Page 119 of Turncloak

What if the Fifth Prophecy was?

With an unconvincing smile in Levan’s direction, she stepped beneath the axelmare arches of the gate, dispelling the thoughts as best she could.

Saffron blinked, shivered, and looked around.

Flarence was notched on the border between the Bellandry and Nyrøth. It was a village of in-betweens; a crooked, uneven seam separating two cultures, two peoples. Just above it was a narrow stretch of land known as the Rapier, a sword of frozen earth separating the Stone Sea from the Cinereal. The Rapier belonged squarely to Nyrøth and made the tundral nation almost impossible to invade by land—although historically, many battles had been fought over which nation owned the Rapier itself. Flarence nestled at the foot of the razor shard like a worn-down rubber sole, its people carrying an innate weariness, an ancient fear of invasion.

The village had clear Augurest influence—statues to the prophets, a gleaming purple temple, smatterings of shaven heads. Situated far enough north to be fully blanketed in snow and ice, many houses were painted in the pretty pastels native to Nyrøth—butter yellow and blossom pink, dusty indigo, the precise blue of a winter sky. A small, cobbled square contained both a pillory and a whipping post, since corporal punishment was still in vogue in the tundral north. Saffron spotted at least two military-looking mages who were scarified from the neck down.

Harrow stifled a yawn, clearly uninterested in the curious little place.

“What now?” he asked, with the tone of a man who hoped the answer would be sleep or drink.

Levan reached into the pocket of his violet Healer’s cloak—it was still so surreal, so warming, to see him in it—and pulled out a finely inked parchment scroll. “The object we’re looking for is rumored to be hidden in a tidal cave off the Cinereal Sea.” He tapped the top of the scroll. “I’ve studied the map, and—”

“You? Studying a map?” Saffron quipped, faux-astonished. “Will the wonders never cease?”

“—and the likeliest location is a small inlet a few miles east of here.” Levan politely ignored her sarcasm. “It’s the only place with cliffs around the water. Everywhere else, the ground is too close to sea level for tidal caves to have formed.”

Saffron nodded. “I wrote ahead and requested rooms at a local inn.” She turned to Harrow, Miret, and Relar. “They’ve reserved two chambers for us—I hadn’t realized that the three of you would be joining us—but I’m sure Levan wouldn’t mind sleeping in the Forest of Lost Souls, since he loves camping so much. What does a bit of frostgnaw matter?”

“Fine with me,” Levan replied, deadpan. “The local blackfoxes might have more insightful conversation.”

Saffron raised a brow. “Ah yes, you are famed for your loquaciousness.”

A muscle in Levan’s jaw quirked, while Miret looked between the two of them with that kindly twinkle in his eye, as though sensing a rift newly repaired.

“We should deposit our things at the inn and then set off for the inlet.” Saffron peered at her watch. “It’s still early, and if it’s only a couple of miles on foot, it shouldn’t take too long to—”

“I said a few miles,” said Levan. “Not a couple.”

“Always with the pedantry. How many is a few, oh great navigator?”

“Maybe two hours on foot. Three at most.”

Harrow looked incredulously at him. “My blisters have only just started to heal.”

“You should have worn better footwear.”

Harrow pressed an outraged palm to his chest. “I’m a Highcloak. All my better footwear is for balls.”

“I could heal them for you, if you weren’t such a prideful martyr.”

“Hypocrisy, thy name is—”

“Why don’t you piss off to the inn, then? Take Relar. Don’t let him have any bivkar.” Levan said this last part with a fatherly sort of tone.

“No, it’s fine.” Harrow sighed elaborately. “I do want to bear witness to the Fifth—”

“Harrow,” Levan interrupted, with a subtle widening of the eyes that insinuated Harrow should shut his royal mouth. “Take Relar.”

The apothecary’s grandson, whose beard was growing in patchy tufts, and who seemed to have implausibly grown another inch overnight, rubbed the back of his head with a leather-gloved hand. “I should search for some spinebark while we’re here. Even if I fail, I can bring the Whitewings something of similar potency. Cover my tracks for this excursion, avoid suspicion.”

“That sounds like it would also involve walking,” Harrow complained, with no real amount of shame or self-awareness.

Relar shrugged. “I can go alone.”

“I’ll accompany the boy, if you like?” said Miret, removing his gold half-moon spectacles and rubbing away the smudges on the sleeve of his scholar’s cloak. “I have quite the eye for botanicals.”