Page 112 of Turncloak

“No, Your Grace,” he said at last. “Nothing meaningful to report.”

“A pity. I met with the Grand Arbiter again this morning. The death penalty will be passed by noonday on Oparling, at which point royally approved prophecies will become admissible in court. You just became a whole lot more powerful, Highcloak Claver.”

Rather than filling him with any kind of satisfaction, this notion carried with it an undercurrent of dread. It was not too difficult to imagine a world in which the king would encourage Harrow to fabricate prophecies to ensure certain convictions.

If Levan, Saffron, and their other associates were captured, they’d certainly be executed.

There were two knocks on the door, the first timid, apologetic, and then the second firmer, as though the knocker had decided not to be so meek.

Harrow sighed. “I must go, Your Grace. I’ll keep you abreast of any further information—or any further prophecies I foretell on the road. Don’t reach out to me first. I’ll contact you whenever it’s safe.”

This was rather more dismissive than Harrow would usually be to his regent, but really, he had blisters on his feet.

He let the connection between the wands drop, then crossed begrudgingly to the door. There were many hardships he could tolerate, but not the further postponement of his much-needed bath.

Relar Zamorin stood on the other side, scholar’s cloak streaked with forest debris, boots trudging rain and soil through Meraude’s immaculate tiled corridors.

“Can we talk?” the boy said in a low voice.

“I was just about to—”

“I saw you at the Whitewing drophouse,” Relar muttered, half-apologetically, half-threateningly. “The night I cut the head off a Bloodmoon.”

“Ah. You’d better come in.”

Relar crossed to the windowsill. He was so tall that his scalp almost brushed the ceiling, and so thin that his clothes hung off him in tragic swathes of fabric. “I suppose Levan does not know of your involvement with the Whitewings?”

“He does not. Are you going to tell him?” As he asked the question, Harrow subtly drew his wand, hoping he would not have to use it.

Relar eyed the wand not with fear, but with a weary exhaustion, as though being threatened under peril of death were a regular and somewhat fatiguing occurrence. “I don’t plan to give anyone a reason to want me dead. You included.”

“So why are you here?”

“I want to know who you’re loyal to. White or scarlet. I’m navigating the same conflict of interest, and having someone in the same situation whom I could trust…”

“I’m loyal to no one but myself.”

Relar stabbed a thumb in the direction of Harrow’s wand. “What if the Whitewings contact you while you’re here? The kingpin will kill you in an instant.”

“He won’t,” Harrow parried easily. “I’m too valuable.”

The apothecary’s son rubbed his palms over his pimple-strewn face, blinking with exhausted red eyes. “Do you think the kingpin is true to his word? Is he really protecting my family?”

“Yes. He hates the Whitewings enough to undermine them, to take away one of the pieces on their board. But he also…I think he cares for you, in his own way.”

“Why?”

Harrow shrugged, stifling a yawn. The boy’s plight was not particularly interesting.

Relar looked out over the city of lush green and dark stone. “I still don’t understand why I’m here. On this quest. Why Levan wants or needs me.”

“Nor do I. Is that all…?”

“Does the fear ever go away? Fear of being caught between different parties who all want one another dead. Who think of you as an expendable piece on a board.”

“Being a piece on a board doesn’t make you a victim. Not if you’re playing your own game.”

Relar turned back, the smallest tug of a smile at the corner of his thin lips. “I like that.”