything tipped. The sky, so blue, rose up on the port side; the sea loomed in on the right. No oars moved, no sailors moved. Even the world held its breath, each drumbeat seeming twice as long.
Then the ship righted and the world righted too.
“Hold!” Black stone rushed in close. She shoved. With magic, with muscles. That narrow passage ahead—invisible if you didn’t know what you were looking for—was tighter than a needle’s eye.
“Row!”
The oarsmen obeyed. The Iris kicked forward, and Vivia gripped the tiller, gripped the waves.
They reached the gap in the rocks. A wave rocked against them—unexpected. Laughing. And the Iris lurched hard to starboard. Stone thundered against wood. Oars snapped and oarsmen dove sideways. But Vivia already had the tiller moving again, already had her own waves fighting back.
The ship veered. Then settled. Then slowed. No more rowing. No more winds. They were in the passage.
They were safe.
THIRTEEN
Iseult stared at Aeduan, shocked. Elated. Aeduan was here, somehow, and standing before her. A mere forty paces away with only lazy waters to separate them. Except that as she took two steps forward, Aeduan’s forehead pinched. His gaze swept up and down her. His body tensed with caution.
And a strange, heavy heat tunneled through Iseult’s chest. Yes, she had changed since she’d last seen him. She had entered Cartorra a Weaverwitch; she was leaving it a Puppeteer. But surely he would still know her?
“It’s … me,” she called. When he still looked confused, she added, “Iseult.”
And then it happened: Threads, clear blue with understanding, swept toward the sky. Iseult gasped. Rocked back a step, and even rubbed her eyes for good measure. Yet the Threads remained.
Which was wrong. Aeduan did not have Threads.
“No,” Iseult breathed. Then again: “No.” For it was not merely colors that dazzled her eyes and magic but shadows and shapes. Only once had Iseult seen such darkness on someone’s Threads: on Evrane, the woman who had saved her almost seven years ago. The monk who’d sworn to protect her and Safi.