Page 28 of Turncloak

“Developing spells is like that. First, a visionary sees a better way of doing something. But because there is no direct pathway, no words linked to outcomes, no established commands to steer the magic…it’s hard to force the issue. Magic is obedient, and will try and follow the nearest existing path rather than creating a new one. It takes an immense amount of coordinated effort—of clear, identical intentions and perfect execution—for a legion of mages to forge a new desire line.” Auria folded her arms petulantly over her chest. “But I don’t know what that has to do with mourning Tiernan.”

Lulí laughed kindly. “You never were very strong with metaphor. When it comes to the loss of a life partner…it’s about gently rewriting desire lines. Because over the course of many years, you have been creating desire lines around them, around their life. You become accustomed to doing things a certain way because the person you love does them that way. You brew the tea to their liking, you take an evening walk because they like to decompress after dinner, you pick up a certain newspaper every time you see it on a stand. You call them every time you see a frostowl, because you know how much they love them. You establish rituals and routines, carved through the ground again and again over time until they become intrinsic to your day, to your very existence. And then the destination is suddenly gone, and you have all these paths that lead nowhere, and it feels both wrong to live as normal and wrong not to.”

She rested her palm over Victaria’s hand. “But 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.”

Before Auria could process this, the tip of her sapphire-studded wand crackled to life.

“Et vocos, Detective Marriosan.”

Captain Karvas.

Auria hastily brushed away her tears, as though he could see them. “Sir?”

“Code four-eight-V on Broad Row. Detectives Jebat and Dallar have been dispatched, but I want a trained Healer there. I could send Paliran, but there are whisperings that it’s Whitewing related—your patch. Are you nearby?”

Standing from the table, grabbing her cloak, and draining her cønnafyr, she said, “There in five.”

“Make it four.”

16

• • • •

Murder on Broad Row

Saffron perched on the lip of a rooftop high above the slouching, jewel-toned streets of Atherin, watching the nearest portari gate for a glimpse of Auria Marriosan.

She had tried to establish contact via wand several times, but Auria never answered. Saffron would have to do this face-to-face, yet she’d been sitting on the rooftop all day with little luck.

The Order of the Silvercloaks was based in a grand hilltop building on the outskirts of the capital, which meant on-duty detectives took the gates into the city center at the start of a shift. Auria’s patch was central-west, and so it was the central-west gate Saffron had been staring at since dawn.

Twelve hours later, the bowl of the sky had deepened to indigo and then blue-black, the crescent moon swaddled in curls of cloud. The night air had hollowed from an early winter chill to bone-aching cold. Saffron pulled her wrinkled black leather boots back from their dangle and prepared to leave.

Until her gaze snagged on something.

Someone.

Far below, a hurried-looking mage folded out of the portari gate, tucking a lock of frizzy ginger hair behind a sole ear. A silver cloak hung askew on one shoulder.

It was odd for Auria to be traveling alone—Silvercloaks were usually dispatched in pairs. Saffron’s gaze followed her former colleague as she strode in the direction of bustling Broad Row, then vanished around the corner.

Sprinting back inside the townhouse, Saff hurtled down the spiraled steps four at a time, one hand gliding down the banister so she was half running, half floating into each stairwell. She burst out onto the dark, glittering street.

Black cloak snapping behind her like a Paramagi’s chute, she hurtled down West Way, weaving between inebriated mages and feral children racing. She broke onto Broad Row, moans of pleasure and revelry ringing out like church bells, and scanned the street for any sign of commotion.

There.

The Silvercloaks had cordoned off a fuchsia-fronted pleasurehouse called Anila’s, and dozens of patrons were gathered outside in a state of semi-dress, heads tilted together like flowers, exchanging low mutters and trembling breaths. Streetwatchers blocked revelers from pushing back into the building. The air smelled of darkseed and sex.

Auria was nowhere in sight—had likely entered the building already—so Saffron hung back, close enough to catch slices of murmured conversation. She ascertained that a female mage had been tortured and killed by someone in a white cloak. Several orgy participants had heard the screams, and two had seen the suspect fleeing from a window. Apparently the third such slaughter in a palmful of nights, the pleasurehouses a sudden target.

Little did the Silvercloaks know that one of the pleasurehouse murders had been committed by Saffron herself.

Several minutes after entering, Auria walked out of the pleasurehouse, sapphire-studded willow wand held to her mouth. Saffron weaved closer, pulling up her cloak hood and angling her face away from the light.

“…securing the crime scene for forensics. The suspect is still at large, Dallar is setting up a perimeter. No healing to be done on the victim by the time I arrived, but I’ve gathered the details of both eyewitnesses. Both coming to Order headquarters first thing in the morning to give testimony. The housemistress, Anila, is cooperating and—”

“Marriosan, do not let those eyewitnesses out of your sight, do you hear me?” The deep male voice cutting through Auria’s wand was unfamiliar to Saffron. The new captain? “The Whitewings will kill any witnesses they can get their hands on. Do you still have contact?”