Page 38 of Turncloak

Without it, did he stand a chance at leading this organization in his father’s absence? Even Miret had walked away from him. And Sando Segal would never have spoken to Lyrian the way he’d just spoken to Levan.

Control was slipping through his fingers, and if there was one thing Levan could not abide, it was the loss of control. The only thing holding the operation together was his father’s loyalty brand, and—

Hold on.

How was the brand still active, with the old kingpin dead?

It was an enchantment, at its very core. And for an enchantment to remain permanent, the caster—or another mage working closely with them—would have to give up a part of their well permanently. He had never heard his father utter the words medei perpetua, but his back had always been turned while heating the poker over the fire. Ample opportunity to murmur beneath his breath.

Levan had never thought too closely about the mechanics of the brand. It was a painful subject, with painful memories attached—the sort of thing his mind preferred not to look directly at, because then he’d have to confront the reality that his father had mutilated his own son as a child.

In any case, there were hundreds of branded mages under Bloodmoon command. Had his father really been paranoid enough to sacrifice hundreds of small corners of his magical well to ensure their loyalty?

Levan knew the answer as soon as he thought the question.

Of course he was paranoid enough.

It would explain so much—his father’s relatively weak magic, his increasingly splintered mind. The way he had to rely almost exclusively on his ruthless memory rather than arcane power. How easy it then became for Levan to compel him when necessary, when his father’s decisions could have compromised the entire operation.

It would also mean that, now Lyrian was dead…

The brands were no longer active.

All the Bloodmoons could walk free.

And so could Levan.

20

• • • •

No One Wants the Blood

Saffron hunched over a lamplit desk in the mansion library, running a finger over the worn parchment page of From Sacred to Sacrosanct—the tome she’d stolen from Mizad’s Emporium. The text was dense, written in a stiff, formal tone, so she skipped ahead to the final chapter, which detailed the mass evisceration of the weaverwick wands.

During the Great Purge of 1024, most countries on the continent and the pangea ordered their citizens to turn over their weaverwick wands for destruction.[*] The more civilized nations kept extensive records pertaining to the registered classifications of their citizens, and many of said nations executed all registered Timeweavers in the name of the Divine Augurs.

Collecting loose wands, however, was an altogether more complex affair, due to the small stature of the artifacts—easy to hide beneath an old floorboard or bury in a shallow grave. In addition, it is not possible to ascertain the wick of a wand by sight alone, and though there are spells to reveal such information, it would be an unwieldy pursuit to test the millions of wands circulating in Ascenfall.

This scholar has cross-checked the records subpoenaed from wandmakers the world over with the database of wands destroyed during the Great Purge, and has drawn the following summation: as many as a thousand weaverwicks may remain in the wild, gathering dust in ancestral vaults and attracting sinister eyes in the black markets of Nomaden and Mersina.

It must be noted that one nation has remained tight-lipped in regard to the sanctioning of weaverwick wands. Nyrøth famously offered refuge to dragonkind following the ravaging of the continent at the behest of House Rezaran, and the winged beasts are rumored to reside in the Hældrekys Peaks. None but the holder of the Steel Throne is privy to the terms of this agreement, but since dragonkind was integral in the creation of weaverwick wands, it is unlikely they would accept asylum from a nation who purged said wands from existence.

It is therefore the opinion of this author that the malignant artifacts still exist in the far north.

A harrowing thought, is it not? That a cabal of Timeweaving mages at the top of the world might be unwinding and rewriting reality without our knowing?

How many times has this author written and rewritten the same book?

How many times have you read and reread this very sentence?

Saffron’s mind drudged over everything she had learned. The book’s conclusion posited that thousands of unchecked weaverwicks had been hidden across the continent. The author suggested the black markets of Mersina might be fruitful, and so to Mersina Saffron would go.

Of course, there was one other known weaverwick wand in her orbit. The former queenpin’s—used to little effect by the late Lyrian Celadon, and now presumably passed down to Levan himself. But Saffron hadn’t seen him carrying it on his person, and she knew better than to sneak into his chambers or the crypt.

The truly torturous prospect was that there perhaps existed an heirloom weaverwick with Saffron’s name on it, tucked beneath a loose floorboard or buried in a shallow grave. Because the fact Saffron existed meant her ancestor had to have survived, and to have survived meant they had to have hidden their wands.

Joran’s letter would contain everything she wanted and needed to know. Of that much, Saffron was certain. She thought of Captain Aspar’s scattered insights.