Page 9 of Turncloak

Ordering Rasso to wait around the corner, Saff pushed inside the shop, a bell tinkling over the doorway.

Oak cabinetry lined all four walls, the shelves inset with ascenite and rubies, the wands displayed proudly on black velvet cushions—the shop specialized in currantpalm, a type of Eqoran wood favored by Wielders. Between each wand cabinet stood bookshelves topped with antique tomes, their leather-bound spines cracked, gold foil lettering peeling away.

Siran Mizad stood behind a curved counter at the back of the shop, carving letters into a palm-size wooden plaque with a deeply furrowed brow. The edges of his black moustache were waxed into swirls, and his bald brown head gleamed under an ascenite chandelier. He wore a gold-framed monocle and a wandmaker’s cloak the color of red wine.

“Help you?” he asked shortly, northern Eqoran accent gritty with sand and wind.

“I’m looking for a weaverwick wand.”

Words she’d uttered countless times over the past four days, as she’d traipsed all over Vallin in search of one. A haughty merchant in Novarin, the scholar’s city, had recommended Mizad—an old business associate and “all-round scoundrel.”

Mizad laid down his engraving tool, raking his gaze over his customer like a jeweler measuring a gemstone’s worth. “Allow me to search my storeroom. Bear with.”

As he disappeared through a back door, Saffron studied the old, rare books on the shelves, pulling out particularly interesting titles and studying their descriptions. Minutes rolled into a quarter hour, and Mizad still did not return. Eventually, the bell above the front door tinkled and three shadow-draped figures stepped over the threshold.

The first was a very familiar Silvercloak.

Gaian Villar had pale skin and long, ashy hair the same hue as the silver cloak pinned at his throat. His family was quietly wealthy—they owned a creamstone quarry in the Royal Riverlands—and implausibly well-adjusted. Saffron had trained with him and four other cadets at the Silvercloak Academy, and until this very moment, she’d believed him to be undercover over the border in Pons Aelii.

At the sight of Saff, Gaian’s mouth fell open. “Killoran?”

He was flanked by two female soldiers, each wearing the gold-trimmed plum cloaks of the Vallish infantry, who exchanged perturbed glances.

“I’m sorry, Meza’am.” The wandmaker reentered the shopfront with his chin tucked to his chest, muttering remorsefully (and perhaps overly politely) to Saffron. “I evaded a prison sentence by promising to turn in any mage who came in search of a weaverwick.”

Gaian stepped farther into the room, the heels of his black polished boots clacking like gavels. “Killoran, what are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know.” She shrugged wryly. “Trying to rewrite old mistakes.”

Gaian eyed her shabby black cloak. “Aren’t you just a Mage Practer?”

There was a whole lifetime of shame on the word just. An old frustration flared, but she kept it contained. “There’s no way to know whether you can Timeweave until you try, and no way to try without a weaverwick.”

“You’d really do that?” Gaian seemed aghast. “Turn back years and years just to unmake—what? What would you unmake, exactly?”

“Doesn’t matter, does it? I’m just a Mage Practer. What are you doing here? Why aren’t you…on your other assignment?” She tried to be discreet—the two soldiers would not be privy to Gaian’s undercover intelligence work.

A muscle twitched on his squared-off jaw. “Cover was blown, situation grew hostile. Aspar reassigned me.”

Saffron kept her face neutral. Gaian likely knew by now that Captain Aspar died in the Havenwood, but word had not yet reached him that Saffron had been there too—in a scarlet cloak, no less. “Sebran’s posted in Carduban too, no? Is border tension simmering so high we need two silvers on the watchtower?”

Something dark passed over Gaian’s face. “Sebran was reported missing in action weeks ago.”

She gaped at him. “Sebran? A deserter? There’s no way. Something awful must have—”

“It’s being taken care of.” Gaian shook his head at the infantry mages. “Let’s go. She’s not a threat.”

“We aren’t going to arrest her?” asked one of the soldiers, cracking her knuckles as though hankering for a scuffle. “She breached the Crown decree.”

Saffron hooked a churlish brow. “Did I?”

Gaian pressed his lips into a flat line. “I don’t think there was any real intent behind her inquiry. She’s just desperate. Lost.”

“Charming.”

He sighed, softening slightly. “Saffron…I’m sorry things ended up here. You were a great cadet, and you would’ve had a lot to offer the force. But you’d be better served moving on with your life. Let it all go. Your mistakes, your failings. Learn to live alongside them, instead of trying to unmake them.”

Sanctimonious vock.