Page 147 of Turncloak

“Oh hells, no.” Harrow took a tremulous step back, face pale as the moon and glowing faintly red from the illuminated writing. “Whatever lies beyond that arch is evil.”

Miret staggered, almost falling beneath the crushing weight of the despair. He muttered something in Eqoran, withdrawing his velvet pouch of Saint stones and tipping them into his palm for strength.

Saffron forced deep breaths into her lungs, trying to channel the sense of doom into action, as she always had before, but it was hard. Saints, it was hard, all her bones turned to lead, her heart petrified like lightning-struck soil. Better not run; in fact, better just to curl up in a ball and perish, because there was no way she could go on with life knowing a sorrow this powerful existed, no way she could see the light beyond it.

Levan was the only one who seemed unrattled by it, and with a horrible lurch, Saffron realized it was because he was used to this depth of turmoil. He lived with it every day.

“Shall we?” the kingpin said blandly, stepping through the arch into the dark cave beyond.

61

• • • •

Ancient Bones

Saffron followed Levan through the dissolved archway, her ribs heavy with dread. They were walking to their certain doom.

Did he not feel it, did he not know? Or did he not care?

The knowledge of their imminent demise was so overwhelming, so clear, that her blood coursed with ice, with something more electric still, the feeling of lightning an inch from striking earth, and yet there he was, strolling ahead, unbothered, resolve etched in the stoic lines of his body. Miret followed, though Harrow was still slumped on the floor in the previous cave, clutching his healed hand to his chest and shaking his head violently against the savage tide of sorrow.

The next chamber was larger than the first, and far darker. It took Saffron’s eyes several moments to adjust, even when Levan illuminated his wand tip. The proportions of the space defied logic and reason, the ceiling so high that it surely protruded past the top of the cliff above, while the floor was a circle so perfect it was surely hewn by mage instead of nature. An outer ring of rocky land surrounded another pool of inky water—round as a brand poker and deathly still—with a raised platform of circular stone at the center. The entire chamber was arranged like an Augur eye, and Saffron was struck with the suspicion that if any of them set foot in the dark water, it would swirl like the pupil of an ancient prophet.

“What is that?” Levan muttered, squinting across the pool. “On top of the platform? Hells, I think I need glasses.”

Saffron’s vision was sharpening. “A deminite chest, and a set of ancient bones.”

“Oh my.” Miret shuddered viscerally. “Someone who tried to steal the prophecy and failed?”

“Or Sarcane himself,” Levan suggested. “It seems like the sort of dramatic thing an Augur would do. Seal themselves in a cave and die next to their life’s work.”

“Are you sure it’s deminite?” Miret asked. “The chest. It seems the malevolent energy is emanating from there, and deminite shouldn’t have such an effect.”

Levan frowned in genuine confusion. “What malevolent energy?”

Trying to ignore the fresh peal of sadness, Saffron turned to Miret. “I’m fairly sure it’s deminite from the hue and lack of luster. Though that doesn’t make sense—why would a prophecy need to be sealed inside a chest that dulls magic?”

Levan rubbed at his jaw. “I suppose it won’t be as easy as walking through the water to retrieve it.”

“Your healing is at full power, you say?” Miret asked. When Levan nodded, the old scholar sank to his knees beside the water and lowered a forefinger into it. Levan yelled his warning, and Saffron lurched toward the blue-cloaked academic, but when his skin touched the ink-dark pool, nothing happened. Miret shrugged, withdrew, and said genially, “The water seems fine to me, though deeper than it looks. We might have to swim.”

“I can’t swim,” Levan admitted.

“You can’t swim, mil?” Miret seemed horrified by this confession, as though Levan had confessed to enjoying the flayed skin of newborn babes as a snack.

Levan stiffened. “Most people learn as children, and my childhood was rather…busy.”

“Ah.” Miret shuffled awkwardly. “Salron?”

It took Saffron a few minutes to realize the borderline-senile old man meant her. “Oh—no, I can’t either. My mother was overprotective—she was a Healer who’d failed to save a child who drowned in the river. Wouldn’t let me near water.”

“A certain irony to her argument, is there not?” Miret said. “Surely teaching you to swim would have reduced the chances of a fatal accident.”

“I’ll be sure to share your parenting feedback with her,” Saffron replied dryly.

More awkward mumbling from the old man. “Well, shall I?”

Saffron and Levan exchanged a worried glance. Saffron felt they should study the scenario in more depth, put more thought into the best path forward, and yet she also acknowledged that the old man was several orders of magnitude smarter than her, and they were battling for time against the imminent high tide.