Page 57 of Silvercloak

“Do you remember her name?” Saffron asked tentatively.

A terse nod. “I remember every name. Tenea.”

Finally, his expression cemented itself, and he raised his wand.

The black elm hovered over Tenea’s dilated pupil, flared so wide her slate-gray iris was eclipsed. A horrible lurch went through Saffron’s belly, but the least she could do was bear witness to the girl’s final moments.

He tapped his wand to the entombed eye. “Ans casulan libreran, ans niman vanesan.”

Saffron didn’t recognize Levan’s spellwork, but the cadence of it made her start. The precision, the mastery … it reminded her so viscerally of her father’s magic, the way he linked together complexcharms to form a compound enchantment. He’d always had a gift for alloyed spells.

An intense ache of grief spread between her ribs, wrapping around her lungs, her heart.

She watched in half awe, half horror as the glass casing opened at an invisible seam. The eyeball didn’t squelch into Levan’s open palm, but rather melted away into thin air with a tangible, passingsigh.

As the last vestiges of Tenea vanished into nothing, Saffron’s brain scrambled to make sense of it. One of the cardinal rules of magic was thatsomethingcould not be madenothing.Matter could not be made to disappear entirely, because it would upset the energy balance of the world.

“Where has she gone?” Saff breathed.

A simple shrug. “Elsewhere.”

What did that mean? How was there still so much Saffron was yet to understand about magic?

Levan closed his empty palm and whispered something so quietly Saffron almost didn’t catch it.

“Aterni se quiestae.”

Saff jolted at the expression. It was something she’d only ever heard her uncle Merin say, something she couldn’t remember how to translate precisely. It meant something like “eternal peace.”

She blinked in surprise. “You know Ancient Sarthi?”

Two thousand years ago, when explorers of old knew only of the continent—and not of the vast pangea that lay beneath it—there had been only two known lands: Nyrøth and Sarth. Over time, the sprawling tundra nation of Nyrøth remained united as a whole, but bloody battles and terrible wars carved Sarth up into three separate territories: Vallin, Bellandry, and Eqora. The ensuing centuries saw the lands splinter further still—Bellandry lost the three Eastern Republics of Laudon, Esvaine, and Tarsa to a violent rebellion for independence, while the islands of Mersina and Irisi each became city-states. These countries’ modern languages all had roots in the Ancient Sarthi tongue, but the original language had mostly been forgotten over the course of millennia—with the occasional exception of a linguistics fanatic like her uncle.

“I know languages most people have never even heard of.” Levan shrugged, but something in Saffron told her he was inwardly proud of it—in a way he hadn’t been when she pointed out the astonishing power of his transmutation. The pride of his languages gave him a subtle glow, a half smile, so at odds with his hard, stoic outline.

She found it oddly compelling, and wanted to ask him more about it, until she remembered who he was, everything he represented, and scoffed instead. “I wouldn’t think you’d have time to casually study ancient tongues, what with all the torture and killing.”

The half smile vanished as quickly as Tenea had, leaving behind an even darker, blanker expression than before. Levan turned on his heel, as though suddenly disgusted by the whole situation.

“We’re finished here, Silver.” And then, almost as an afterthought, “Speak of it to no one.”

SAFFRON SPENT THE NEXT COUPLE OF DAYS IN THE FOLDS OFher four-poster bed, slipping in and out of sleep. It was not a restful sleep, but rather a hostile, imprisoning one. She felt as though her mind were at the bottom of a lake, the surface glistening just beyond her bodiless reach. Like she had died and reincarnated as algae—an entity that did live and breathe, technically speaking, and yet lacked agency in any real sense.

When she did wake for a few moments, lifting her groggy head from the pillow, the room around her swayed and eddied. The brand left her weakened, feverish. Not herself.

Levan and Rasso appeared several times a day, at precisely punctual times, to proffer food. She didn’t know why Levan felt the need to deliver the meals personally, rather than having a servant do it, but it was likely a means of intimidation, of surveillance. No matter. She barely had the strength to register his arrival, let alone interact with him in any meaningful way.

On the third morning, however, after bringing breakfast at precisely eight a.m., Levan announced that he had run her bath, on account of the fact she smelled like a reekhog’s posterior. With animmense surge of effort, she traipsed obligingly behind him down the corridor and into a private bathing chamber.

The air in the chamber was opaque with steam, and the bath was sunken into the turquoise mosaicked floor, its contents scented with a rich rosehip oil. All the fittings were solid gold: the taps, the grates, the little wall hooks upon which a fresh cotton towel hung waiting for her. Next to the towel was a clean set of plain clothes—a black tunic, matching slacks, and new undergarments.

“I’ll wait outside,” Levan said.

Saffron rolled her eyes. “It’s not like I’m going to make a run for it.”

“I’ll wait anyway.” Rasso lay at his feet by means of confirmation.

As Saffron was about to cross the threshold into the bathing chamber, she hesitated. Her hand went to the tender burn on her chest.