Page 164 of Turncloak

Beyond that, smudged with warm desert haze, stood the vast white walls of Zitra. A narrow teal river with a single heavily guarded bridge—built from an alternating pattern of creamstone and painted marble—marked the border between Vallin and Eqora. In the last few hours, a cluster of axelmare-riding mages in earthen brown cloaks had gathered on the opposite side.

Border skirmishes, indeed.

The fighting had been minimal, thus far. A smattering of taunts and nonlethal spells, a general sense of defenses being sized up. Exaggerated gestures toward the mine entrances in the mountains. A sense that this was uncoordinated, unsanctioned by any actual government. Mere posturing, Sebran suspected, though to what end he was not entirely sure.

All he knew was that he was grateful to Nissa Naszi for being unable to keep her cool (or tolerate the boredom) during the border posting—because it had gotten him out of Atherin. Away from the Bloodmoons, away from the growing number of people who knew his secrets.

Sebran looked down at the ground beneath the window ledge, the tips of his polished boots poking over the lip, relishing the dizzy tilt inside his head.

He’d never much cared for heights—until he learned to fly.

He plucked the hem of his silver cloak and pressed the tip of his pine wand against the silk. “Et volinotan.”

The fabric swooshed up behind him like a parachute, and he leapt into the air. A southeasterly gust carried him forth, and he fought the childlike urge to whoop and holler his glee. For a moment, he was the boy in the Havenwood searching for his next adventure, before Lorissa, before everything else.

The mountain rolled out in front of him, his rate of descent deliciously equal to the gradient of the peak, and he glided and glided and glided until eventually coming to land several hundred yards from the guard tower, the soles of his boots grazing rocky earth as he jogged gracefully to a standing stop.

It had taken years of practice. Nobody at the Academy knew he was taking nighttime flying lessons from Naro Terrian, a crotchety old colonel who’d spent his career training an elite special force called the Paramagi. It was a finicky art, halfway between enchanting and wielding, neither of which Sebran had ever been particularly gifted at. Dangerous too—if your magical well ran out halfway through a flight, you’d plummet to the ground in a heartbeat. But with a brutish stubbornness and an unfaltering willingness to deploy his blisblade, Sebran mastered the skill well enough that Terrian could abandon the safety nets and take the soldier on his first real flight off the top of an Augurest temple.

Since then, Sebran had fantasized about all the places around the world he’d love to fly. The Divine Peaks, the Twin Mesas, Bhondriel’s Bluff, the Far Ridges. And it just so happened that Carduban was the perfect place to stretch his wand-wings.

A smile fought its way through Sebran’s stoic exterior as he climbed the steep ascent back to his post, feeling the sweet burn of strained muscles as he walked.

Saints, he loved to fly.

But his mirth was short-lived—because waiting for him in the topmost room of the guard tower was the last person he’d ever expected to see on the craggy outskirts of Carduban.

Levan Rezaran—or Celadon, as he was now known—sat on the open windowsill, his scarlet cloak fluttering behind him, black elm wand hanging loosely from one hand, nothing like the gangly little boy Sebran remembered. His jaw was sharp, his body muscled, his blue eyes devoid of all light.

Sebran stilled in the doorway, subtly drawing his wand, but Levan did not seem to be here to cause harm—rather he jerked a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing down the mountain, and raised a brow.

“Impressive.” His voice was, of course, lower than Sebran remembered, and the light northern accent had washed away with time.

Sebran felt a muscle ripple in his own jaw. “Levan.”

“Laris.” A humorless smile. “Well, it’s Sebran now, I suppose. Sebran Aduran.” A subtle head shake. “I’ve spent so many years looking for you.”

At the sound of his old name, some young, internal part of Sebran reacted. He had worked so hard to shed his Havenwood identity on the streets of Novarin, and his not-brother had just tossed it back at his feet like a forgotten scarf. The reminder was bracing, like a sharp wind somewhere inside him, stripping away his defenses and leaving him raw and vulnerable.

“How did you find me?”

“We turned one of your cohort. They told me two things: that there was a Compeller among their number, and that one cadet had a mysterious past. That nobody knew where he came from, before the military academy. I wondered.”

Sebran’s mind juddered. The Bloodmoons had turned one of the cohort?

Surely not righteous Auria, nor stubborn, hotheaded Nissa. Gaian—he thought the name with a pang of grief—was across the border in Pons Aelii, which only left Tiernan. Weak-willed, weak-hearted Tiernan, with his important father and his absent spine.

Unless…no. Saffron Killoran was still in Duncarzus.

Sebran shrugged. “You always were the more cerebral of us. You thought, I acted. Though it seems you’ve been doing rather a lot of acting yourself, in recent years.”

If Levan felt any guilt or remorse, none showed. “Are you ashamed?”

“Of?”

“Calling me your brother.”

Sebran fixed him with a wooden stare. “I’m not your brother. I never was.”