Chapter Six Sylas
The first aspiers were sacred, a gift from Haal, the God of War, to mages who were brave enough to stand by his side during the Battle of the Gods. Now, relicsmiths from the province of Iserine forge them with a single hair from the family line.
When a mage line dies, an aspier is free to choose a new Aspieri.
six | sylas
Overseer Paltro’s office hides one of the oldest passageways from Gorhail Institute into Gorhail Woods.
When Beau, Lyria, and I mapped out the closest starting point for all three of us, we landed on the moss-covered trapdoor to the right of Paltro’s office.
Six years ago, just weeks after we’d joined the institute, Gryff and I tried to use these passageways to sneak out after curfew, but we ran straight into the previous overseer of the House of Poison, and he suspended us from Secondline for a fortnight.
Lucky for us, Paltro values his sleep and won’t be in until dawn.
The sky is still dark, covered with disapproving clouds whose warning we should heed. The slippery grass doesn’t inspire confidence as I search for the circular latch, knees in the mud and my hand mostly digging through dirt. Raiku could help, but he’s slithered from my wrist to my forearm.
“I thought you knew where it was,” hisses Beau.
“By all means, I’d like to see you digging your pristine nails into the soil,” I retort just as my hand brushes over cold, hard metal. I jerk the door open with a crack.
One after the other, my siblings and I squeeze down the narrow steps in front of the ridiculous statue of Sileas Ronin. His marble face looks down on us, glasses resting on his nose, judging us for bringing shame to the Ronin line.
“It reeks down here.” Lyria turns up her nose and halts.
Beau grimaces. “Lyr, did you expect Gorhail to maintain its hidden passageways?”
I run a hand over my face. At this pace, we’ll be lucky if we make it out of here by dawn. “We don’t have all the time in the world. Move along.”
With a grumble, my sister continues on.
The moment I step into the tunnel after Beau, the pungent odor of death and mildew assaults my senses. Lyria wasn’t exaggerating. It reeks, but thank Haal, the walk is short.
“If either of you even have a sense that poachers are around, promise you’ll run back right away,” I tell them as we emerge from the tunnel into a small clearing bordered by redbushes. We should be about fifteen minutes from Beau’s and Lyria’s tasks and about twenty minutes from mine.
“We will,” Beau promises, readjusting Silver around his left hand, but my nerves coil tighter in my throat.
“Nothing bad will happen, Sy,” Lyria reassures me, twirling a dagger between her fingers.
Sometimes I forget that she’s trained with Gryff for most of her life.
Our parents were friends, and after Mom died, the Darros were frequent visitors.
Over the years, Lyria joined him, Beau, and me as we began combat training.
And Gryff took it upon himself to make sure Lyria had the proper techniques in case she ever needed them.
Beau and I think it’s because he secretly wanted her to join Firstline with him, but he’ll never admit to it.
“Chasmore isn’t far from here. If I finish early, I’ll come help or send Nyx.” She glances down at her black aspier, whose venom kills within seconds.
Haal, she’s already deviating from the plan, and we haven’t even started. “Stick to directions, Lyr. You may have the deadliest aspier after the Deathbringer’s, but you have no field experience.”
“Neither does Beau,” Lyria retorts. “And the Deathbringer is gone, so I do have the deadliest aspier.”
“I do have field experience,” Beau adds nonchalantly, while adjusting two daggers on each of the thigh holders of his combat pants.
“It’s not entirely legal, but it’s still experience.
” He winks at Lyria, and she rolls her eyes.
Before disappearing into the woods, he looks over his shoulder and yells, “Last one back cooks dinner for a week.”
“Sylas doesn’t know how to cook.” Lyria chuckles. She sets off, Nyx slithering ahead of her.
If their quips are supposed to reassure me, they don’t. As I watch the silhouettes of my siblings fade in the shadow of the trees, the reality of what awaits sinks into the pit of my stomach. If we fail, this ends in a prison sentence and a funeral.
The quiet of the woods is unsettling. Even the dead leaves have silenced their crunch with the drizzle of an unusual nightly rain.
Gorhail Woods is known as the Talking Woods, where the trees hum the songs of the night and the flowers echo the morning chirp of the birds.
Where owls hoot at foxes trotting from cave to cave, and wild cats hunt for mice in redbushes.
Tonight, it sleeps.
