Page 121 of Turncloak

Flarence reeked of nightpoppy. It likely wasn’t all that noticeable if you weren’t addicted to loxlure, but for Levan it was as physical as a smack to the face.

Nightpoppy, the dark-petaled botanical from which loxlure was made, was native to Laudon, just a few hundred miles to the east. Ordinarily one might not be able to smell it so far away, but a westerly breeze blew over the Cinereal Sea, carrying with it the unmistakable scent of the dark fields. Levan was no stranger to it, of course, after his many years handling shipments for the Bloodmoons, but the crates he received were always dried.

Fresh from the valley, it was a thousand times stronger.

He wanted it more than he wanted air, his whole body aching and begging for it. It was a curious inner battle, because Levan had always prided himself on his strength of character, his ability to endure. But when it came to nightpoppy, to loxlure, he suddenly didn’t care about strength, didn’t care about anything so abstract or arbitrary. He became a creature of want and want alone.

By the time the party made it back to the village, Levan was physically trembling from the restraint. Rather than dining with the others, he excused himself to the pokey bedroom he shared with Saffron. Almost as soon as he crossed the threshold, he collapsed to the ground, shuffling into a cold, hard corner and pressing his back against the wall. Resting his elbows on his knees, he held his head in his hands and tried to extract the claws of addiction from his flesh one by one.

The smell was so strong, even through the rickety window of the humble inn, even though the scent of salty stew and fresh bread wafted up from the tavern downstairs. The tavern where the others sat, normal mages with no ruinous vices, sharing a meal and likely laughter.

As ever, he was alone.

But a few minutes after he’d retired to the shabby room, there were footsteps in the corridor. A key turned in the lock, and the door swung open. Saffron entered, carrying a bundle of skinny sticks the approximate color of cinders. When she saw Levan crammed into the corner of the room, she didn’t seem at all surprised, and Levan barely had the vim to feel embarrassed.

“What’s that?” he muttered weakly, gesturing to the sticks in her hand.

She laid them down on the bedside table, rummaging in the top drawer and pulling out a small wooden oblong, engraved with blackfoxes and notched with a groove in the top. “Cølsa—a kind of Nyrøthi incense. It’s strong and obnoxiously coal-like, but it’ll mask the smell.”

“What smell?”

“Nightpoppy.” She lit one of the rods on the table lamp and slid it into the wooden holder. A plume of purple-gray smoke curled from the tip. “You think I didn’t notice the high wind carrying it over the Cinereal?”

Something skipped between Levan’s ribs. “Honestly, no. I didn’t think anyone not addicted to loxlure would notice.”

Saffron perched on the edge of the bed, looking down on his pathetic position. Starlight filtered through the window behind her, illuminating her curls like a halo. “I might not be addicted, but I care about someone who is.”

Levan’s ribs turned painful all of a sudden. “I didn’t tell you I’ve been struggling.”

“You just lost your father,” she said softly.

Hells, I love you.

The thought came to Levan before all the emotional and logistical reasons not to. He dropped his head back into his hands, so he wouldn’t have to look at her. The pulse at his temples felt like hoofbeats.

Saffron shifted on the bed. “I’ve asked the innkeeper to bring bowls of snowfish stew to the room. You need to eat. It’ll help the shaking.”

She’d noticed his trembling.

He should have felt embarrassed, but…he didn’t.

He felt cared for, which was just as discomfiting.

The cynical kingpin he’d been forced to become insisted it was only because she needed his enormous power to achieve her own ends, like a sword she had to keep sharp. Perhaps he should dispel her false ideas of his fortitude.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” he muttered into his palms, one warm skin, one cold and golden. “I wasn’t going to, because—well. We live in a world where weakness is exploited. But I’ve been having trouble with my magic ever since I destroyed my mother’s weaverwick wand. The legends say such a deed turns magic against you. I thought it was folklore, but…”

As he trailed off, there was a fraught silence.

“You destroyed your mother’s wand?”

Levan’s belly plummeted. That was sloppy. The cravings had addled his judgment.

“Yes. Not long after the Havenwood.”

“Why?” Saffron’s tone was unreadable.

He forced himself to meet her blazing stare. “Because I had my suspicions about your abilities, and I could not trust that you would not use the power against me.”