Page 111 of Turncloak

Saffron blanched pale as bone, which Harrow found curious.

To his knowledge, Saffron had no affiliation to the Augurests, and though she’d been raised a patron, she wasn’t especially devout. Yes, they were traveling to find Sarcane’s Fifth Prophecy—an item hallowed by all the mages who chanted and charged before them, and which purportedly pertained to her. But it wasn’t as though—

Oh.

Suspicion hardened, crystallized.

The events of the past few months rearranged themselves from a series of scattered shards into a stained-glass window both beautiful and damning.

Saffron Killoran was a Timeweaver.

Harrow knew this with a sudden clarity, an unshakeable certainty. Why else would the Fifth Prophecy be about a jaded detective turned organized criminal? He met this revelation not with horror or anger, but a sense of vague entertainment. What a quest he’d found himself on.

“Let’s find another gate,” Levan muttered.

But around every corner they found the same thing: bald heads and spread-eagle limbs bound to the arches, hordes of angry protesters marching in circles around them.

Miret sighed knowingly. Rain fell in a fine mist, flecking the elderly scholar’s eyelashes. “Sancsari is upon us. I’ve seen many a tavern adorned with patron banners. No doubt the protesters want the Crown to outlaw Saints-based celebrations.”

“Queen Vune would never enact such a ban,” Harrow said thoughtfully. “Though she herself is an Augurest, she’s always promised religious freedom in her country. Last time a Bellandrian ruler tried to clamp down on the patrons, it triggered the Battle of Independence, and they lost the Eastern Republics.”

Relar frowned. “And these fanatics think binding themselves to gates and caterwauling will make Vune renege on a long-time policy of secularity?”

Miret laughed, as though this were a very, very funny thing to say. “Oftentimes, when people protest, it’s not because they anticipate actual change will occur. They just want to give their anger somewhere to go. To build a community around shared outrage. Nothing is quite so valuable in human connection as a common foe. They know Queen Vune will never relent, but they’re here anyway—not for the outcome, but for one another.”

“Sancsari is in, what, two days?” Levan rubbed at his unshaven jaw. “Let’s lie low in the city until they abandon their posts. Find an inn somewhere.”

Harrow surged with excitement. The prospect of luxury! Of a real bed! “I know a place on Flacher Strast. Downy pillows, great honeywine.”

“Truly all that’s important.” Levan seemed grumpier now that their time camping in the bitter woods was over. What went through that mage’s head was truly beyond Harrow.

There were only three rooms left at Meraude’s Inn.

Miret offered to share with the apothecary’s grandson, and Harrow staunchly advocated for a room to himself, ostensibly so that if either King Quintan or the Whitewings reached out to him in the night, he would not be at the mercy of listening ears, but also because he was a pampered prince who did not like to share.

Neither Levan nor Saffron objected too heavily to sharing a room—Harrow tried to ignore the sting of jealousy.

They all went their separate ways, planning to freshen up and rest for a few hours before meeting downstairs for dinner. Harrow’s stomach growled at the prospect of the herby butter inside Meraude’s famous venison pies, but before he allowed himself the luxury of a bath in the claw-footed copper tub, he crossed to the windowsill and lifted his wand tip to his lips.

“Et vocos, King Quintan of the House Arollan.”

The king’s answer was brusque. “Highcloak Claver. Where are you?”

Harrow looked out over the rain-slicked cobbles and babbling brooks snaking through the streets below. A blackfox with a stolen wand in its teeth trotted along the high edge of a bridge.

“Following a lead on the Bloodmoons. I’m in Almere, and the Augurest protests are intensifying. They’re blocking all the portari gates into and out of the city, and the Vergard have made no efforts to disperse them. I thought you might like to know that her approval is plummeting. Just in case she continues trying to strong-arm us about the open border pact.”

“Very well.” A fumbling as the king undoubtedly reached for some wine, followed by a thick glugging sound. “What of this Bloodmoon lead?”

I’m accompanying a crew of Bloodmoons and Timeweavers on their quest to find the Fifth Prophecy, which may ultimately lead to widespread war, depending on its contents.

A hefty secret to keep under his hat.

And secrets, of course, could quite easily become power.

For years, all he’d really wanted was to have a certain level of status without having to work terribly hard for it. To use his natural foreseeing ability to his advantage, to gather information on all the warring factions in Atherin so that he would always have a card to play if he needed one.

But was that lazy prestige still enough for him? He’d rather perish than take the throne himself—too much bureaucracy. Yet if he was honest with himself, did he have a preference on who should rule Vallin? Until he figured out the answer, he’d keep picking up cards, laying down as few as possible, waiting for the right moment to make his move.