Page 108 of Silvercloak

Saffron rolled up her cloak sleeves, held the tip of her knobbly beech wand to Nissa’s curse mark.

“Ans mederan, ans mederan, ans mederan.”

Heal. Heal. Heal.

But nothing happened. Saffron had never held any affinity for the work her mother had found so natural, and yet some part of her had thought—hoped, wished, beyond all reason—that sheer desperation would bend the magic to her will. That the grief and pain swirling in her well had lent her whole new power.

“Ans mederan, ans mederan, ans mederan.”

Still nothing.

She tried again and again and again to rouse Nissa, dogged, almost frenzied, feeling the strength leech from her with every attempt. Somewhere in the distance was the bellow of thunder and water and fire, but none of it louder than the fact Nissa wasdying.

Her chest rose and fell, but unevenly, unconvincingly.

On the brink, the precipice.

A wind gusted through the corridor, its direction and force so unnatural that it had to have been wielded, knocking Saffron backward so hard that her head slammed against the floor. Her vision starred. The gale carried with it a peculiar scent—like pepper and ash and rotten rose petals.

Sharp, hacking coughs erupted over the deck. Coughs, thuds, retching noises.

Large figures appeared at the end of the corridor. Levan stood upright, levitating the prone bodies of Lyrian and Castian along the hallway. Alive, but retching so violently they couldn’t stand. Levan was coughing, staggering, gripping the walls and doorframes for support.

The smell stung the back of Saff’s throat, singed the hairs in her nose, but it didn’t force the air from her lungs the same way.

Which meant it had to be magical.

She forced a string of violent coughs to keep cover.

“We h-have to go,” Levan gasped between hacking his guts up. “They h-have some k-kind of airborne weap—” The final word was severed with another vicious retch.

“Nissa’s still breathing,” Saff said in a rush. “Special undergarment. Please bring her back from the brink, Levan. Please.”

He shook his head violently. “N-no time.”

Castian fainted, her whole body convulsing around her middle, and Lyrian wasn’t far behind.

“Please.” Tears spilled freely down Saff’s face. She faked another cough, pretending to be dizzy. “I don’t want to beg you, but I will.”

“Get. Us.Out,” Lyrian hissed, thumping a palm on the floorboards, his face purple from lack of oxygen, before promptly falling unconscious.

Levan glanced over his shoulder, pitching dangerously as he did.

Auria and Aspar boarded the deck of the boat, wearing strange black masks over their noses and mouths. An endless whorl of fine purple mist curled and cascaded from Auria’s wand.

An airborne weapon.

At the thought, a sharp chill scraped down Saffron’s neck.

“Levan, please.” Saff grabbed fistfuls of Nissa’s cloak in her hands. “I love her. I love her so much.”

Levan’s gaze went first to the pendant around her neck, which shone an unmistakable heart red, then burned straight through to Saffron’s very core, right into the wounded child at the heart of her. He seemed to see all the broken, shattered parts, how she’d glued them back together into something loosely resembling a person. He seemed to understand what irrevocable harm another breakage would do.

After a splintered moment of indecision, he dropped to his knees.

At first Saff thought he’d passed out, that it was over, that Auria and Aspar would take them all in despite the lack of lox, that Nissa would succumb to the lure of death, but … no. Levan was still very much alert.

Dizzily, he rested his wand on Nissa’s curse mark and said, “Ans mederan.”

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