Chapter Two Sylas #2
“On the other hand,” Paltro begins. “Railesza is a necessary addition to Firstline, especially with poacher activity increasing in all Ten Provinces…” He glances at Victor’s body. “And mages turning up dead right outside of Gorhail’s walls.”
At the mention of her name, Railesza takes a weary look at Paltro and then slithers back to my arm and coils herself to sleep.
“Uncle, Dad wanted me to join Firstline… to follow in his footsteps,” I try, hoping the mention of my father sways him.
He knows I’ve been itching to track down and kill the poachers who stole him away from us.
That he doesn’t want to do the same angers me.
If poachers murdered Gryff, I wouldn’t rest a day until I bled them dry.
Paltro hums, giving me one final nod. “Retrials in six months. Dismissed.”
Retrials? I am the best Aspieri in Secondline, after Gryff. They need me. They need Railesza. He knows what this means to me. How could he do this?
“Leave the body untouched, and not a mention of this to anyone. We don’t need Aspieri associated with the death of an Arkani.” His loose black coat billows in the wind as he walks across to the gates of Gorhail, his boots crushing away my life’s purpose.
This isn’t how I thought my Tuesday would go. A dead mage at our doorstep, Paltro shrugging it off as a random poacher kill, and my failing recruitment.
I crouch next to Victor’s body, lifting the brown coat that covers him.
His wounds are long, deep cuts that run across his chest. They look more like the work of an animal than a poacher’s dagger.
As I notice the distinct claw marks at the base of his neck, a chill runs down my arms. Not an animal.
A Mortemagi versed in blood magic. The covering makes sense now—only they go out of their way to cover the dead, as if this modicum of respect absolves them of being cold-blooded murderers.
“Sy,” Gryff says. “Don’t touch the body.”
I glower up at him. “Victor Carver was a stellar illusionist. This doesn’t make sense.”
Grand Magus Carver was one of the youngest mages about to acquire his last rank—Magus Principalis—from the House of Poison. With his Secondline training and extensive knowledge of death magic, he should have known how to fight a Mortemagi poacher.
“Firstline will investigate.” Gryff gestures to the gate. “Let’s go.”
What Firstline will do is toss his body to the nearest morgue and write off his death as an accident. That’s what they did to Dad. They didn’t care to investigate how the poachers knew where we would be. Didn’t care about his decades of service as one of their best investigators.
“You are such a stickler for the rules. This administration wouldn’t even think twice before executing you,” I mutter, but as soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them.
My eyes lower to Freya, his teal aspier, slithering around his hand, a flash of silver catching the light of the sun.
Everyone thinks it’s endearing that he gave his aspier a necklace; it’s common for Aspieri from the province of Wanora, Gryff’s birthplace.
No one sees it for what it is—a curled manipulator Arkani relic.
No one would question it either. Aspieri cross-mages are rare because aspiers are notorious for rejecting secondary relics.
“I have to be, Sylas.” He kicks the fresh snow.
“I know…” I trail. “Sorry, I…” I’m apologizing for more than my statement. By failing recruitment, I let him down.
“Who will cover for me on the field?” His voice breaks.
I already know where this is going. We were supposed to join Firstline together.
Him as a field leader, and me as his second.
“If they find out I’m a crossmage, you know they’ll take Freya and seal my Arkani magic. That’s only if they’re lenient.”
Crossmages are shunned in most magical communities, supposedly because of the dangers of practicing more than one class of magic.
But we all know the real reason. Purists make the rules, and anything that veers away from the ordinary needs to be controlled.
DOTS’s anti-crossmage laws began soon after Gorhail was founded in the 1500s because of Rafael Grimm, a Mortemagi and Arkani crossmage they couldn’t control.
Because of that one dangerous rogue, they punish generations and generations of crossmages for something they cannot change about themselves.
As always, Mortemagi are at the source of every problem.
“You don’t think of anyone but yourself.” He holds my stare for a second, then walks away. “People like me… we don’t have a choice, Sylas. Our only hope is to join the ranks to try to change the system from within.”
With one last look at Victor, I fall into step with him, mumbling another quiet apology, but it’s useless. I let us both down. My recklessness on patrol is only possible because of the steadiness of Gryff’s dagger. And now, I’m leaving him alone, where DOTS risks finding out he’s a cross-mage.
