Page 170 of Turncloak

“Et vocos, Auria Marriosan.”

It took her several beats to place the voice, but when she did, she gasped.

“Sebran?” She climbed to her feet so fast her head rushed. “Where are you? Where have you been?”

“Captive in Bloodmoon mansion. Long story, but I just escaped. I’m back at the Order, but Jebat’s secretary told me you’re on a raid against both the whites and the scarlets.”

Auria’s mind scrambled to catch up. “Hold on. Why were you—”

“Marriosan, I’m coming to help.” His tone was as brusque as ever, yet something new underpinned it; a hum of anger, a nihilistic seethe. “I will bring those bastards down if it’s the last thing I do.”

Auria was torn.

On the one hand, he was likely not briefed, not even debriefed on his captivity. This went against all protocol, all good detective practice. She should insist he fill out the necessary paperwork, conduct the necessary interviews. Assure him that next time, he’d be here.

Yet…there might not be a next time. It could all end here, whether a defeat for white, scarlet, or silver. And his presence could be the thing that tipped the scales in their favor. There was nobody more skilled in ground combat, nobody more ruthless, nobody better at following orders. Sebran would do whatever she told him, and he would do it extremely well.

Perhaps she could order him to protect Saffron—extract her, if he could.

Knowing that this was yet another line she was crossing, she swallowed hard and said, “We’re in Lunes, already in position. How fast can you get here?”

70

• • • •

A Wild Ghost Appears

Levan surveyed the village of Lunes from atop an axelmare, feeling deep in his bones that something was wrong.

Their dwindled party reentered Vallin via the Everswallow Bridge, which arced across the River of the Patrons (or, if you asked the Bellandrians, the River of the Augurs) in a sweeping curve of dark stone and oak. Saffron rode her own axelmare—black cloak spilling over its haunches, wild white-blond curls spilling over her own shoulders, all rather breathtaking—while the wounded Miret slumped in the saddle in front of Levan. The legendary steeds were enormous, jet black, skeletal, though not quite the creatures associated with portari itself. The two they’d hired from a stable in Almere County lacked the broad gray-silver wings, having been bred for more practical purposes than surging through time and space itself.

Rasso trotted alongside them, panting. The axelmares had hurtled through the Havenwood so fast that the wolf had finally been able to sprint to his fullest potential. Of course, now he was rather exhausted, on account of being used to a life of luxury in Bloodmoon mansion and thus rather out of shape. When they reached the river, he dipped his entire head into the water and drank so deeply Levan thought he might drown.

Levan squeezed his thighs and jerked the reins, drawing his axelmare to a halt while Rasso recovered his composure. They stood at the foot of the Lunes side of the bridge, to their right Donan Trilmere’s stable, where they’d leave the steeds for transport back to Almere, and to their left, a winding path through the trees that Levan knew led to Saffron’s childhood home. She was trying too hard not to peer in that direction, her gaze fixed firmly straight ahead—at the village itself.

The village where something was wrong.

Clouds drifted across the waxed moon, causing the spectral light to shift, vanish, and brighten by turns. All the buildings were exactly where they ought to be, and the smattering of people he saw milling outside the nearest tavern and the portari station seemed perfectly normal. The night air smelled of forest and honeywine and woodsmoke, of soft loam and looming rain. Peaceful, ordinary.

Yet there was a…charge.

Much like the peculiar frequency Miret had taught him to pick up while searching for nearby magic. A resonance, like the inside of a ringing bell, felt in the prickle on the back of his neck, the needles at his temples.

Perhaps he was simply exhausted from a long, fraught quest to the far north. Then again, perhaps his perilous life had taught his body to perceive a threat before his mind made sense of it.

He peered over at Saffron, the former detective, the mage whose instincts should have been as talon-sharp as his own, and yet she had the same misty, nostalgic expression she’d worn the last time they’d set foot in her hometown.

Deciding to trust his own body, trust the intuition sharpened against years of torture and danger, he dismounted the steed, making sure Miret was compos mentis enough to take the reins, and said to Saffron, “Return the axelmares to Donan Trilmere. Rasso and I will scope out the portari station before we all go charging in.”

The clouds behind Saffron’s gaze parted. “Why? Are you expecting—”

“I don’t know. But my spine feels like an icicle, and the hairs on the back of my arms are standing on end, and I intend to find out why.”

Once Rasso had filled his belly with river water, Levan drew his wand, ordered the wolf to heel, and then set off in a stiff saunter on the straight road into the center of the village. By the time they reached the portari station, Rasso was growling beside him.

“What is it, boy?”

Levan swept his gaze across the village green.