Page 81 of Silvercloak

“I’m still alive. And I’m so sorry for dragging you into this.”

“As far as I remember, I dragged myself into it. Please do not implythat you have the power to make me do something against my will. My will is iron.”

Saff snorted. “Iron can be struck into shape if the forge is hot enough.”

“Fine. My will is coal. Black and ugly and misshapen.”

“But coal—”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.” Nissa’s brandy-slackened lips twisted into a half smile, half grimace. “Metaphors aren’t my thing. Let’s just say I’m a stubborn wretch and be done with it.”

It was only then that Saff noticed how unwell Nissa looked. There were dark smudges beneath her golden eyes, and a sort of sickly green pallor to her usually warm brown skin.

“Are you alright?” Saffron asked, resisting the urge to reach out and touch Nissa’s forearm.

Nissa grunted. “Crescent moon.”

Of course. Nissa’s monthly blood cycles, which always fell on the crescent moon, caused her immense pain. Searing, clenching agony around her lower belly, radiating around to her back. Nausea, vomiting, and a sharp nosedive in mood. The Healers thought it’d be very difficult for her to conceive a child, which Nissa was largely delighted about, but she could still do without the debilitating symptoms.

“Still holding out on Paliran’s tincture?” Saff asked.

Nissa’s expression darkened. “I’ve told you, I’m not touching whiteroot. No matter how bad it gets. You know how addictive my personality is. I’ll be begging in the gutters within the month if I go near the stuff. And anyway, the pain is what makes my wielding so powerful. I don’t want to lose my edge.”

Flawed logic Saffron had heard one too many times. Her mother had suffered badly with anxiety, but since she was convinced that it made her a more vigilant Healer, she refused all medicinal and psychological aid. But Saff knew better than to argue with Nissa, to insist that living in pain was no way to live at all.

Nor should she offer any sympathy. Even at the height of their relationship, Nissa hadn’t wanted Saffron’s comfort. She’d just wanted to be left alone in the pain cave until it was finally time to emerge. Andso they would proceed as normal, pretending Nissa was not a shadow of her usual self.

Saff looked around the bar, squinting through the hazy spores and the dim light. “No Auria and Tiernan?”

“Night shift.” Nissa didn’t meet Saff’s eye, and Saff suspected her former friends simply did not want to be seen with her. Despite everything that had happened, their rejection still stung. “How have things been?”

Saffron grimaced. “Well, they made me carve out an innocent man’s eyeball with a letteropener, so not great.”

“Hells, Killor. You know I enjoy a bit of sadism, but that’s …”

“I know. Do you have anything on Nalezen Zares?”

Nissa nodded briskly. “She’s a necromancer and known criminal. Detective Jebat has been building a case against her for some time but hasn’t gotten enough evidence to stick the charge. Essentially Zares seduces mages in bars, brings them back to her apartment, and executes them just so she can practice bringing them back to life. Well,practiceis the more charitable theory. Jebat reckons it’s a fetish of hers.”

Saff tried not to blanch. The Bloodmoons had been looking for a necromancer twenty-one years ago, on the night Saff’s parents were killed.

Never mind that raising the dead went against nature. Never mind that the Risen nevertrulyrose. Something essential in their spirit would be forever lost. Hundreds of years ago, the state would have put the Risen to death once more, struck them with a Crown-sanctioned killing spell in a jeering town square. Now they were simply cuffed with deminite, to minimize the damage their corrupt souls could do, and at the first sign of trouble, they’d be hauled off to Duncarzus for life—the harshest punishment decreed by judge and jury since the Grand Arbiter had abolished the death penalty.

And so not only was Zares committing a series of unlawful acts, she was also condemning her victims to a lifetime of damnation. All for afetish.

“Grim,” Saff muttered. “Any idea of her whereabouts?”

“Last seen wreaking havoc in the Valiant Sword. A tavern in Port Ouran, by the King’s Canal.”

Saff nodded gratefully. Tiredness weighed her down, her bones made of molasses. She longed to sink into a hot bath and never resurface. “Thank you.”

Nissa studied her face as the bard plucked a bum note on his lute, and an old man jeered his disapproval. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

“You don’t have to do it,” Saff muttered. “You can walk away from this now.”

“But you can’t.”

“No, I can’t.”

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