Page 44 of Turncloak

“What now, Levan?” The Bellandrian only ever seemed to bleed into Harrow’s accent when he said his lover’s name. Lay-van instead of Leh-van.

Levan breathed out long and slow, the crisp air pluming around his mouth. Something told him he was still a fool, still being played. And it gnawed at him, that he could never know for sure until it was too late. That even once the bridge of trust had been built back, he would still have to walk over it, believe that it would bear his weight.

He lifted his wand to his face. “Et vocos, Aviruna Castian.”

The answering voice was bleary. Lox-addled, most likely. “Levan?”

“I want you to follow Saffron Killoran.”

22

• • • •

The King’s Prophet

The High Council of House Arollan, beholden to King Quintan first and the protection of the realm second, gathered around a long ascenite table in the Grand Chamber. Among them sat Harrow Claver, lover of fine wine and good sex, foreteller of mostly accurate prophecies, and haver of many excellent opinions.

Harrow sat with an elbow slung over the back of his seat, one ankle cocked over a knee to convey a certain jauntiness, though he felt anything but. As the other Council members squabbled about some long-standing debt or another, Harrow stared into the empty bowl of his hammered bronze goblet, deeply troubled over the vision he’d had the night before.

King Quintan—a broad, bejowled Enchanter with gray-flecked black hair, muddy brown eyes, and a downturned mouth—watched his prophet like a sunhawk, ignoring the droll subject of interest rates. In this room, he cared about one thing only: the contents of Harrow’s mind.

I cannot show him this, Harrow thought, knowing he would soon have little choice.

He had feigned many prophecies before. Not to the king, who’d have his head for the act, but to Levan Celadon. Delicious morsels drip-fed carefully enough to keep the scarlet cloaks close. King Quintan’s head on the Palace steps, et cetera.

All of it nonsense—until now.

He shivered. The king, who was always too warm, had demanded that the tall arched windows be cracked open to let in the fresh air. The creamstone walls of the Council Chambers were hung with three alternating banners—one rich purple with a bronze stripe for Vallin, one a gold chalice and laurel wreath against a burgundy backdrop for the patron saints, and one navy blue with a crown of silver stars for House Arollan—all of which rippled in the cutting breeze.

“No cause is worth going into more debt with the Joribali,” said Chalos Arentar, the Highcloak of Coin, a nervous Enchanter with neat blond hair and a needlessly weak chin. He wrung his hands like a dishcloth and wore so many ascenpearl necklaces that his posture was permanently stooped. “The interest is steep and we’re already failing to cover it. We’re at risk of them seizing—”

“The Mersini, then,” said the Highcloak of War. Cold, ruthless Kesven Flane, who had never actually fought on a battlefield. “The Smugglers’ Bank is generous with its lending.”

“And if you don’t repay within the agreed upon term, they’ll swiftly and merrily declare war.”

“So let them.” Flane banged his palm on the table. “We’d crush them, would we not? What do they have for an army but rogues and mercenaries? They have no national pride, and without national pride, it’s hard to coax bodies to the battlefields. We have it in spades. We’re organized, well-trained. We have allies. Does our defense pact with the Bellandrians not still hold its salt?”

The Highcloak of Coin glanced at the king, who was still not particularly listening. “I fear it sustained mortal damage when those pillaging Nyrøthis dipped south of the Rapier and we did not send reinforcements.”

“That was hardly war, and thus our pact was hardly binding!”

“The argument you made at the time, Highcloak Flane. I’m just not sure the Bellandrians agree.”

Flane’s cheeks had reddened with anger. He turned to King Quintan. “Have you spoken with Queen Vune recently, Your Grace?”

King Quintan’s stare remained locked onto Harrow. “I wish for the Royal Prophet to speak now.”

Dread jerked in Harrow’s belly. “Of what do you wish me to speak, Your Grace?”

The king folded his arms over his chest, sleeves falling away and exposing the flesh up to the elbow. He’d had beads of ascenite embedded beneath his skin and anchored to the bone in a swirling pattern—a fashion statement and a permanent power-bolstering all in one. Many of the Highcloaks and the other upper echelons of Vallish society had followed suit, though it was a rather more painful and expensive procedure than was really desirable, and was thus falling out of favor.

“Whatever has you cradling your goblet like a mother coaxing milk from her teat, Highcloak Claver.”

Harrow forced a cocky smile. “I was simply lamenting its emptiness.”

King Quintan stabbed a thumb in the direction of a servant standing nervously by the door, holding a jug of honeywine. “Refill the boy’s cup.”

The servant scurried over, chin low. King Quintan rummaged in his inner pocket, pulling out a vial of truth elixir and rolling it down the table toward his prophet. Harrow swallowed it down dutifully, washing away the sickly sweet taste with a glug of fresh honeywine.