Each imbecile Vivia passed, though, was suddenly quite interested in the state of his cuffs. Or his fingernails. Or some stain on the wall that only he could see.
Until Vivia was back at the head of the table. Then, it would seem, tiny Vizer Eltar suddenly found his testicles, for he piped up with, “At least if our people are with the Purists, it is fewer mouths to feed at the prince’s funeral.”
For a moment, those words knocked around in Vivia’s skull. Prince. Funeral. They were a meaningless descant to the beat that thumped in her ribcage.
Then the words settled like sand in a tidal pool, and Vivia gripped the nearest map. Crushed it in a white-knuckled grip. This feeling she did not have to fake, for only a week ago she’d argued against that funeral with every breath inside her. A waste of expenses, she’d shouted. A waste of precious materials, people, and time! The dam needs fixing and the people need feeding!
The Council hadn’t listened, though. Nor had her father. Of course not. Merik had been everyone’s favorite. He’d had the Nihar rage, and he’d had the good sense to be born a man. Easy, easy—that was how Merik’s life had always been. No resistance. Whatever he’d wanted, he’d gotten.
Even his death had been easy.
Before Vivia could offer more choice words on the funeral, Linday chimed in, “You make an excellent point, Eltar. We must properly honor the dead, and we cannot do so with this many people in the city.”
Hagfishes claim him. Now that Vivia considered it—really considered it—castration was much too good for Linday. He deserved to be drawn, quartered, eviscerated, and then burned until none of his rotten core remained.
“Besides,” he went on, more animated now that he held the room’s attention, “all of our families will soon arrive for the funeral. We should not have to skim our own portions to feed a city overrun—”
Instantly. Mercilessly.
Water erupted from the pitcher at the center of the table. Thirteen perfect coils of it, one for each vizer—even Vizer Sotar.
“Enough.” Vivia’s voice was low, and the water locked in place mere inches from each man’s throat. Half had their eyes squeezed shut, and the other half were twisting away. “No Purists. Ever. Food is on the way, and we will continue to allow Nubrevnans into the city.
“And,” she added, sliding her water whip a smidgen closer to the vizers, “you all could stand to lose a bit of fat from your bellies, so as of tomorrow, your rations will be reduced by another quarter. If your families are hungry, then tell them to stay home.” She stepped away from the table, pivoting as if she were about to leave …
But she hesitated. What was it her father always did so well? Ah, yes. The terrifying Nihar smile. She mimicked it now, looking back at the table. At the fools who inhabited it. Then she let the water flow, with perfect control, back into the pitcher.
It was a reminder that she was not merely a princess, nor merely a ship’s captain. Nor merely the rightful queen of Nubrevna—if the Council would just agree to hand over the crown.
Vivia Nihar was a Tidewitch, and a blighted powerful one at that. She could drown them all with a thought, so let Serrit Linday and the rest of the High Council try to cross her again.
No more stalemates because they thought her unqualified and unhinged.
No more tiptoeing around a room because women oughtn’t to run. To shout. To rule.
And above all: no more blighted regrets.
FIVE
The Bloodwitch named Aeduan hated Purists.
Not as much as he hated the Marstoks, nor as much as he hated the Cartorrans, but almost as much.
It was their certainty that angered him. Their condescending, unwavering certainty that anyone with magic should burn in hell-fire.
At least, he thought as he approached their grimy compound on the easternmost edge of the Nubrevnan border, they treat all men with equal venom. Usually shouts of Repent, demon! Pay for your sins! were reserved for Aeduan exclusively. It was nice to have the hate spread around.
Aeduan was late coming to the compound. He should have met his father’s contact two days before, but instead he’d run all across Nubrevna, hunting a ghost for two weeks.
Now here he was, hundreds of miles away and facing crooked pine walls perched atop a hill’s limestone edge. The compound looked as sick and barren as the land on which it rested, and Aeduan passed splintered trunks and ashy soil before he reached the two men guarding the tall entry gate.
Though both men wore matching brown Purist robes, neither had the look of an anti-magic cultist—nor the scent of one on his blood. Battlefields and tar. These were men of violence, and they proved it when they lifted crossbows at Aeduan’s approach.
“I seek one of your priests,” Aeduan called to them. He lifted his hands.
“Which priest?” asked the skinnier of the two, his skin Marstoki brown.
“A man named Corlant.” Aeduan slowed so the guards could see that his hands were empty—for of course, his knives were hidden within his buttoned-up coat. “He should have recently arrived.”
“Your name?” asked the second man, his skin black as pitch and his accent Southlander—though which nation, Aeduan couldn’t guess.
Upon giving his name, both men lowered their crossbows. The Southlander led the way through a side door near the main gate.
The interior of the compound was even grimier than the outside, all churned mud and clucking chickens and crude huts that would topple beneath a determined breeze. A string of men and women leaned against the main wall, each with baskets or empty sacks, waiting to enter the nearest hut. None spoke.