Page 66 of Turncloak

He stumbled backward.

Impossible.

For several moments, words failed him.

She looked different now—leaner, sharper, dark brown hair hacked off bluntly at her jaw, a white felt patch strung over one eye. Her white cloak had raised shoulder pads embroidered with black wings. A mark of seniority, perhaps.

“The King’s Prophet,” Alucia said, looking lightly amused by his reaction. “What a pleasure.”

“I thought I’d be dealing with Avar Martou,” Harrow eventually managed, trying not to wince as a velvine rubbed against his shin. He was a little allergic to the beasts, and already felt his nose twitch, red bumps rising on his skin.

Alucia shrugged. “My brother is dead.”

Recovering quickly, Harrow summoned his trademark charm, pulling his mouth wide in a charismatic smile. “I thought you were dead, my darling.”

“So Porrol Vogolan would have the city believe. Although my purported murder has been a useful guise as we’ve organized, these past few months.”

“Vogolan lied?” Harrow asked stupidly, for stupid reasons.

“By omission, I suppose—an outright lie would’ve seen the brand slay him. I’ll admit he was clever to outwit it. He’d never have admitted to Lyrian Celadon that I’d successfully fled. Though I hear they’ve both met their demise.” A specter of old emotion ghosted over her face. “How has Levan taken it?”

At this, Harrow bristled (somewhat hypocritically). “I think you lost the right to ask after Levan many betrayals ago.”

“Merely a courtesy. I know everything important anyway.”

“You’ve been dealing some critical blows to the Bloodmoons, of late.”

“I presume that’s why you’re here. You and Levan always had a soft spot for each other.”

Harrow shot her a ravishing smile. “I’m here because I have a prophecy you might find interesting.”

Alucia dropped her heels from the top of the desk, leaning forward. “I’m listening.”

Though Harrow had always insisted that he was loyal to no throne and no cause—not House Arollan, not the Bloodmoons, not even Levan—he couldn’t deny the flicker of guilt. Yes, he was following orders, floating abstractly above the great game of crime and punishment in Vallin’s capital, not caring all too much about who’d emerge triumphant, but the sight of Levan’s lost love made everything a lot more real.

“It won’t come for free, my dear.”

Alucia studied him calmly. “You don’t seem very afraid of me.”

Harrow shrugged. “Years of experience have taught me that I’m far too valuable for most people to consider killing.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t kill you—so far, the throne has largely ignored us, and I’d like to keep it that way. But there are other ways of extracting prophecies. Pain, suffering, truth elixir.”

Harrow withdrew a hip flask from his cloak pocket, taking a hearty swig. “And what would happen when you let me walk out of here—which you’d have to do, to keep the Crown off your back—and I never returned, never again shared any fruitful foretellings with you? Shouldn’t we come to a more civil arrangement?”

Alucia seemed vaguely entertained by his easy air. “Very well. How much?”

“Oh, I have little interest in coin. I’ve never found myself particularly lacking in it. I prefer to trade in secrets.”

Alucia’s stare hardened like fresh forged steel. “My very existence is surely secret enough.”

“A valid point.”

“Continue, then. I’m awaiting a large drop of darkseed, and you’ve already outstayed your welcome.”

Harrow steadied himself to execute the chess move King Quintan had formulated.

“I saw a bloody uprising,” he murmured, imbuing his words with the sort of misty reverence he knew played well when sharing prophecies. “The Palace stormed, scarlet cloaks flapping through the great halls, corpses strewn left and right like rag dolls. Screaming—so much screaming. The guards were dead. The throne room had been barricaded, but it would not hold for much longer.”