Page 33 of Silvercloak

“Nalezen Zares,” Saff rushed out. “I can help you find Nalezen Zares.”

There it was again: a shift, a recoil. The Bloodmoon’s grip tightened on his thick oak wand. “How do you know of Zares?”

“I fucked her mother.”

A reckless riposte, perhaps.

His brow furrowed. “You can’t have. Ikilledher mother.”

A quirk of her lip. “But you seem such a peaceful fellow?”

Humor, she found, was a useful way to disarm those who believed themselves more intelligent than everyone around them. A way of sayingHere, look, I’m as quick on my feet as you are, as mentally agile, assharply observant. I’m a person worth your time.Or, if they didn’t believe the idea that humor correlated with intelligence, at the very least they might translateshockasinterest.

Sure enough, something like intrigue quirked on his face. The banter was buying her more time—or more rope with which to hang herself.

“I don’t know Zares,” she admitted, a little breathless. “But I have an old friend in the Silvercloaks—the most gifted researcher I’ve ever known. If anyone can find them, she can.”

As the Bloodmoon considered this, something hope-shaped bloomed in Saffron. Miners in the Mountains of Promise used a homing charm to locate patches rich with ascenite.This was how it must feel to find a promising spot of earth: a glow, a hum, an innate urge to keep pushing forth.

“What’s her name? Your friend.”

Guilt lanced through Saff at the thought of dragging Auria into this. “That I won’t tell you.”

A muscle feathered in his jaw, accentuating the cleft in his chin. “Is stubbornness worth your life?”

“It’s worth hers.”

This earned her a caustic eye roll. “The integrity of a Silvercloak, even in your final moments. Admirable.Sen ammorten.”

“Ans clyptus,” called Saffron at the same time, and one more shimmering spellshield materialized in front of her, absorbing the killing spell.

But as soon as the shield was struck, it collapsed inward.

Her well was drained; she was almost out of pleasure, only a few desperate dregs remaining.

Pain would have to suffice.

Letting her cloak sleeve drop to her elbow, she dragged her bare forearm along the rough stone wall. She hissed between her teeth as her skin grazed and shredded, blood blossoming in furious patches.

The last scraps of power in her brightened, deepened, the quality increasing if not the quantity. It was stronger, more potent, but she would have to spend it wisely.

Dodging another killing curse, she muttered an old faithful spell under her breath. “Ans lusio dulipsan.”

“Sen ammorten,” he incanted, louder and shorter than before, as though she was beginning to piss him off.

Only now there were two of her.

The illusion surged from nothing. From decades of practice, it looked even more real than her own body, which she had shrouded in a kind of pale mist to make itseemlike the illusion of the pair.

Both versions of Saff dodged the killing curse, and then they split in different directions.

Sure enough, the Bloodmoon’s gaze followed the illusion, wand still raised.

For a moment, Saffron was entranced by her own work. The illusion bore such an eerie likeness that it sent unease curling through her, like watching a mirror reflection act of its own accord.

Illusion-Saffron tucked her silver curl behind her ear and raised her wand to the Bloodmoon, parting her lips as though to utter a fresh spell.

“Sen ammorten,” the Bloodmoon snarled.