Page 138 of Turncloak

“And you haven’t seen the King’s Prophet since this night?” Nissa asked, pointing at the date on a particularly lengthy page.

Auria sipped her ginger tea, watching the steam curl from the spout of her midnight blue dawndove pot. “No, not since then.”

Snow fell softly outside. The apartment was cold, but they couldn’t light a fire in the hearth, lest they betray their presence. Auria wore a thick outer robe over her silver cloak, the suede-like fabric a light teal with a white fur trim. Nissa had removed her cloak, unperturbed by the chill.

I run hot.

They sat, as usual, at the small table, the two chairs essentially molded to their bodies at this point. Most nights they watched the street in silence, like two old mages who’d been married too long and whose only form of entertainment was people-watching from their porch.

A familiar ache spread through Auria’s chest at the thought of the future she would never have with Tiernan. She thought of her mother’s words:

One day, when you least expect it, your heart will stumble upon another destination. And just like a fledgling spell, it will slowly, over time, form a new path there. A new desire line.

The thought still felt like a betrayal.

A few days prior, she’d received a letter inviting her to give a guest lecture at her alma mater, and in her initial gush of excitement, she’d thought, I can’t wait to tell Nissa. Not Tiernan—at some point, he’d ceased to be her subconscious default, and she hated it. On some level, the mind beneath her mind was letting go. Searching for a new desire line.

Of course, it had only latched on to Nissa because of sheer proximity—the fact that they spent six nights a week together on this operation.

Nissa squinted down at the parchment, struggling to read by the low light. “And you’re sure it was the King’s Prophet.”

“Positive. And by positive, I mean I correctly identified his facial profile, rather than simply lying about it in a court of law.”

Nissa ignored the jibe, though it was still a sore point. The corrupt Grand Arbiter had recently ruled that one detective’s say-so was not enough grounds for an arrest warrant, and that they’d need more physical evidence to bring in the kingpin. There had been no progress on confirming the boot prints belonged to Levan Celadon, and so progress had stalled, and Nissa had lied for little reward.

“Why would the King’s Prophet be meeting with the Whitewings?”

“I don’t know,” Auria admitted. “I’ve been scratching my head ever since.”

“This is the night with the most activity at the drophouse—the boy in the blue cloak, the King’s Prophet, the unconscious Bloodmoon who, judging by the collation of your notes with Alcabal’s, never left the building. Either he’s still being held hostage to ransom the Bloodmoons, or his head came out of that building in the sack the scholar was carrying.”

“You think the Whitewings used the boy to send the Bloodmoons a message? Delivered a head to their door?”

“Still doesn’t explain the presence of the King’s Prophet.” Nissa tapped a talon-like fingernail on her pierced bottom lip. “This is also the date the kingpin broke into the Order and stole Killoran’s letter. Coincidence?”

“I suppose.”

“Come on, Marriosan. You’re too good a detective to believe that.”

“I’ve tried to slot the pieces together—and they don’t. Possibly because they’re from two separate puzzles.”

Nissa’s lip-tapping intensified. “I heard a rumor that the King’s Prophet was fucking the Bloodmoon kingpin. That’s the piece that really doesn’t fit.”

Auria startled at this. “How reliable a rumor?”

“Not very. But if it were true…is Harrow Claver betraying the Bloodmoons to their greatest rivals? Or is he feeding information from the Whitewings to Levan Celadon? And how do King Quintan’s interests marry up with any of it?”

“The Palace surely wants both scarlets and whites gone—perhaps the prophet is assuring their mutual destruction.”

Nissa laid down the notes, staring out at the street beyond the snow-topped sill. “Why would the Crown bother? Neither the scarlets nor the whites pose any threat to House Arollan’s rule. Criminal activity is inevitable in any city—most monarchs allow it to flourish, to a certain degree. Better the devil you know. And like it or not, Vallin is all but bankrupt. The Bloodmoons actively contribute to our economy—fraudulently, of course, laundering dirty money through their legitimate gamehouses, but it’s taxable income nonetheless. I can’t see a compelling reason for the King to want them gone so urgently that he’d send his most valuable advisor into their midst. And the Whitewings are petty nuisances, really. No reason for a Highcloak to be dabbling in their affairs.”

“So what are you suggesting?”

“That it’s fucking weird.”

They sat in silence for several more hours. A couple of Whitewings came and went from the drophouse, and while they were only talking and laughing and not behaving altogether suspiciously, Auria jotted the times down regardless. She drank more ginger tea than was really wise and gave herself the jitters, while Nissa smoked an obnoxious amount and read the notes through once more. At one point, Auria noticed that the wand beside Nissa’s achullah tin was carved of ash. She could’ve sworn that yesterday, it was sleek elm, and the day before, it was currantpalm.

“You switch up your wands?” Auria asked.