Page 77 of Silvercloak

Oh, what the hells.

“Why are the Bloodmoons doing all of this?” The words were jagged, rushed. “What’s the end goal for all this torture and killing and amassing of wealth?”

The strangest thing happened, then. Levan made a sort of grunting noise, as though trying to strangle the words before they could make it out of his throat. His fists clenched at his sides, and a muscle twitched in his squared jaw.

He was fighting the truth elixir.

And he waswinning.

Which had to mean there was something deeper to the Bloodmoons’ motivations. It was not just simple power, or he’d say as much. Had her earlier hunch been right? Did they have their eyes on the weakened Arollan throne?

Yet Saffron could barely think about that right now, because Levan wasfighting the truth elixir and winning.

Just how powerful was this mage?

Fear curdled in her belly at the thought.

“I think it’s time,” Levan spat out, through gritted teeth, “that you stop asking questions.”

Saffron dug a thumbnail into her palm, inwardly chastising herself. She had gone straight in with an axe when a subtler hand would’ve yielded more fruit. Then again, if Levan was powerful enough to choke out the truth elixir … would she have gleaned anything worthwhile? She should’ve prioritized rapport-building, should’ve tried to establish another level of closeness between them, should’ve responded more warmly to what he’d said back in the warded tunnels:You’re not alone, Silver. And if you’re anything like me, which I think you are, then that means something.

Was she losing her touch, her killer instincts, her nose for a good gamble versus a bad one? Or did the kingpin’s son rattle her, somehow?

They walked in jagged silence until they passed a section of creamstone wall folded in on itself like a pocket, creating not a pleasure nook but a resting spot for a weary passerby. On the bench—tiled with blue and green and glittering star white—lay a mage in clear distress. She was barely conscious, moaning like a dying animal. Bones jutted through her thin, clammy skin. Sweat pooled above her top lip and in the nook between her bladed collarbones.

Even in the dim light, her veins clearly ran black. They spidered over her white skin like spilled ink.

Muscle memory kicking in from her years on the streetwatch, Saff crossed to the woman, laying the back of her hand against a glistening forehead. It was like a furnace. She knelt to the ground beside the mage and spoke low and clear.

“Do you need help, sweetling?”

Sweetling:a southern term of endearment her mother always used with patients. It made Saffron’s heart swell to use it.

The woman groaned, eyes fluttering, limbs jerking.

Levan stopped to watch Saffron but did not kneel beside her. His face had darkened; he seemed lost in the shadowy corridors of his mind.

Saff gritted her teeth. “Does this look like lox to you?”

Levan nodded stiffly. “Overdose.”

Saffron remembered something Harrow had said:I still remember finding you in a pool of your own piss after a lox overdose.

Harrow had found Levan like this.

“How do we help her?” Saffron asked, clutching the woman’s hand in hers. It was ice cold, unlike the fevered forehead.

“We can’t,” Levan muttered, looking away. “That’s the vicious thing about lox. Once it’s in your system, no magic can pull it back out. She just has to wait and hope. And we’re already late.”

“We can’t leave her here,” Saffron argued, feeling the righteous, principled courage of her mother beating in her own chest. “We should call a Healer.”

“This is not something that can be healed.”

“Maybe not, but she still deserves a warm bed and someone to care for her.”

Levan looked at his leather-banded wristwatch, then at the moon hanging above the city. With a reluctant sigh, he brought his wand to his lips. “Et vocos, Karal Kelassan.”

It took a few moments for the response to come. “Hello?” The voice was bleary with sleep.