Page 115 of Silvercloak

There was a long, ear-ringing silence, his gaze following the vaporous strand as though he could see it all the way to the end. Then a black wall came down behind his eyes, something hard and cruel, something that resembled …epiphany.

Saints knew what that epiphany was, or how it might implicate her. But it must have been compelling, because somehow,somehow,he muttered, “You’re dismissed, Filthcloak.”

Barely believing her good fortune, Saffron climbed tremulously to her feet and left the room, Rasso at her heel. The corridor was deserted but for the tracing strand, and the shimmering blue-gray vapor sent a sharp yank of dread through Saffron.

And then the dread took a certain form, a certain shape.

Levan.

It has a particular penchant for elm.

His wand was black elm, the same as Nissa’s.

Call it Silvercloak instinct, call it deep intuition, call it a strange kind of logic, but she knew beyond all doubt or reason that the strand led to him.

And Lyrian had already accused Levan of the murder once.

The epiphany that had fallen down beneath the kingpin’s eyes … the blackness of it, the way it had ushered all thoughts of Saffron from his head.

Saints.

She had to warn Levan.

Saff didn’t know where the thought came from—Levan was every bit the crook his father was—but it likely had its roots in guilt. She hadkilled Vogolan, and Levan had not, and yet he would be falling on the sword for her. Deep down, she knew she should let this happen, because it would solve so many of her problems, would neatly sidestep the fact that Levanhadto know she was a rat, and yet, and yet, and yet …

In a horrified daze, she followed the tracing strand, and sure enough, after several winding corridors, it disappeared wispily into Levan’s bedroom door.

She knocked loudly, insistently, Rasso still purring at her side.

After the shuffling of footsteps, the door opened inward, and Levan appeared beyond the frame. Without waiting for a single word, Saff pushed past him into the room. Levan held his wand in one hand, peering curiously down at the blue-silver thread buried in its tip, then looked back up at Saff.

Understanding knotted his brows into a frown. He’d been there when Nissa had given her the tracing charm, when she’d warned Saff that it only worked half the time. Driven by childish instinct, he threw his wand to the ground with a clatter, as though holding it was the only thing implicating him.

“But I didn’t …” he said, as though that mattered at all.

“I know.”

The frown deepened. “But the only way you could know is if …”

He searched her face, eyes darting and flickering, so much more alive than on that first night. A brow raised in unspoken question.

Saff nodded once. “Yes.”

It was a risk, of course, to tell him the truth. It would invite unflattering questions, would tarnish his opinion of her, would cast doubt over the brand’s efficacy. And yet she was exhausted from a night of chaos and killing, lies and deceits, and some part of herwantedLevan to know what she was capable of. That she would defend herself, if she so had to.

A curious question came to her, then.

Did the prophecy still exist, in this version of the world she had created? Was she still fated to kill Levan? Or had she unmade that fate too?

She sensed, somehow, that they were approaching some pivotalmoment, all the tangled twine of the present knotting itself into a terrible future. But had the form of that future shifted?

“What happened?” His tone was low, urgent. “Did Vogolan hurt you?”

“Snapped my arm.” Or tried to. “Killed my friend’s grandfather in a gruesome and unnecessary way.”

Levan clenched his jaw, and Saffron recalled their conversation after the conclave.

To me, Vogolan seems evil just for evil’s sake.

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