Page 157 of Witchlight
That journey led them across the ballroom, onto a patio, into the ballroom again, and eventually behind the columns to a Wordwitch named Mathew fitz Leaux, who stood with another advisor for the Cartorran Imperial Regent.
Sky instantly began salivating. “He’s a Wordwitch. That’s what that mark on his hand means.”
Merik snorted. He knew blighted well what that Witchmark meant, and he was more than a little relieved to see it there. Merik had already drained his entire socializing quota for the evening; he didn’t think he could manage another search for a translator.
“Of course I can help you and this Northman,” Mathew told Merik in fluid Cartorran. Then, with no effort at all, he slipped into Arithuanian and said to Sky: “Or better yet, I can teach your advisor here how to do it for herself. Would you like that, Skyvenjetsa? To see the words hovering right before you, even though you’ve never encountered them before?”
“Gods, yes,” Sky breathed with delight. “I would love that, sir.”
“Excellent. Then let us take a turn about the room, so I may show you some basics.” His gaze slid back to Merik; his words shifted to Nubrevnan. “If that is all right with your minister, of course.”
Sky flung Merik a pleading glance.
“Go on.” Merik laughed. “Just please remember those manners we practiced last week, hye?”
Sky bowed, fist to heart, and with an almost mocking grin, she answered: “Hye, sir. Of course, sir. Right away, sir. I would never forget, sir.”
Which prompted Mathew to grin Merik’s way. “Oh, do not worry, Minister.” He winked. “I have dealt with far less polite pupils than she.”
Pupils?Merik thought as Mathew whisked Sky away.When did we say she was your pupil?But Merik couldn’t chase after to ask—not without abandoning the second Cartorran advisor and revealing poor manners of his own.
Guildmaster Alix smiled at Merik, as if knowing what Merik was thinking. “This is quality needlework, Minister.” He gestured to the complex lines sewn onto Merik’s cuffs. “And such shimmer on that silver thread—it must have cost a fortune.”
“Hye, Guildmaster, it did.” Merik bowed his head. “Except… that is not your title anymore, is it?”
The man’s smile spread wider. “No, you’re right. I am Guildmaster no longer. My time masquerading as a tailor came to an end shortly after I met you at the last Truce Summit. Not that I mind being an Imperial Regent’s advisor now. It is…” A thoughtful pause. Then a twirl of his finely boned hand where a Witchmark used to grace it—but where now there was only pale flesh. “It is much easier to be oneself than to hide, would you not agree?”
Merik’s gaze sharpened. The question was clearly pronged on purpose, given that it certainlyappearedas if Merik was hiding behind this column while all the monarchs, Guildmasters, nobility, merchants, and powerful players of the Witchlands spun and danced, chatted and colluded beyond.
But before Merik could respond as pointedly in kind—I am here because you and Mathew fitz Leaux were hiding before me—the former Silk Guildmaster bowed. It was a respectful bow, not mocking as his words might have been. And in seconds, he and his own beautifully tailored clothes had swished away.
Leaving Merik to tug at his collar and frown at the crowded space beyond the column. The air at the heart of the ballroom was quickly turning stuffy. The breeze slipping in through the open glass doors was too sticky to help. Merik should go back out there. He should talk to Vivia, then track down the Northman again—whose name Merik still hadn’t sorted out (there were a lot of syllables involved)—and do his best to endure the rest of this night without letting the heat and the crowds get to him.
“Oh, who are you fooling?” he muttered, turning his attention to his cuffs. The truth was that hehadfled behind this column, and only random chance had placed a Wordwitch back here too.
“Quite the show, isn’t it?” a voice asked.
Merik spun about, only to discover the shadows he’d claimed were changing shape before his eyes. One dark corner in particular was now coalescing into a woman dressed in white—a woman who absolutely had not been there several moments ago.
Safi grinned. “Sorry to sneak up on you. Don’t be mad at Alix for hiding me. I didn’t want to talk to anyone before I could find you. And gods, it took you solongto finally make it back here. I was on the verge of sending Alix to track you down.”
Merik’s mouth hung open like a fish. He knew it did, but he couldn’t seem to reel it shut. All he could do was take in the workmanlike cut of Safi’s gown. The silken gray breeches that slid out from a knee-length skirt. The fine black boots that reached to her mid-calf. She looked dressed for a fight, not a party.
“I… I have been trying to find you for weeks,” Merik sputtered at last. “I sent letters and spies and even Aurora, but I heard nothing. Where have you been?”
Safi had the decency to wince. “I’m sorry. Ididsend a letter.”
“Hye, and all it said was,Thank you for saving me. Twice. Yours, Safi.”
Her wince melted away, a familiar defiance flashing in her storm-blue eyes. “Was that not enough?”
Merik scoffed. “No,Domna,it was not enough. It sounded so final, I thought I’d never see you again.”
“Why? Did my uncle not explain our plans at the Summit lunch today? How the mantle of the Cahr Awen will now be an apprenticed position that ensures magic is never again abused by humanity?” She tapped impatiently at the symbols on her bodice. “I’m wearing this ridiculous outfit to make the point.”
“Your uncle explained everything.” A fresh surge of temper sparked inside Merik’s chest. “But that still left me with weeks of wondering.”
A capitulating grunt. Then Safi sashayed a step closer. Another step and another until she was right up to Merik and could flick lazily at one of his many absurd buttons. Her hands, Merik noted, were scarred in the same way that his face and chest were. But Safi’s were newer scars, still red and angry where his had begun to haze.
