Page 136 of Turncloak

The northern moors of Bellandry were beautiful in the starlight.

The clouds had parted and snow hadn’t fallen for hours, though the rolling hills and jutting crags were still shrouded with blue-white. Levan was surprised how bright it was with the moon shining overhead; they barely needed the torch spell Miret lit on his wand tip.

A mile away, the sea thrashed against the cliffs, and the saltwater fizzle was as good a medicine as any. The fresh air and the metronomic steps eased some of the tightness in Levan’s chest, cooled some of the sour want in his empty belly. He still felt like a husk, a half mage, a ghost haunted by his own flaws, but at least it was easier to breathe.

“A little while ago,” Levan began, surprised how stark his voice sounded in the night, “I realized that the loyalty brand was no longer active. My father used medei perpetua to hold them down, and now that he’s dead, there’s no magic well for the enchantment to draw from.”

“Ah. I wondered how long it would take you to figure that out.”

Levan snapped his gaze to the old mage. “You knew?”

A casual shrug, as though they were discussing common bird species and not a life-defining revelation. “I’ve long hoped that once you were free from the fatal claws of your obsessed father, you might choose to walk away. But once the time and opportunity finally arrived…I suppose I was afraid of being proven wrong. Afraid that you would continue to choose this life.”

Levan’s jaw clenched. “Well, your fears were founded. I’m still here. And you’re a hellsdamned hypocrite.”

Miret absorbed the vitriol like a pillow folding around a fist. There was a soft silence as they walked, their feet perfectly in step, and then: “I’m proud of you, mil.” The scholar’s voice splintered a little. “I truly am.”

Levan scoffed, feeling deeply fraudulent, like a monster being praised for their small fragment of humanity. “What is there to be proud of?”

“You are here, talking with me, instead of obliterating yourself with loxlure.”

Miret hesitated.

“Let me ask you something. If you could click your fingers right now and have your parents resurrected, would you?”

“Yes,” Levan said, by habit or rote or obligation.

“Why?” Miret sounded genuinely curious.

“Neither of them should have died. They should both be here.”

“Death is rarely a mistake,” Miret countered easily.

Levan stared at him in betrayal. “How can you say that?”

“Mil, the reason you so value my counsel is that I do not prioritize your feelings over the truth. Both of your parents died as a result of their own reckless ambition. Clear cause and effect. Not a mistake. Not a tragedy. Hubris in action.”

Breathing through his anger, Levan waited for his ire to abate before responding. “Be that as it may, I still want them back.”

“Why?” Miret asked again.

Because I miss having a family.

Because I miss who I once was.

Because it’s a purpose, and purpose is the only thing keeping me upright.

Only now…a small voice in his head told him there could be other purposes, if he so wanted there to be.

It felt like a night for the truth, and so he said, “My whole life, I’ve never had a choice. Now that I do, the prospect of deciding is crippling.”

“When you feel ready, I’d be honored to help you make that choice.”

Emotion throbbed in Levan’s throat like a second pulse. “I’ve been indulging thoughts of pursuing healing, truthfully. But in Vallin, at least, my reputation would preclude me from any medical school worth its salt. And I don’t want to buy or blackmail my way through the hallowed doors of a university.” He scoffed, the bitterness coarse on his tongue. “Sometimes it feels like I took all the promise of my life and burned it to ash.”

He thought of the three corpses he’d tossed into the sea just a few hours earlier and shuddered.

“The brand gave you little choice,” Miret said gently. “And there are plenty of countries that know not of the Bloodmoon scourge. The best medical school in the world is in Cape Fala.”