Page 77

Castian rubbed her anguished face. “How long has it been since the last inhabitants left?”

“Fifteen years, perhaps. But it’s always looked this dilapidated. A defensive measure against the Crown. If any royal scouts stumbled upon it, they wouldn’t think to report it as an unlawful settlement of Rezarans.”

So Levan’s lineage was common knowledge amongst the Bloodmoons. Testament to the brand’s power, that this information had never leaked to the Silvercloaks.

Segal ran a palm over the moisture-slicked wood of the nearest shack. It came away black with grime. “And if the scouts looked inside a shack?”

“The locks are fairly robust,” Levan replied, “but if a scout forced their way through … there are tunnels snaking between each shack. We would either hide belowground or seek shelter with a neighbor until the scout moved on.”

Castian looked to Levan in alarm. “You lived here too?”

“Until I was four years old.”

Lyrian grimaced. “A simpler time. We had family. Community.” His regretful gaze dropped to the golden hand at the end of Levan’s arm.

“The lox is in our old shack,” Levan replied, steering the conversation back to logistics. “If you would like to accompany me.”

Saffron had no idea how Levan refrained from slaying his father where he stood, after everything Lyrian had done to him. And yet she knew better than anyone that these things were complicated. Love was complicated, and pain was complicated, and believing you deserved to hurt was complicated.

A peculiar, almost wistful expression fleeted over Lyrian’s face. “As you wish.”

Levan nodded toward Saffron. “Silver, with us. The rest of you keep watch.”

The Rezaran shack of many years ago was positioned to the northwest of the settlement.

It was the least battered of the structures, but the wood still warped and crumbled in the corners.

Inside, the space smelled of mildew and saintmoss, both of which had taken over the shabby furniture.

No latrine, no running water, only two small rooms and a storage closet.

A small stone hearth was buried in the far wall, still coated with soot and ash.

One room contained two beds—one large, one child-size, which made Saff’s heart pang—and a rotting wooden chest, while the other functioned as a tiny kitchen dotted with copper pots and pans, chipped clay plates and bowls, teapots with broken spouts and rattling lids.

For them to have not been fixed with simple mending spells, pleasure must have run perpetually low here.

She thought of the scar on Levan’s lip. I fell out of a tree when I was a kid. Magic was in short supply where I grew up, so it didn’t heal smoothly.

Even before the death of his mother, his life hadn’t been easy. Saff understood at once why the Bloodmoon mansion was so gaudy, so lavish—because for so long, they’d had nothing.

Lyrian stood in the doorway, grief etched into every line of his face. “It hasn’t changed.”

Levan cleared his throat. “No.”

“Do you come here often?”

“Seldom.”

Rasso padded around the space, sniffing every square inch for traces of his old mistress. He leapt onto each of the beds—still made up with moldy bedspreads—and shoved his face into each pillow, inhaling the scent deeply and making a sad, low whimper.

Lyrian picked up a clay mug from the lopsided wooden shelf in the ramshackle kitchen.

There were four in total, each with the letter L neatly carved into its side.

One had stars around the letter, another had flowers, another leaves, another an open book.

Lyrian’s hand had reached for the mug with the stars, tracing the shapes with a careful forefinger.

“I think I can still feel her here.” Lyrian’s words were serrated with sadness. “Your mother.”

Levan stood perfectly still.

Lyrian’s hand went to the mug with leaves, and a wistful smile broke across his face. “Remember when your brother—”

“Let’s not talk about him, please.”

Levan avoided Saffron’s questioning stare.

He had a brother ?

Lyrian looked up, reverent, lost in thought. “I am sorry, son. For your hand.”

Levan nodded once in return, his emotions carefully in check.

There was no longer pain drawn around his eyes and mouth, as there had been in Saffron’s bed.

Had he managed to find some relief? The whiteroot remedy Paliran offered Nissa, perhaps?

Or was he simply a master at locking the pain away?

She remembered how bland he’d kept his expression while impaled on the deminite shard and wondered.

Still stony-faced, Levan crossed to the storage closet and tugged at the faded brass handle. Inside was mostly empty but for the two large wooden crates with COTTON and SILK stenciled on the sides.

“Still here.” Levan allowed himself the smallest sigh of relief, then levitated them both into the bedroom area. With a jerk of his wand, he ushered the crates out of the shack and back into the clearing.

They emerged to find the other six Bloodmoons gathered behind the neighboring abode, murmuring in low, urgent voices.

“What is it?” Levan demanded, straightening his crimson cloak and pulling himself tall.

“This just appeared,” muttered Castian, twitching like a dying insect from the lox withdrawals.

Saffron’s stomach curled into a fist as she followed their gaze.

A pearlescent barrier, as thin as a spider’s web but stronger than freshly forged steel.

Saffron knew what it was immediately. She’d spent many days and weeks of her life practicing how to conjure them.

“A perimeter dome,” she choked out.

Nobody could pass in or out until the conjurer dropped it. Not even with portari.

She hadn’t known whether Aspar would trust her intel again, since the last raid had been so utterly disastrous. And after the captain had heard the news of Tiernan’s death, she’d seemed almost ready to murder Saffron herself.

But she had trusted her informant, despite it all.

The Silvercloaks had followed the Bloodmoons to the Havenwood.

And now there was no way out.