And that only means one thing: poachers.
Raiku slithers to my index finger, and Railesza stretches the length of my forearm. Both aspiers are well acquainted with the dangers lurking in every crevice.
I trudge deeper into the woods, where the massive trees hug each other so tightly they block out the light of the moon.
Something shifts ahead, and I press my back to the nearest trunk, my finger nudging Raiku forward.
He slithers off, his bright onyx scales dulling to blend with the shadows.
There’s a brief pause, a cry of pain, then a muted thump.
My ears reach for the rustle of leaves, the cautious clap of a poacher’s boot, the slash of a knife, but nothing comes.
In three strides, I’m kneeling next to the body of a middle-aged man.
His eyes are empty, his breath gone. Raiku doesn’t usually kill without command.
But then I see it. A single arrow tattooed behind the poacher’s neck that marks him as a poacher of magical animals.
I nod at Raiku; I would’ve killed him, too.
Animal poachers are cruel, hunting for sport rather than necessity.
But their hunting grounds are up north in the provinces of Aurignan and sometimes Holm.
Not in Gorhail Woods. Haal, I’m a fool for leaving my siblings alone.
Raiku hisses hesitantly before slithering back onto my wrist. His neck veers north, in Beau’s direction, then he looks back at me expectantly. I shake my head. I have to trust that my brother can handle himself. Besides, he and Lyria should already be on their way back to Paltro’s garden by now.
I pause, studying the silence before I move again. The rest of the walk to the Twin Lakes is uneventful, and it worries me. Poachers never travel alone. I shouldn’t have long until his unit realizes he is missing. How many more poachers crawl these woods?
I reach the divide between Lake Glass and Lake Stone, the two bodies of water that make up the Twin Lakes of Gorhail. From above, they look like lungs, fed by two rivers meeting in the middle: Albion Creek and River Grand.
Junction Bridge is straight ahead.
My throat knots in anguish. I only need to walk to the middle and dive. I take the first step on the wooden bridge, but my legs are stiff. I draw a sharp breath. It’s been four months; I can do this.
For Beau.
The second step is heavier than the first, and my ears grow warm, a bead of sweat trickling down my temple. I can still see Dad ahead, taking a poacher’s blow in my place. I run my hand over the Imortalis, and Raiek is still as always.
“It’s been four months,” I say out loud.
Not long enough, a voice inside me whispers back.
Without being prompted, Raiku and Railesza slither to the ground, hissing between me and the water.
They pause, exchange a look, then they both slither off the side of the bridge into the lake.
Relief floods me. If Damas, the God of Luck and Treachery, will have it, my aspiers will come back with the bittercress.
I retrace my steps and sit on the bed of pebbles closest to the bridge. I understand now why Paltro failed me during Firstline recruitment. If I can’t even handle seeing the bridge where my father was killed, what will I do when I come face-to-face with the poachers who killed him?
A few ripples in the water drive me to my feet. Are my aspiers back already? Finding the bittercress must have been easier than I thought.
My answer comes as my shoulders slam against the ground and a hand pulls my leg, dragging me to the water. Instinct takes over, and I kick with my free leg. The hand disappears. And that’s when I hear them.
The sharpening of the knives and the quiet snickering betray their position behind me. I scramble to my feet, my hand reaching for the dagger at my thigh.
“What have we here?” A familiar crooked voice asks. Suddenly, I’m stuck between three poachers, two in front of me, one emerging from the water behind me. My limbs freeze, the same way they did four months ago, except this time, no one’s coming to save me.
Sylas, you must fight. My father’s voice plays in my head. That’s the last thing he said to me before they killed him.
I zero in on the poacher who spoke. A man in his thirties, his hair in a buzz cut with his poacher’s mark tattooed on the left of his skull. One line with four arrows. A mage poacher.
“Little birdie shouldn’t be flying alone in the forest,” he taunts. The others laugh, and it sends me into a blind rage. Gripping my dagger, I ready my stance. I know I cannot take all three of them, but I’m hoping to buy enough time for Raiku and Railesza to come back.
The man on the right lunges first, and I sidestep him, swiping his face with the blade. He staggers to his feet, hand on his cheek, shock flashing across his face.
“Little birdie has claws,” spits the poacher behind me.
I scoff, “I don’t need claws to deal with scum like you.”