Page 93 of Fire to the Stars

“Criminals don’t put that kind of tell on themselves unless their ideology is stronger than logic. It also explains why they don’t care if slayers die. They want what Noctu wants: to destroy the mortal realm. Dragons can only help.”

“Noctu cultists,” I repeat, bewildered. Apologies to Claire, but fringe beliefs really do exist within Florent.

The prisoner’s head tilts, like he’s trying to listen but can’tfocus. Drool drips from the corner of his mouth. “Eau de…” He trails off.

Frustration edges back in. “That still doesn’t explain what ‘water of life’ is. Or how to rescue Madame Afi.”

“Indeed, there’s more to uncover,” Marshal Bard agrees. “In the meantime, you need to tread carefully, Monsieur Estellio. At a minimum, I concur with your assistant. These cultists obviously want to censor the contents of your journal.”

“There’s nothing in my journal!” I exclaim. “I learnednothing. ‘All dragons must die.’ That won’t ever change.”

I clench my eyes shut, clinging to the memory of waking up with Claire’s face next to mine. For one precious second, I knew what it meant to feel at peace—before I remembered my promise to kill her.

Less than two months left.

“I believe you,” he assures me. “But you’re still their target. Madame Afi has the best odds of survival if you remain safe and alive. Just do me a favor and continue to avoid all known Old Tongue speakers until I can conclude where exactly these cultists are hiding.”

In other words, the archives are forbidden ground. My goal of changing slayer culture is suspended until further notice.

My fingers twitch with the urge to experiment on the prisoner’s magic and wring more information out of him. But even if I could justify the torture, I’m injured. I’ll be more useful once I’m healed. Plus there are too many unknowns to untangle, and there’s too little time left to spend with Claire.

“Give me two months,” I tell him. “If you still need my input, I can help research Noctu’s magic then.”

I’ll need a distraction once Claire is—

My throat closes up. That’s not a word I can attach to her yet.

Marshal Bard tips his tricorne. “I’m a criminal investigator, Monsieur Estellio. You’re not my only resource. If there are no other insights you can provide, then it’s time to bring in fresh opinions.”

“Whose opinions?”

“Follow me. We have a guest from Varsonne.”

After a series of locked gates, we exit the cell block and enter the station proper, where we then move to his office. Lyle jumps up from one of the chairs that face Marshal Bard’s desk.

“Abel!” He hugs me with a slap on the back. “Good to see you up and active.”

“Good to see you in high spirits,” I say, confused. “Did I miss something?”

“Look behind you.”

He points past my shoulder. I nearly jump at the figure I missed when I stepped through the now-closed door—a surprisingly petite woman in a marshal uniform. A network of braids pulls taut the copper skin at her hairline and spills out beneath her tricorne. She stands at ease, but her sharp eyes rove the activity on the first floor through the window built into the office door.

“Marshal of Varsonne, I presume?” I start. “My name is—”

“I know who you are,” she replies. “I’m Abigail Payen.”

“Payen…” I turn to Lyle. “Didn’t you send a dove to her from Jordes?”

“She’s the one,” Lyle answers. “We caught her up on what’s happened since then while you were in the hospital.”

Marshal Payen levels all three of us with a sidelong stare.“You should have informed me about your planmuchsooner. Especially you, Bard.” She resumes her surveillance of the station. “At least your station is properly guarded.”

Marshal Bard takes to his desk. “Let’s keep this brief.”

He summarizes the basis of our Noctu cultist theory. Tension fills Marshal Payen’s at-ease stance. I brace myself to be called a heretic.

“So your investigation has reached a dead end,” she says instead.