Page 106 of Turncloak

“This is not just religion. It’s history in the making. Whatever we find in that cave will shape the world for centuries to come.”

Harrow’s inebriated mind whirred. “Why do you want me there?”

“It seems prudent to have a Foreseer present. If the relic wand requires a prophetic hand…you’re the only one I know and trust.”

“I’ve told you many times that you should not trust me.”

Levan leaned back once more, studying Harrow so closely it made the King’s Prophet itch. “Back in Sorvel, you told me you once had your own sights set on a throne. Do you still? Is that why I shouldn’t—”

“No, darling.” Harrow snorted. “Who has the energy for a coup?”

The truth, for once. He’d given up such childish ambitions long ago. In reality, he hadn’t the disposition nor the inclination to rule. All that talk of debt and interest and trade agreements, the ceaseless concerns of regional politicians, the pandering to foreign dignitaries, the never-ending conflict of clashing theological belief systems. It was both needlessly complex and dreadfully dull.

“So what makes you untrustworthy?”

Harrow ran a thumb around the narrow glass rim of the honeywine bottle. “The king sends me on official business. Official business that often threatens your goals.”

“You don’t need to tell me of your official business, Harrow. You just have to help us retrieve the Fifth Prophecy. For history’s sake.”

The King’s Prophet let his foggy mind sift through the idea.

House Arollan was likely days away from passing the death penalty. Harrow trusted in his own ability to weasel out of such a thing, to claim that he’d been acting according to the king’s orders all along, that he was doing whatever it took to rid the land of the scarlet rot…but still, there was risk involved. A lot of risk.

Yet as complex as this web of deception was becoming, Harrow knew he couldn’t resist this quest. He lifted a glass, gesturing for Levan to do the same.

And when they toasted, it was an old travelers’ tribute.

To the horizon.

47

• • • •

A Better World

At the sight of Levan in a violet Healer’s cloak, something in Saffron splintered.

It seemed prudent to travel to Bellandry in their regular cloaks rather than the conspicuous crimson, and though Saffron had wondered what color Levan would wear, she wasn’t emotionally prepared for the reminder of what he truly was beneath all the violence and hurt.

“Always reminds me of my mother,” she murmured, traipsing down the stairs into the chamber beneath the dragon statues.

Levan stood by the portari gate, one arm pressed against the carved axelmares, one foot hooked around the other ankle. Rasso sat patiently by his side—until he saw Saffron, at which point the beast leapt up as though struck by lightning, bounding over to her and almost knocking her over with the force of his excitement. Levan hastily stuffed a small book into his inner cloak pocket, and Saffron recognized the lilac leather of the fifth volume in the Lost Dragonborn series.

With a sad pang, she remembered the costumes he’d made back when they still thought it was possible for them to attend the Erling Tandall signing together. Long gold cloaks, pearlwillows clumsily stitched on the breast pockets. She yearned to see him in those costumes, to see the childlike glee in his eyes as they met their hero. All at once, she was overcome with the desire to wrap her arms around him, hold him close. But then the memory of his romantic rejection slapped her afresh, and she shrugged away the pathetic urge.

“What reminds you of your mother?” he asked, frowning.

“The violet cloak.” She gave a wistful smile as Rasso thoroughly cleaned the palms of her hands with his rough tongue. “She was burned in hers.”

Levan studied her as she approached. He was freshly shaven, his hair recently washed and trimmed, the cords of his black tunic neatly tied over his muscled chest. “When you rewrite time, she won’t be burned at all. Not until she dies in her sleep at the ripe old age of a hundred and eight.”

Warmth spread through Saffron’s chest at his words. It felt so good that Levan knew the truth, that he was behind her on her quest. That they could finally work together for real. Some semblance of trust had been rebuilt.

Despite the letter from the Steel King in her cloak pocket.

Despite the fact she could still tear down everything he had so painstakingly built.

“Shall we go?” She gestured to the gate. The week since reading her father’s letter had passed in a stubborn trudge, and impatience snapped inside her like a riding crop.