Page 36 of Turncloak

“You want Irisi, no? I can give that to you. Or I can slaughter you where you stand—it’s your choice.”

A glint of intrigue. “What do you mean by ‘give that to me’?”

“Your current army is doomed to fail. On some level you must know this. The Risen do not good soldiers make—the magicless cannot win wars.”

“With enough swords and siege units they can.”

“Perhaps. But do you have the raw wealth to afford an arsenal of analog weaponry? Such things are rare, and rare things carry a heavy price tag.”

Something like amusement twisted across Halant’s face. “You’re trying to buy me.”

“Once my parents are Risen, every ounce of ascenite in this crypt is yours.”

The necromancer’s mirth sharpened into hunger, a subtle dilation of the pupils, a slight puckering of the lips. “How do I know you won’t renege on your offer?”

“A binding oath.”

Caten Promivat. A sacred promise, an unbreakable agreement. Either mage would perish in an instant upon betrayal—the strand of magic that inspired the Bloodmoon loyalty brand, and likely Halant’s own Ülam Kasit.

Halant clambered to his feet, brushed off his trousers, and surveyed the two bodies on the raised platform. “How long have they been dead?”

“My father a matter of days. My mother a matter of decades.”

Halant swore profoundly. “Not possible.”

“She is the crux, the axis, the purpose. You will work on her first, channel all your power into her resurrection.”

A derisive head shake. “The organs will be rotted, the blood hardened, no matter how uncannily unmarred she appears from the outside.”

“We have scores of mages dedicated to upholding the preservation enchantments on this crypt, and an unsaintly amount of ascenite amplifying them. If you cut open my mother’s chest, it would appear she’d died mere moments ago.”

A slight exaggeration. It had taken time to establish a crypt in the Havenwood after Lorissa died, and with meager ascenite and a single dedicated Healer, the preservation enchantments had not been as strong as they were now. But he didn’t want to give Halant any further reason to doubt the boundaries of possible.

After a few moments of hesitation, Halant reached for his wand. With a twinge of fear deep in his gut, Levan passed it over.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Halant’s thin mouth. “What’s stopping me from killing you right now?”

“You don’t know the right words for leaving this crypt, and few mages ever venture down here—you’d die of thirst staring at my rotting corpse.”

Halant considered this.

“On your word,” Levan added. “We make the binding oath.” Halant would have to be the one to initiate the vow—because Levan’s own magic was an untamed beast.

The cold air in the crypt felt hostile in the ensuing silence.

Finally, Halant raised his wand and nodded. Levan crossed his black elm wand over the cinnabar wand, forming an X.

“Iv Katan Poçivak.” Halant began the spellwork in his native tongue—always stronger that way.

“In Caten Promivat. I offer freedom, plus all the ascenite in this crypt, in exchange for my mother and father’s Rising—and staying Risen.”

One had to be precise with a binding vow, and Levan watched the cogs turn in Halant’s mind as he examined the words for a trap. There was none. It was simple, specific, definitive.

“Iv Katan Poçivak,” Halant echoed.

Raw magic shot from the tip of Halant’s wand and sewed itself around the other. Levan felt a tugging sensation, as though someone was trying to yank the wand from his grip, and he tightened his hold, noticing Halant do the same. With a final glittering flourish, the string of magic shivered away, and both mages loosed their breaths.

Levan distantly wondered whether Saffron might propose such an oath in the name of rebuilding their trust. That she hadn’t already suggested it was suspicious—she was willing to slay a Whitewing and hand over incriminating evidence, but not do this. Then again, perhaps she was simply smart enough to keep her options open. She had to be able to flee if he threatened her.