Page 67 of Turncloak

The two sentries flanking the queenpin exchanged hateful looks.

Alucia kept her expression neutral, but barely. “The Bloodmoons are going to take the Palace. And the throne?”

“If we allow them to grow in power, then yes, it looks likely.”

“But it could be prevented?” she asked, tone dark with hunger.

Harrow smiled faintly. “Perhaps.”

“Aren’t all of your prophecies guaranteed to come to pass?”

“Nobody truly knows. I just thought you might like to try and change such a fate.”

“So it’s for our benefit. Nothing to do with House Arollan trying to thwart their own downfall.”

“Our goals align.”

“Why doesn’t Quintan enlist the military he’s worked so hard to build? Eradicate the Bloodmoons over the course of a single evening.”

“And spit in the face of the justice system? The courts and the Silvercloaks were established to bring order, to promise fair trial and lawful arrests. Deploying the military would signify lack of faith in his own institutions.”

“So the king wants us to do his dirty work for him.”

“The king has no official position,” Harrow recited by rote. “I came of my own accord.”

Alucia shook her head, straining to understand the bigger picture. “Why are you doing this? Levan—”

“I care for Levan, yes. That does not mean I want the Bloodmoons on the throne. King Quintan may not be the most popular regent in Vallin’s history, but he is a pacifistic one. For all I love to stir the pot, I don’t want to see the continent plunged into war. Who knows where it would stop if the scarlets took control.”

Alucia stood, spine wand-straight, pixie chin raised. “And you’re aware that in the process of attempting to prevent such a thing, Levan himself may lose his life.”

Something deep inside Harrow keened and twisted.

“I would rather he didn’t. But do as you must.”

Part Four

Letters

33

• • • •

Fifteen Years Ago

Lorissa Rezaran was dead in the atrium of the Bank of Almere, and the boy from the woods was filled with ice. The fallowwolf wailed his grief at the sky.

Water lay everywhere, shining pale green beneath the moonlight filtering through the emerald dome. A vast pillar of glassy liquid stood proud, unnatural, at the behest of the Wielder the boy had compelled to stop drowning his mother. A lambent white-gold emanated from hundreds of small banker’s lamps. The air was scented with smoke and ash and honey.

For several long beats, there was an arcane stillness, a pause in reality.

Then it fractured like a bone.

“Mama,” the boy whispered, voice splintering, sobs springing afresh.

“Samien,” moaned Vielle, the mage who’d killed the boy’s mother, as she crawled on hands and knees to the dead body of a handsome mage in a violet cloak. His eyes stared at the domed ceiling, unseeing.

The boy ran for his mother, half-blind with tears, snot running into his mouth. He fell to his knees beside her.