Page 171 of Turncloak

Everything seemed…ordinary.

At the far end was a Saints hall, illuminated from within, crimson-and-gold obelisk cast in ethereal moonlight. Behind it was a half-circle curve of buildings—taverns, apothecaries, a cloakery, a shabby inn, few of them attracting many patrons.

To the right of the green was a tavern called the Brimming Keg, which seemed disproportionately full compared to the rest of the village, but perhaps the ale was cheap and good and strong. Next to the tavern was a low stone building where the local streetwatch was housed, but the lights inside were off—if there was anyone on night shift, they were likely on call and perched atop a barstool next door, debating whether to risk a second pint on the clock. So it went, in villages like this.

Still, that prickle on the back of his neck.

Still, Rasso growled.

Levan slipped into the half-moon portari station, wand drawn, but it was deserted. The gate stood in the middle of the room, the air beneath its axelmare arches shimmering and shining, but there were no mages to be seen.

Rasso stood outside the station, still growling threateningly. Levan went back out, crouching by his companion’s side.

“What is it, boy?”

Then—

—shapes.

White-cloaked shapes spilling from a tavern, moving toward him.

White-cloaked shapes with wands drawn, vicious smiles cutting moonlit faces in two.

And one white-cloaked shape in particular, the shoulders of her robes raised and black, as though to mark seniority. Battle experience. Importance.

Levan stood, raising his wand, adrenaline bolting through him like a hot metal rod. As the marked leader moved beneath a streetlamp’s pool of golden light, his legs turned to water.

It couldn’t be.

It couldn’t be.

Alucia.

Alucia, who was supposed to be dead.

Alucia, who he had loved, and who had betrayed him.

He staggered back, and Rasso’s growls turned feral.

“No, boy,” Levan whispered, sensing the forward twitch of his companion’s legs, sensing Rasso was about to tear the throat out of his former betrothed.

Striding ahead of her henchmages, Alucia muttered similarly, keeping them at bay. Insisting that he was hers.

She looked different now—leaner, sharper, her dark brown hair hacked off bluntly at her jaw, a white felt patch strung over one eye. Had she lost the eye in the battle with Vogolan? The battle she had apparently won?

As she approached, Levan’s emotions bled into one another like overlapping wounds.

Hatred, confusion.

Revulsion, devastation, the faint afterimage of love.

And, though he hated to admit it, fear.

Alucia was a skilled enough Enchanter, but ordinarily he’d easily be able to best her in a duel—if his magic was cooperating, and if she didn’t have half a dozen mages in her corner.

He didn’t know what would be worse: for Saffron and Miret to come to his aid, or for them not to.

“Judging by the shock on your face,” Alucia said, and oh, hells, he never thought he’d hear that quiet, crisp voice again, “the King’s Prophet did not betray my little secret.”