Page 58 of Turncloak

“Sen ammorten,” hissed Lorissa, and it hit a mark, and the boy could not believe it, could not believe she would take a life, no matter how desperate, no matter that she was facing certain death or capture herself.

Rasso leapt back into ravenous action.

Many more mutilated bodies fell.

The boy could not separate the emotions writhing inside him. Hope, that his mother might still make it out alive. Dread, that he would never again look at her the same way. Thoughts more complex still, about who deserved to live and who did not. His entire worldview eddying, re-forming, but not yet hardening into a final shape.

Only four wardholders remained—the stilled Wielder and three mages who’d regrouped to guard the front door. An Enchanter and two Practers.

At the sight of the newly dead, the navy-cloaked Enchanter screamed the scream of the newly bereaved, then lunged toward the row of teller’s desks.

“Nie, Vielle!” the Practer yelled after her.

“Sel ammortier,” screamed the Enchanter, Vielle, but her own wild killing curse plunged into a dais, splintering the wood.

The boy shook his head wildly, whimpering no beneath his breath—

—and Vielle stopped running.

Aghast, she looked over to where the boy stood at the bottom of the staircase, wandless, afraid, still wearing his pale blue pajamas, and her mouth fell open in a perfect circle.

The boy looked down, only to find that his body was perfectly visible.

The tincture had worn off.

Tears pouring down his face now, he sprinted in the direction of his mother.

“No,” Lorissa moaned, staggering out from behind the teller’s desk, her own scarlet-clad form pale but discernible now. “Son, n—”

Her moment of maternal instinct cost her everything.

“Sel ammortier,” bellowed Vielle.

Lorissa Rezaran fell dead, and the fallowwolf began to howl.

28

• • • •

His Body Remembered

Levan turned cold and still at Castian’s words.

I think she’s going to die.

Impossible. Someone so vibrant and alive as Saffron Killoran couldn’t die.

“What happened?” he croaked, feeling the heat of Segal’s and Zamorin’s stares. Rasso woke suddenly, as though he sensed his beloved Silver was in danger.

Castian’s voice was panicked, uneven. “I followed her to a black market in Mersina, and—”

“Mersina?”

“She bought a wand from a Wielder with dagger-tattooed cheeks, then got jumped in an alleyway a few streets over. I fought them off—mostly Ludders masquerading as Wielders—but not before six knives found her body. None struck her heart, but there are two nasty ones in her belly and one in her thigh that I don’t like the look of. She’s unconscious, bleeding far too much. Shall I find a Healer?”

Fear burst into flame then, his very skin alight with it.

“No,” he said, hoarse, striding toward the door. Rasso trotted to his heel, whining and wheedling. “I’m the only one who can help her.”