Page 10 of Turncloak

The other soldier stepped furiously forward, a copper braid bouncing against her full chest. “Detective Villar, this is not proper procedure. You are allowing a preexisting relationship with the suspect—”

“Suspect?” Saffron laughed bitterly. “Oh, it’s strange to be on this side of it. Although I suppose I’m already an ex-convict.”

“An ex-con—sir.” The redheaded soldier glared at Gaian. “We must follow proper—”

“Fine, fine,” sighed Gaian. “Let’s question her here.”

“Interrogation by the esteemed Gaian Villar? I’m honored.”

Gaian was famed for his prowess in the questioning room, breaking even the most withholding of suspects with a combination of cool glares and trick-laden lines of inquiry. Saffron quietly believed Gaian was a Compeller—before she’d undertaken the Bloodmoon assignment, Captain Aspar had let slip that such a mage walked among them. Gaian was the natural fit.

“Why did you seek the purchase of a prohibited wand?” he asked.

“Oh, you know, a deep ennui over my purposeless life.” Saffron waited to feel a probing tendril in her mind, a subtle insistence that she tell the truth, but if Gaian was compelling her, she did not feel it. Then again, she was immune to magic—all but Levan’s, for whatever torturous reason.

“Did you have any intention of practicing the maligned art of Timeweaving?”

“Like you say, I don’t have the right blood.”

“If you did have the right blood, would you have unmade time?”

“If your grandmother had straw hair, would she be a broomstick?”

The corner of Gaian’s mouth twitched. “Killoran. This is becoming hostile.”

Saffron sighed, somewhat dramatically. “Look, this is all hypothetical. I am not a Timeweaver, and this kind gentlemage”—she stabbed a thumb in the direction of Mizad—“does not have any weaverwicks to sell. If I went out onto the street and asked a random passerby whether they had any darkseed, and they said no, would a crime have been committed?”

Gaian pinched the bridge of his nose. “Perhaps you should go into philosophy. I can picture you smoking a pipe in a fireside armchair.” He glanced behind him, took several steps toward her, then dropped his voice several decibels and an octave. His breath smelled of old coffee. “Do you know anything about Sebran’s disappearance, Killoran?”

Saffron blinked, confused. “Of course not. Why would I?”

“I heard…rumors. Regarding your post-Academy movements.” A meaningful pause. “The company you choose to keep.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied, maintaining her polderdash face. The polderdash face so convincing it had won her the deadliest undercover assignment in the history of the Silvercloaks. “I haven’t heard Sebran’s name in months. I’d almost forgotten he existed, frankly.”

Another lie. She missed her former cohort so much that it burned like an ulcer in her belly.

Some of the tension dropped from Gaian’s shoulders. “I knew it couldn’t be true. A scarlet cloak? Not after what happened to your parents. Still, if you hear anything…”

“Does this mean I’m free to go?”

“Yes, Killoran. You’re free to go.”

Saffron strode past Gaian and out the door.

As she rounded the sandy corner toward the nearest portari gate, Rasso bounded after her, tail wagging, although judging by the slight downward tilt of his ears, the beast understood that Saffron had not secured a coveted weaverwick.

Still, Saffron allowed herself a small, victorious smile.

Inside her cloak pocket was no Timeweaving wand, true, but she’d snagged a decent consolation prize. A navy leather-bound tome of wand lore titled Weaverwicks: From Sacred to Sacrosanct, pilfered from a high shelf while Mizad was in the back room summoning the Silvercloaks. Perhaps, in the absence of her father’s letter, the book could offer some insight on the reviled magical art she had never been given the opportunity to master. Perhaps she could even find her own ancestral history hidden in its pages.

But learning would have to wait, for she could not stay rogue forever.

As she and Rasso stepped beneath the arcane arches of the portari gate, she thought grimly of the next stop on her sojourn.

“Ad Atherin Central-West.”

The whorls of magic folded around her, dragging her back into the heart of Bloodmoon territory.