Eron stopped several paces away and scrubbed at the top of his head. It left his hair at all angles. “By the Twelve,” he drawled, “why are you so pale? You look like the Void got you.” Eron lifted his chin—and Safi noticed just the slightest wavering in his posture. “You must be nervous about the ball tonight.”
“As are you,” she said. “Why else would you be this drunk before dinner?”
Eron’s lips eased into a smile—a surprisingly alert smile. “There’s the niece I remember.” He crossed to the window, fixed his gaze outside, and set to toying with a thin gold necklace he always wore.
Safi bit her lip, hating that—as usual—a hole was opening in her chest at the sight of Uncle Eron. Though her blood ran with the same Hasstrel blue as his, she and her uncle were strangers.
And when Eron was drunk—which he was more often than he was not—then Safi’s witchery sensed nothing. No truth, no lies, no reaction whatsoever—as if whatever person he might be was washed away once the wine started flowing.
There had been, and always would be, a wall of stone and silence between them.
Leveling her shoulders, Safi strode to Eron’s side. “So why am I here, Uncle? Mathew said you plan to interfere with the Great War. How exactly do you intend to do that?”
A gruff laugh from Eron. “So Mathew let that slip, did he?”
“Do you need to use my witchery?” Safi pressed. “Is that what this is about? Some drunken scheme to reclaim your Hell-Bard honor—”
“No.” The word snapped out—strong. Unyielding. “This is not a drunken scheme, Safiya. Far from it.” Eron splayed his hands on the glass, and the old burn scars on his fingers and knuckles stretched taut.
Safi hated those scars. She’d stared at the white pocks a million times growing up. Wrapped around a wine jug or pinching a whore’s bottom. Those scars were all Safi really knew of her uncle—the only glimpse she’d had into his past—and whenever she saw them, she couldn’t help but fear that this was the future awaiting her; an insatiable thirst for what could never be.
Eron wanted his honor.
Safi wanted her freedom.
Freedom from her title and her uncle and the frozen, frozen Hasstrel halls. Freedom from the fear of Hell-Bards and beheadings. Freedom from her witchery and the entire Empire of Cartorra.
“You have no idea what war is like,” Eron said, his tone hazy as if his mind also drifted across the old scars. “Armies razing villages, fleets sinking ships, witches igniting you with a single thought. Everything you love gets taken away, Safiya … and slaughtered. But you will learn soon enough. In all too vivid a detail, you will learn—unless you do as I ask. After tonight, you can leave forever.”
A pause filled the room—then Safi’s jaw slackened. “Wait—I can leave?”
“Yes.” Eron offered an almost sad grin, fidgeting once more with his necklace. When he spoke again, the first sparks of truth—of happy warmth—awakened in Safi’s chest.
“After you play the role of the dancing, drinking domna,” he began, “and you do it for all of the empires to see … Well, after that, you’ll be entirely free to go.”
Free to go. The words reverberated through the air like the final note in an explosive symphony.
Safi swayed back. This was more than her mind could swallow—more than her witchery could swallow. Eron’s words quavered and burned with truth.
“Why,” Safi began carefully, afraid the wrong word would erase everything her uncle had said, “would you let me leave? I’m supposed to be domna of the Hasstrel lands.”
“Not quite.” He raised a single arm over his head and leaned against the glass. Everything about his posture was strangely indulgent, and his necklace, now removed, hung between his fingers. “Titles won’t matter soon, Safiya, and, let’s face it, neither you nor I ever expected you to actually lead the estate. You aren’t exactly cut out for leadership.”
“And you are?” She bristled. “Why did I study my whole life if this was your plan all along? I could have just left—”
“It wasn’t my plan,” he cut in, shoulders tensing. “But things change when war is on the horizon. Besides, do you regret all the tutoring and training you received?” His head tipped to one side. “Your encounter with the Gold Guildmaster almost ruined everything I have planned, but I’ve managed to salvage the evening. Now all you have to do is act like a frivolous domna for a single night, and then your duties will be done. Forever.”
Safi sputtered a laugh. “That’s it? That’s all you want from me? All you’ve ever wanted from me? Forgive me if I don’t believe you.”
He shrugged dismissively. “You don’t have to believe me, but what does your magic say?”
Safi’s witchery hummed with truth, warm behind her ribs. Yet still she found it impossible to swallow this story. Everything she’d ever wanted was suddenly being handed to her. It seemed far, far too good to be true.
Eron arched a pale eyebrow, clearly amused by Safi’s bewilderment. “When the chimes toll midnight, Safiya, the Bloodwitch will no longer be a problem. Then you can do whatever you please and live out the same unambitious existence you’ve always enjoyed. Although…” He paused, gaze sharpening. There was no sign of drunkenness now. “If you wanted to, Safiya, you could bend and shape the world. You have the training for it—I’ve seen to that. Unfortunately,” he spread his scarred hands, stretching the chain taut, “you seem to lack the initiative.”