Page 125 of Silvercloak

But Renzel had shaken his head fiercely, his wiry beard having somehow grown fuzzier and more unkempt as proceedings had worn on. “My good sir, I’m afraid I cannot sell you a wand so clearlyrepulsedby the mage it would be beholden to. No offense, dear,” he’d added, addressing Saffron for the first time.

Eventually, Joran had persuaded Renzel to sell a partly damaged old beech he’d stored in the back, having planned to mend it for over a year. Saffron had left the shop with a beat-up wand case, a sting in her wrist, and the feeling of being approximately one inch tall.

Twenty-one years later, Saffron finally realized the true reason none of the wands had felt right: she needed a weaverwick.

“Alexan Renzel,” said Østyrd now, several hundred miles away from that poky hole of a shop in Lunes. “A cantankerous fellow, if memory serves.”

“He didn’t want to sell me a wand at all,” Saffron admitted. “I think he thought I was a Ludder, but I made it through mage school just fine.”

“Well, let’s see if we can find you a more suitable instrument,” said Østyrd, laying down her old wand with a thinly veiledugh. “Do you have an official specialization?”

“No, only Mage Practer.” There was no sense in lying. “But … I was wondering whether you might have any weaverwick wands hidden away?”

Østyrd’s face darkened immediately. He folded his arms over his chest and narrowed his pale eyes. “Did you not see the official decree in the window?”

“I did, but—”

“Well then, you ought to understand that I could lose my freedom. Indulging your whims and curiosities hardly seems worth my life.”

“I know,” Saff said hurriedly, apologetically. “And I understand your hesitation. Do you know any wandmakers who might be more … rebellious?”

She tried for a conspiratorial wink, but his expression remained impenetrable.

“Even if I did,” he said coolly, “you’d still be hard-pressed to find what you’re looking for anywhere on the continent. Most weaverwick wands were destroyed in the Great Purge of 1024. Vallin, Eqora, Bellandry, and the Eastern Republics all complied with the International Council’s decree.”

“What about Mersina?” Saff asked hopefully. A small, anarchic island off the coast of Aredan.

“A law unto itself, as I’m sure you’re aware. Rascals and thieves and mercenaries, the lot of them. But not especially known for their dragon relations, and without dragons … no wicks, no weaving.”

Saff sighed inwardly. Some distant part of her knew this—had studied the period of history surrounding the Great Purge at university, even. Back then, it hadn’t felt so personal, so critical to her survival, and so her memory had simply let it slip away. But the realization came back to her now in full force: Lorissa Rezaran’s wand was likely one of the only weaverwicks left on the continent. And the kingpin had rather a firm grip on it.

“But the dragons retreated to Nyrøth, did they not?” she pushed, hoping forsomethingthat might help her. “Surely a northern purveyor so esteemed as yourself would have access—”

“My lady, I have been rather explicit in my stance on this.” Østyrd’s tone was like the cool clink of metal on glass. “There are no weaverwick wands for sale here.”

Frustration threatening to boil over, Saff turned on her heel. “Alright. Sorry for the trouble.”

As she was leaving, however, Østyrd piped up in a curious sort of voice, “Although … my lady?”

She turned to face him questioningly.

“You might try Rezaran’s Runes, over on Tamoran Place.” He was once again shaving the other wand, gaze fixed on the project with a forced intensity. “They’re a strange lot—not strictly wandmakers, more like trinket collectors—but they’re fanatical about Timeweavers. They might have something.”

Hope fluttered in her chest like batwings. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Vær kynnås,” he replied.

Her Nyrøthi wasn’t great, but Saff knew the expression roughly translated as “fare fine,” or more accurately: “good luck, you strange creature, because you’re going to need it.”

Tamoran Place was only a few streets over, but as she rounded the corner, the acrid smell of smoke was unmissable. Metallic, floral—magical fire, no less. She knew what she would find before she did.

There, in the center of the narrow, cobbled street, a building had burned to the ground. The townhouses on either side were immaculate and unscathed—the shop had been the clear and only target. Now the street looked as though it were missing a tooth.

Dread blackening her vision, Saffron crossed to where the shop once stood. On the ruined flagstones of the shop floor, a clear symbol was drawn in dark charcoal.

The Augurest eye, its iris a spiral.

Saints.This city was growing more divided by the day. From the fresh smell of the smoke, Saff suspected this arson was a recent act. She only hoped the mages inside had escaped with their lives.