Page 25 of Silvercloak

“If you come out of this alive, maybe I’ll tell you.”

“If?” Saffron laughed, but the sound was hollow.

“It’s a dangerous mission, Killoran. I’ve never suggested otherwise.”

Saffron drained the last of her cup and tossed it in a street can. Nausea clamped around her stomach from the sudden influx of sugar, but she felt more human—moremagical—than she had in months.

“Bide your time.” Aspar scanned the market warily. “Root yourself in the order of things. Make yourself useful until you have a deeper feel for how the organization works. Only once you have this base understanding should you begin to plot means of gathering evidence. If it’s essential we meet in person, I’ll be alone at Esmoldan’s Baths every Oparling evening. Not an ideal location, since there are darkened alcoves in which pursuants could lurk, so make sure you aren’t followed. And I’ll be here at the Cherrymarket every Laving at noon. I’ll swap forms with my familiar.”

Her familiar, Bones, was a pissant of a white cat with a black smudge on its nose.

“Why don’t you go undercover yourself?” Saff asked. “As Bones?”

“They don’t let cats gamble.”

Saffron snorted. There was somethinghumoradjacent in the retort, which Aspar was not exactly known for. “You know what I mean.”

“The compound is heavily warded. The dark magic guarding the territory will only yield to a Crown-decreed search warrant, which is why we need substantial evidence against them. To give the Grand Arbiter no choice but to issue the warrant. Otherwise, access is granted only to those with a brand.”

Saff looked up into the sun, letting the warmth wash over her face. “So I guess this is it. The point of no return.”

Aspar bowed her head. “Whatever happens, Killoran, remember …cera belrère.”

It is written.

The Augurest expression—Bellandrian in origin—brought immense peace to followers of the religion. An inherent trust in time and fate, a sort of absolution of worry and fear. Whatever happened was always going to happen, for it was written by the prophets long ago.While Saffron had been raised a Patron, and while she abhorred the Augurests’ mass slaughter of Timeweavers in the name of this mantra, she couldn’t deny feeling a certain comfort in the idea. Her fate was already written. She just had to follow it to the end of its path.

With a final nod farewell, Saff set off in the direction of Celadon Gamehouse, feeling once again that every shadow had eyes.

Until, outside a secondhand bookshop one street from her destination, a shadow did indeed blink. There was a strange hissing sound, like sputtering embers, and it dropped like a curtain.

Before Saff stood a figure she thought would never want to see her again.

A figure of fire and smoke and dragon-gold eyes, in a cloak of flowing silver.

Nissa.

AT THE APPEARANCE OF THE SMOLDERING SILVERCLOAK, Apavement display of leather-bound romance novels yelped and leapt to one side. A violet tome fanned itself, as though the surrounding air had grown far too hot.

Nissa resembled the vault of a wealthy aristocrat. The gold of her eyes, the silver of her cloak, the sapphire of her brooch, the ruby of her lips, the Irisian emeralds on her fingers, all underpinned by the deep, earthen brown of her skin. The gold stud piercing, notched in the bow of her upper lip—an Eqoran custom. Eqoran culture was rich and pervasive despite its secularity, and the lip piercing was to symbolize that kissing an Eqoran was to kiss the entire land.

“Anything you want to tell me?” Nissa drawled, taking a drag on her achullah.

Saff stepped beneath the sunny orange awning of the bookshop, as though this would prevent them from being heard. “Aren’t you supposed to be burning the borders in Carduban?”

Nissa had been purportedly furious with her first posting out of the Academy—guarding the ascenite mines the Eqorans had lusted after for centuries—and had passed the time by scorching complex strings of ancient runes into the ground. TheGriffin Gazettehad run a story onit, since a pair of mountain-dwelling farmers had believed the marks to be made by dragons—which hadn’t been seen on the continent since the Dreadreign. Saff had read the story from her Duncarzus cell, after the guard had taken a liking to her quiet, unobtrusive presence and tossed her the paper each morning once he was finished with it.

“They transferred me.” Nissa shrugged. “Sebran’s there instead. A few skirmishes broke out on the border, and Asparsaidshe wanted someone with a military background there to get it under control. But I figure it’s also because I’m Eqoran, and she doesn’t wholly trust my loyalties.”

Nissa’s family were originally desertcombers from the remotest part of the Diqar, but when they’d lost Nissa’s young twin sisters to a brutal sandstorm, they’d relocated to the marble-fortified city of Zitra, on the northern border. Once they’d arrived in the city, however, Nissa’s curious heritage attracted too much attention from a band of dragonseekers, and after multiple abduction attempts, her parents fled over the border into Vallin, where the Silvercloaks immediately offered special protection.

Now she searched Saffron’s face with a strange mix of emotion.

Saff knew she hadn’t imagined the flickering of the shadows, the spiced scent of achullah,the hair-raising sensation of being watched. It was often said of Wielders thatthose who brandish the flame may bend its shadow.Saff should have known, should have trusted her instincts.

“Fuck, Killor.” Nissa’s nickname for Saff made her toes curl. “I knew something was off.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Saffron replied cautiously. Thankfully she had alotof experience lying through her teeth.

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