Page 102 of Turncloak

He’d often thought, since his mother’s death, that the real reason he wanted to bring her back was not to install her upon a stolen throne, but to return to the version of himself she had so adored. Saffron’s plan offered that in the realest sense, and so he would do whatever it took to ensure her success.

Third, he went to Elderstones—the apothecary where Relar Zamorin worked with his aged grandmother. But Levan did not plan to punish Segal’s killer yet. There was a far smarter game to play.

Saffron had wondered whether the Whitewings were gathering ingredients to make a substance to rival loxlure. If Levan killed Relar and his grandmother, the Whitewings would simply find another unfortunate apothecary to blackmail and threaten into cooperation. Far better to keep the one Levan did have influence over alive—and working for the Bloodmoons.

Perhaps it had been a mistake to let the boy walk away unbranded, but it was a decision Levan would make again, even at the cost of Segal’s head. There had to be a way to keep mages loyal without mutilation.

Elderstones was a small, neat shop with teal awnings and a gold eagle emblem on the hanging sign. A tiny bell tinkled over the doorway as Levan entered, the scents of dried herbs and old spices and stale blood hitting him like a physical thing. Two mages looked up from the counter—one a hunched older woman with facial moles and an apothecary’s monocle, the other a lanky, pimple-faced teenager—both wearing pale blue cloaks and fearful expressions.

Relar stepped back, pinning himself against a row of tall mahogany shelves, and then fixed a determinedly normal expression on his face. His grandmother’s hand went to his elbow, gripping with gnarled, arthritic fingers.

“You killed my right-hand mage,” Levan said evenly, striding up to the counter and resting his golden palm on it. He kept his wand notched in his belt, letting the implied violence of his scarlet cloak do all the intimidation.

The grandmother pressed her palm against her mouth, as though to keep a scream from escaping. Relar’s head shook wildly, as it had right before Levan almost branded him. “No, I—”

“I have a reliable witness.”

The boy’s chin wobbled, and Levan splintered. He saw himself in Relar: quiet, studious, smart, deeply afraid, feeling the life he’d wanted for himself slipping away on the violent tide of another mage’s greed.

“P-please, I had no choice, I—the Whitewings forced me, and—”

“I’m not here to brand you. Not that such a thing would be possible, since you stole the relevant iron. Planning to use it against me?”

Relar lifted his chin. “No. Stopping you from using it on anyone else.”

“How admirable.”

“Why are you here, if not to punish me?” Relar asked warily, sensing a trap just beyond his ken.

“I want you to work with us. I want you to tell us everything the Whitewings ask you to source, and I want to know everything you see or hear around them. I also want you to accompany me on a trip to northernmost Bellandry tomorrow. I’m leaving the city for a while, and I need to keep tabs on the Whitewings in my absence. You represent one way of doing that.”

Relar’s hand quivered to the handle of his wand and then withdrew again, as though he couldn’t decide whether to attack or defend or run. “Why would I risk that? The Whitewings would kill me if they found out.”

“I will offer your family protection against the Whitewings.”

The grandmother’s breath hitched in her throat. “Protection?”

“I’ll station two mages near the apothecary, and provide you with an enchanted panic button, so that you can call upon them at a moment’s notice. While Relar is with me, he’ll be untouchable. And if they discover you’re working with the scarlets, I’ll ensure safe passage out of the city—the country, if needs be. I don’t think the Whitewings have the will or the means to follow.”

Rather than looking relieved at this offer, Relar stared despondently over Levan’s shoulder, as though expecting a Whitewing to burst in at any moment and catch him liaising with the scarlet kingpin. It was a valid concern, but hopefully the Whitewings weren’t watching the shop too closely.

“I don’t suppose I have another choice,” Relar said at last.

“Death, or the brand. I’m not a forgiving man, and you murdered one of my men. I understand that you had little choice. Trust me when I say I’ve had to make the same decision myself many times—it’s how we all end up in this life. Once you’re dirty, you’re always dirty. Once there’s blood on your hands, it cannot be washed away.”

Relar looked at his grandmother, who was crying silently. While her hips were still rounded and her breasts swelled low on her belly, her face had the gaunt, shriveled look of someone who had lost a lot of weight very quickly—from stress, from fear.

“When do we leave?” the boy asked, more resolutely than he likely felt.

“Tomorrow morning. You’ll tell the Whitewings you’re traveling north for an ingredient.”

“Alright. I’ve still been unable to procure any spinebark for them. I’ll tell them I’m following a new lead.”

A chill scraped down the back of Levan’s neck.

Spinebark?

Hells.