Page 65 of Silvercloak
“Levan, wait.” She swallowed hard. “If I want to leave this place. Be alone in the outside world for a bit. Can I?”
Levan shrugged. “You’re not a prisoner.” He gestured to her heart. “The brand will know if you’re planning anything.”
HIS WORDS TROUBLED HERfor hours.
She’d come into this assignment with the singular belief that the brand could not hurt her beyond the initial burn. That she was immune to magic, all magic, and though terrible things could and would happen undercover, she would still be able to operate outside of the bounds of the seared curse. She would not be bound to them, nottruly.
Yet now that it was time to betray the Bloodmoons in earnest, doubt crept in.
They were unfalteringly trustful of the brand. And these were intelligent mages—Levan with his powerful transmutation and gift for ancient tongues, Lyrian with his frightening omniscience and impenetrable memory—who would likely need evidence before believing so wholeheartedly in a curse. True, Saffron had never met another mage like her, never found any reading material about magical immunity in the Academy’s vast library. Her quirk was rare, possibly unique, and the Bloodmoons likely had not prepared for it.
But the way they had so brazenly shared their secrets within days of her arrival …
Was there a kind of magic that could bypass magical immunity?
That nobody, not even her, could escape?
As she left the compound through the warded tunnels, her pulse pounded in her throat like a Bokolani battle drum. The instrument from the Nomarean capital was so powerful that hearing its beat would send a surge of raw adrenaline through any listener’s veins, compelling them to don their armor and march to the battlefield. That’s how Saff felt now—as though her very heartbeat was driving her to bold and reckless action.
She half expected every footstep to be her last.
At what point would the brand act? Did it sense what she was about to do? Could it read her thoughts? Or was it only the action itself that would trigger her death? Would her heart stop the moment she opened her mouth to tell Aspar what she’d learned?
She spent the entire walk to Esmoldan’s Baths coiled with tension—and convinced she was being followed.
It was early evening, and the streets shone with the kind of low golden light that drove artists to their easels. The slouching creamstone buildings were swathed in a honeyed glow, the twisting streets lined with fountains and forest-green shutters, the occasional peak of an obelisk or a purple temple dome towering at the end of each alley. Every time Saffron rounded a corner, she checked over her shoulder, but there was no flash of another scarlet cloak in the crowd, no shrouded figure emerging from the shadows.
There was a certain heightened thrum to the city, an uneven canter, although it was possible Saffron was just projecting. Outside the Merchants’ Guild stood a Daejini delegation in long embroidered robes, muttering in a language of choppy waves.
“Oga dracaki ka sutinai. Inu Jakin-ori te-rukai.”
“Dika-ki fayu inu wogu?”
“Nik sashin i dracaki-mai.”
The only word Saffron picked out wasdracaki.
Dragon.
Along Dubias Row marched a funeral procession dressed in mourning blue—for the fallen Whitewings, perhaps?—and the sun seemed to hang suspended over the horizon for several moments too long. Then, all at once, darkness fell like a curtain, the sky sprinkled with high, bright stars. Time in Ascenfall often had a slippery, unpredictable quality to it, as though the mages who’d repaired it after the Dreadreign had never quite managed to iron out all the kinks.
Passing Torquil’s Tomes, the quadruple-storied bookstore on Sentry Street, Saffron saw an advertisement in the window for the Vallish Arts Festival. The headliners included the illustrator behind a popular pulp about fallowwolves, the cast of a stage adaptation of the belovedSpectral Thingsnovel, and the writer of the newest Promise War epic.There was a contest for the best costume and the best fan art, as well as a trivia quiz held at the Jaded Saint after hours.
With a curious twist of her heart, Saffron saw that Erling Tandall, the wizened author of theLost Dragonbornbooks, was doing a signing. In another life, maybe Levan would spend his time at festivals like this one, clutching his well-worn book as he queued to meet his idol. Maybe they both would.
Esmoldan’s Baths were housed in a grand pillared building, outside which stood creamstone statues of various historical figures in the nude. Parlin the Great had a characteristically large appendage, while Murias the Mighty, who had cast the very first wards around Atherin, appeared to be ogling the resplendent cock with little to no sense of decorum.
Saffron checked into the bathhouse at reception, noting her captain’s name was already scrawled on the sign-in parchment. She entered the disrobing chamber, which had an ornate marble fountain ringed by little wooden galleries where bathers could sip at espresso or herbal tea after they’d bathed. There were only a few other mages in the chamber, and at the appearance of Saffron’s scarlet cloak, they quickly drained their drinks and departed.
She shrugged off her cloak and other clothing, hanging the raiment on a small golden hook. She was about to see her commanding officer naked, and vice versa, which was almost definitely a recurring nightmare come true, and not something from which she expected to emotionally recover. Yet the thing that disturbed her was not Aspar seeing her pear-shaped breasts or her hair-tangled privates—it was the fact that her brand was out in the open. A hideous dark crust, like dried blood and melted wax. She was glad her cloak had cleared the chamber. At least now nobody beheld her ugly, soul-marring wound.
The main bathhouse had vaulted, mosaicked ceilings of dark blue and gold. Its walls were notched with shelves spilling over with green foliage—fern and ivy, palm and monstera, even some rare star-leafed plants said to be the favorite of Aterrari, the patron saint of earthwielding. The space was dotted with enchanted goldencandles, which would neither burn down nor set fire to the greenery. The hall held onevast pool and several smaller pods tucked into the naves, and it was in one of these alcoves that Saff found her captain.
Naked, still, the low light flickering over every ridge of her skull.
“Evening,” said Saff, setting her wand down on the ledge of the bath and lowering her body into the small pool of hot water adjacent to Aspar. She didn’t opt for the same bath for two reasons: one, because she’d have tolower her naked body right in front of her commanding officer,and two, because if anyone else entered the bath chambers in pursuit of Saff, she had plausible deniability.
At the sound of Saff’s voice, Aspar did not turn to face her, but said only, “You’re alive. And branded.”
