Page 1 of Silvercloak

Prologue

TWENTY YEARS AGO

THE KILLORANS’ FRONT DOOR CHANGED COLOR DEPENDING UPONwho knocked.

Sky blue for a charming acquaintance, heart red for a lover present, past, or future. Clover green for a spiteful enemy, or a rich, jammy plum for an old friend. Mustard yellow for family and, due to a slight inaccuracy with the spellwork, traveling salesmen.

The day the Bloodmoons paid a visit, the door turned as black as the bottom of a well.

Mellora had just returned home from a long shift at Saint Isidore’s, the nearby hospital for magical maladies, to find her husband, Joran, and daughter, Saffron, giggling with glee. Joran was slowly and methodically turning everything in the house into sausages, including but not limited to the taps in the kitchen sink, all the cutlery in the top drawer, several house plants, the cat’s furious tail, and his own high-bridged nose.

“Good afternoon to thee,” he said earnestly, as Mellora shrugged off her violet Healer’s cloak. His tone was a little nasal, on account of having a sausage for a nose. He tapped it once with his spindly cedar wand, and his handsome aquiline features returned.

Saffron stood by his side, arms wrapped around his leg, weeping with laughter. Her wild silver-blond curls tumbled over her face. “Daddy, stop! I can’t breathe.”

Warmth swelled in Mellora’s chest.

Oh, how she loved them.

The Killoran family home was a round, ramshackle building overgrown with wildflowers, and Joran had charmed every inch of it with their daughter in mind: bookshelves that never ran out of new stories, miniature stars trapped in lanterns to form tiny constellations, a kettle that whistled the Serpent’s Shanty once the tea was boiled. Carpets that took off at random and whizzed Saff around their small village, whooping and hollering with delight. Favorite of all was a spiral staircase that became a slide whenever Saffron approached the top—a not insignificant piece of conditional transmutation that would floor most ordinary mages.

Mellora was entirely more earnest than her husband—she’d always been unfalteringly sincere, even as a child—but it made her appreciate Joran’s whimsy all the more. She could not imagine a better father for her only child.

Crossing to the cabinet of honeywine, Mellora poured herself a large goblet. As the sweet, sharp nectar hit her tongue, she felt her well of magic—depleted after a long day of healing—begin to refill.

Power was a finite thing, easily drained, and could only be replenished through rich pours ofpleasure. Scented clove candles were eternally lit around their home. Gentle violin music echoed in the ceiling rafters, and the walls were adorned with glorious artwork. A feast for the senses, designed to restore.

Of course, the other thing that bolstered power waspain.

While pleasure swelled thequantityof magic at a mage’s disposal, pain improved thequality. An ancient survival mechanism, one that made magical wars as brutal as they were unpredictable.

But the Killorans wanted nothing to do with pain. Not after everything Joran had been through.

“You’re wasted tinkering away on this house,” Mellora told him, as he enchanted a knife to chop vegetables into neat inch-wide chunks. “You should be in the King’s Cabinet, protecting the realm. Or lecturing at a university. Even magical cure research. I know the Academy for Arcane Ailments and Afflictions is looking for—”

“Maybe joy is enough,” he replied simply, brushing a corkscrew curl away from her face and planting a kiss on her lips. His own long blond hair was tied back with a worn leather string. Mellora had the sudden desire to run her hands through it, to seek pleasure theotherway.

And then came the knock at the door.

Both of them turned at once.

At the sight of the ink-dark wood, Mellora blanched, setting down her goblet with a trembling hand.

“Saff, you have to hide.”

Every word was a shard of bone in her throat.

“But Mama,” Saffron protested, big brown eyes flitting from her parents to the door and back to her parents. She was six years old and doleful as a fawn. “Who is it? I’ve never seen the door black before.”

“Please,” said Joran, hoarse as he laid down the half-charmed knife. It skittered on the chopping block in confusion. “Please, Saffy.”

They didn’t know who was on the other side of the door, but theyknew.

Another knock, more insistent this time, with the air of a final grace.

Joran took an envelope from his cloak pocket and stuffed it into the top drawer of the nearest cabinet, running a mournful finger over the cursive name on the front of the parchment. Mellora watched him, dread gnawing at her belly. Her husband was afraid enough for a farewell letter, and Joran was so rarely afraid.

“Saffron, we love you,” Mellora whispered, kissing her daughter on the cheek. Saff tasted of creamy butter and strawberry jam. “We’ll see you soon.”

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