Chapter 68 A Few Hours Ago
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A Few Hours Ago
Week after week, Levan visited cell six, but his brother never roused. Levan called upon his own healing magic with an animal desperation, but emotion clouded his ability—either that, or his brother was too far gone to revive.
After a few fruitless days, he enlisted the help of a more experienced Healer—a middle-aged mother named Rivalin—so that Sebran could receive food and water intravenously. The Healer asked no questions, and Levan gave no answers, only compelled her to speak of this to no one.
And so she spoke of it to no one.
After his own hand was amputated by the woman he so desperately loved, the first thing Levan did—before visiting T?lun for a golden prosthetic—was to send Saffron away and check on his brother just a few cells down.
Levan hoped beyond hope that Sebran had woken in the time he himself had been pinned to that table, but found his brother the same way he’d left him.
Dead in all meaningful ways, but for the steady beat of his heart.
The weeks wore into months, and Levan’s magic splintered and then slowly knitted back together, and when it came time to leave for Bellandry, Levan commanded the Healer to check on him day and night, hour after hour, and to stop at nothing to revive him.
And so the Healer, Rivalin, stopped at nothing to revive him.
Using the dark magic of martyrcraft, she drained her own life-force to feed the captive soldier’s.
Rivalin died, and Sebran woke.
The first thing Sebran saw when his eyes peeled open was the limp body. A mage in a violet Healer’s cloak, streaks of white in her copper hair, curled around herself like a babe in the womb, wand discarded at her side.
The second thing he saw was the creamstone cell—its door hanging slightly ajar, as though the corpse by his side had been following orders that did not involve locking it behind her.
The third thing he saw was the needle in his arm, attached to a bag of fluid.
He tore the needle from his flesh without the slightest flinch. As he staggered to his feet, his muscles felt weak, his limbs watery, and only sheer force of will kept him upright.
The last thing he remembered was begging Levan to walk away from the Bloodmoons. A sickening glance at his watch told him it had been months since that day. Little wonder he felt so depleted, so unlike himself.
His mind was smeared with fatigue, but his body took over, drawing the wand from his now-loose waistband—why hadn’t Levan disarmed him?—and adjusting the disheveled silver cloak hanging heavy on his shoulders. He left the cell with foreboding prickling at the back of his neck like an insect.
After navigating a few unfamiliar corridors, he met a lone mage in a scarlet cloak.
Give me your wand, he compelled.
The mage—a tall, spindly man with ruddy cheeks and owlish glasses—handed over his wand.
Tell me where I am.
“Bloodmoon mansion.”
Tell me where Lyrian Celadon is.
“Lyrian is dead—killed by the Silvercloaks. Levan is kingpin now.”
The sick feeling in Sebran’s stomach twisted deeper.
Tell me how I can leave this place.
“There’s an off-grid portari gate. Go to the dragon statue on the third floor, tap each claw, and say ‘tempavicissan.’ ”
Sebran wondered how the mage was able to talk so openly.
Tell me whether the rumors are true. Have you been branded? If I order you to turn yourself in to the Silvercloaks, will you perish?
The mage nodded, fear pinning his pale eyes wide. “Yes, the brand will kill me.”
Horror towered high in Sebran’s chest. How had the man who raised him for the first six years of his life, the man who carved board game pieces and baked the world’s best spiceloaves, built this hell?
Tell me why the brand isn’t killing you right now for talking to me.
“I have no idea.”
Sebran switched to talking aloud. “I always wondered how the brand worked—how it stayed permanent without Lyrian having to sacrifice a portion of his own well. It shouldn’t be possible without medei perpetua.”
“Perhaps he did use medei perpetua,” the mage said slowly. “Perhaps that’s why he was never as powerful as a mage in his position ought to be—his greatest asset was his memory, not his enchanting. Perhaps he sacrificed most of his well to keep the scarlets loyal to him.”
“In which case, now that Lyrian is dead…”
Something brightened behind the mage’s eyes. “The enchantment would no longer be active.”
Sebran shrugged. “You’re probably free to go.”
The brightness dulled almost as fast as it flared. “I’m afraid to try.”
“In less than a quarter hour, I plan to be inside that portari gate on the third floor. The last thing I will do in this hellforsaken place is set the whole thing ablaze. The ascenite won’t burn, but everything else will.
Gather as many innocent mages as you can.
Tell them the truth about the brand—that it is no longer holding them here—and flee.
Flee the city, flee your grotesque lives. Flee.”
And because Sebran had commanded it, he knew the mage would obey.
With a final nod, Sebran handed back the mage’s wand and strode down the corridor toward the staircase, his vision starry and swaying, his silver cloak flapping around his ankles.
When he staggered to the dragon statue in the hallway, he plucked a tongue of flame from the nearest lantern and flung it around the creamstone chamber, hoping his wielding was strong enough, hoping the fire would find enough fuel to catch.
It caught.
It caught the crimson carpet runner streaking down the hallway.
It caught the tapestries and drapes hanging on the walls.
Sebran tapped the stone claws and descended into the chamber housing the portari gate, and then he stepped inside.