Page 65 of Turncloak

—Simply elsewhere.

Auria shook her head fiercely. It was the part of death she’d never been able to comprehend—the where.

Where were they?

Where were they, where were they, where were they?

Worshippers of the Saints believed that when a mage’s body died, their soul was transmuted back into raw magic, which could be used again—for a spell, for nature, for another soul. But Auria had always bucked against that idea. While many found peace in the thought that their loved one was all around them as an arcane force, Auria couldn’t bear the notion of her grandfather being recycled into a simple cloak-mending spell.

Forgetting that she was not talking to her grandfather in any real sense, she found herself asking:

When you passed, what happened? Where did you—

Before Auria could parcel her existential questions so that they could be neatly answered, there was a smudge of movement across the dark street.

A figure in the night, passing through the pools of warm light spilling from the occupied houses, until they reached the plague house. Auria fumbled for her binoculars, lifting them to her face so fast she almost crushed her eye sockets.

The man wore a plain navy cloak over a handsome navy doublet, and dark auburn hair hung around a pale face in perfect waves. He lifted a goldenjade pocketwatch, frowned down at it, then peered up at the plague house with an expression of grim determination. He strode up the front path, weaving between the dead weeds and gnarled tree roots. As he raised a hand to knock, the door opened inward, and the mage in navy stepped over the threshold and disappeared.

Pulse pounding, Auria set down the binoculars and picked up her best quill. She paused, considering how to describe the mage she’d just seen.

There was something distantly familiar about him, something that chimed in the well-ordered recesses of Auria’s memory. She cross-checked her rigorously documented mental files, landing upon the source of the recognition within moments.

During her time at university, this mage had given a guest lecture on the role of prophetic visions in the justice system—how they might be admitted as valid evidence in a trial when they were so hard to prove or verify. It had been a titillating seminar, and Auria still reviewed her notes from time to time, just for the pleasure of it.

Yes, that was him.

The King’s Prophet.

What was a Highcloak doing in Atherin’s criminal gutters?

32

• • • •

The Whitewing Queenpin

The Whitewings were expecting Harrow Claver.

A letter had been delivered to the derelict plague house a day prior, announcing that the King’s Prophet would be paying a visit to discuss important state matters. Harrow had anticipated a more defensive response from the Whitewings, who had only just laid down roots on Fallow Grange and were surely perturbed that their new headquarters had been discovered so soon. But when Harrow arrived at the agreed upon time, the door swung open of its own volition, admitting him inside with a woeful creak of rusted hinges.

The plague house was pitch dark, and reeked of something very old and very dead, like the leathery serpent skins sold in apothecaries. The front door pulled itself shut behind Harrow, and when his eyesight adjusted to the blackness, he picked out a straight, narrow corridor snaking away from the entrance. The only light came from the top of a flight of rotted wooden stairs, a faint white glow with no clear origin.

“Up here,” called a voice—high, soft, female—from somewhere above.

Primal instincts prickling, Harrow drew his wand and climbed, certain his polished boots would crumble through a damp slat at any given moment. The steps opened out onto an equally decrepit landing, the floorboards bare and flecked with black mold, blue wallpaper peeling away like fruit rind, a crooked chandelier dangling from the ceiling and emitting feeble flickers of light.

Harrow stepped through the lone open door at the back of the house.

The room had once been a parlor, judging by the scattered, sheet-strewn chaise longues and proud bookshelves. Crates of neatly labeled substances lined the units, most of whose labels Harrow did not recognize, as well as several metallic lockboxes. The drapes were so moth-eaten they might crumble under a particularly stern exhale, but efforts had been made to make the space more pleasant—embroidered rugs layered over grotty floorboards, a vase of fresh white roses on the curtained windowsill, three velvines purring around their mistress.

Their mistress, who sat behind a tall desk, feet kicked up, wand spinning between her fingers.

Their mistress, flanked by two white cloaked mages with larger muscles than really seemed feasible.

Their mistress, whom Harrow had met many times before.

Alucia Martou.