If I'd struck harder. Pulled more power through the Hellion,and faster. Drained the Enchanted in one go for a single attack. Could I have rid us of the Witch King for good?
Could I have saved Harfor and the others?
“It can’t be,” the steward hisses. His voice is quiet, but the room is quieter. “You weren’t on that ship. Say it.”
They know, just like I do, that my survival is impossible. And when someone does the impossible, it means they’re a witch. Usually.
“I’m not going to lie,” I tell him.
The steward turns in his seat. Brugias, standing next to him, bends over and the steward whispers something in his ear.
“We could say the witch must’ve done something to her,” I hear Brugias answer, though he’s trying to keep his voice quiet.
“That would still put her on the ship,” the steward whispers back.
“...After all the work he put in training her…” Brugias mutters. They don’t think I can hear them. I close my eyes and lean back in the chair. My head throbs.
It’s obvious what’s on their minds. Nobody, not even the War-Father's adopted daughter and champion knight, who wields enchantment as easily as breathing, could survive dragon fire, or the Wild Seas, or swim five hundred miles in two days to wash up back at home. But the witches, with their foul bonds to their familiars, are capable of impossible feats of magic.
I’m not a witch.
For a dizzying moment I remember being underwater, as the voice below the depths spoke directly to my mind. Pain pounds in my head. I might not remember my childhood, but the War-Father would never have taken me into his household if I weren’t human.
My eyes may look shockingly bright, but they don't burn with inner light like a witches’.
The Witch King’s eyes burn orange. I bet, if it weren’t for the magic shining through them, they’d be deep brown. But if you could strip a witch of magic, we wouldn’t have to kill them.
“Lady knight Caiteven,” the steward says, talking at a normalvolume again. My eyes crack back open. “You need to say you got off the ship. Perhaps you took ill?” he says that last bit almost hopefully. Nobody wants to anger the War-Father.
They all stare at me, their faces grim. They’re giving me a chance to lie.
And who could contradict me, if I did? Rampage is gone, sunk to the bottom of the depths, where reaper-fish will feast on the crew’s flesh. The Enchanted I woke died in horrible pain for nothing. And Harfor, she died without visiting all the imperial isles, like she was dreaming of.
I stare straight ahead as my throat goes tight. Tears prickle at my eyes, and then the feeling vanishes, and I’m left numb and empty in the fishing hut.
“Caiteven?” the steward prompts.
Even the Exalted must die, eventually, when their enchantments can no longer string their bones together. So what am I afraid of? The War-Father taught me to obey the Empire and its rules. To speak only in truths.
“I was on the ship,” I rasp. “I fought. I fell. I failed.”
“Dame, you understand…” Brugias says.
“It means a trial,” I say flatly. I’m probably going to die for this.
At least I’ll die with honor.
4
Two years later.
The only thing the storm washed in was the carcass of a rowboat.
I gather the easiest parts first, broken ribs and what might have been a bench, keeping to the tideline. The sea belches and slaps against the cracked black stones, shining damp in the gray light. Each piece of wood is disgustingly soaked. I throw them onto the rockfield behind me.
Malkin walks away along the shore, kicking at the rocks as she scans the ground for any other flotsam. If we don’t come back with more than this, the Governor will assume we’re lying, and didn’t do the work. Nevermind that the storms are unpredictable and the ocean is a bastard.
There’s a plank and a piece of netting stuck just past the tide, lodged between two of the black rocks. It's the only part of my find I haven't gathered yet. But even standing out on the low rocks, I can’t quite reach it. Not without touching the water.