A rush of ice-cold air cuts my face as we march through the gates and uphill toward the institute. Our combat jackets aren’t nearly warm enough for the harsh winters of this town.
The black spires of the House of Poison welcome us into their shadows, towering over the rest of Gorhail.
An intentional design, I’m sure, given that our House is the reason this institute even stands.
We deserve no less; Aspieri are the only ones with living relics.
We make up the majority of Firstliners, the law enforcement officials who keep the Ten Provinces safe from poachers and magical criminals, and we bring in the most research funds to Gorhail.
However, I will never understand who put forth the idea that we only thrive in darkness.
We enjoy the sun just as much as the House of Arcane and their three solariums.
We walk the length of a sheltered stone hallway, grateful for the brief reprieve from the slight drizzle of rain, and step onto the wet grass outside of Overseer Paltro’s office, a tiny wooden house with a chimney to the left of a statue. Our footsteps are loud against the silence between us.
“Youngest field leader is a fine title. Do you think it’ll fit on your uniform?
” My poor attempt to lighten the mood earns a grunt.
This is the first time in nineteen years that we’ll be separated.
A knot forms in my stomach. Our paths have always been predictable, a constant in my life despite all the chaos.
I would be lying if I said it didn’t scare me a little.
He finally shakes his head. “Second to the Deathbringer.”
The Deathbringer was a legendary Aspieri.
Mom used to tell us stories of when she worked alongside her in Firstline.
She dismantled several poacher camps, brought some of the most dangerous criminals in, and she was the reason poachers were afraid to set foot in the province of Bale.
Now that she’s gone, they’ve been back with a vengeance.
“The Deathbringer has been missing for twenty-three years. I doubt she’ll come back for her title.”
Gryff snorts, “If you ask Lyria, she’ll tell you that even missing, the Deathbringer’s legacy shadows us all.”
At the mention of my younger sister, my smile falters. “Don’t tell Lyria about my dismissal,” I warn quietly, pushing open the oak doors of the great hall of the House of Poison, Fang’s Nest.
“Congratulations!” A small voice carries over from the fireplace.
Hunched over a notebook and a scatter of books, pens, and paper, Lyria doesn’t spare us a glance as she scratches something off her notes.
Instead of sitting on any of the three sofas around her, she is on the floor, her bag spilling half its contents next to her legs.
“Do you have something against chairs?” I jest.
“I think better on the—” She lifts her head at us. “Haal, why do you look like death?”
I give Gryff a pointed look and settle in the armchair next to Lyria.
The great hall is quiet at this time of day.
A few Aspieri gather for tea on the deep green sofas in the middle of the hall.
Fang’s Nest is designed like a flower, with coffee tables and plush velvet chairs in the center, doubling as our dining room in the morning, surrounded by different lounge sections.
Lyria is by the fireplace so often that they should consider adding a plaque with her name on the mantel.
“Did you fail recruitment?” Lyria’s face falls as she looks between me and Gryff.
“No.” Gryff answers with a grimace.
My sister’s head snaps toward me. She clutches her heart, feigning outrage. “Sylas Archyr, you’re a disgrace to our name,” she says, unable to contain her smile. If it were up to Lyria, Gryff and I would’ve remained at Gorhail as long as she was there.
But instead of laughing at her quip, I wince. I am a disgrace to everyone.
Gryff’s farewell was filled with tears—mostly Lyria’s, who made him promise to write to her every week.
She spent the whole rest of the morning lamenting about how far away DOTS stationed him.
In the afternoon, as I’m trying to find peace in a cup of tea in the middle of Fang’s Nest, the laments continue.
“Couldn’t they have stationed him in Gorhail Woods?” Lyria sets her fork next to her untouched eggs.
“Secondline oversees Gorhail Woods, Lyr.” I sigh into my cup, but she already knows that.
Maybe you should consider telling Gryff how you feel about him is what I really want to tell her.
They both insist they are friends, yet they’ve both been acting like the other is going to war, never to be seen again.
“He’s one town over,” I deadpan. Gryff is stationed at DOTS headquarters in Riverview, only a half hour drive away. For reasons that do not concern me, my sister acts like they sent him across the country.