Chapter Sixteen Sylas
Aspieri need special permission from the Grand Master of Death to study at the House of Death. Unless Aspieri are pioneering revolutionary research to advance the House of Death, consider all applications rejected.
Unless bonded with an Aspieri, Mortemagi aren’t allowed to study poison magic. A reminder that Aspieri-Mortemagi bonding is hazardous and should be performed only in dire circumstances, such as the end of the world.
sixteen | sylas
Why would I harbor anyone from the House of Death?” I ask no one in particular as a Mortemagi turns over our sofa cushions, as if Viola would be hiding there. “In what used to be my mother’s rooms?”
“Three students are dead, Overseer Delaney.” Rhodes stands next to Paltro, clasping her hands together as she looks over the circus of Mortemagi pulling out chairs, looking under tables, and opening drawers.
What exactly are they hoping to find? “DOTS is requesting more paperwork than can fill this room. You best have an infallible reason for bringing me here.”
Paltro gives me a look. I expect him to tell me to be quiet, but his eyebrows arch ever so slightly. “Aurelia, you won’t find her here. The House of Poison and the House of Death have a complicated history, as you know, and after what happened to Lilyana…”
Delaney’s green eyes snap to Overseer Paltro and Rhodes, then to me.
They look like an endless pit of torture.
I wonder if she’ll say anything about Mom, given that she was a Magister when one of her Mortemagi murdered my mother.
She had profusely apologized to Dad at the time, even sanctioned the whole forsaken House, but by the time I joined Gor-hail, she was a different person. Power will do that to you.
“Open this door.” Delaney signals to one of her minions. She’s standing right in front of Lyria’s door. Why can’t she open it herself?
Paltro hovers by the front door, unimpressed. He glances at his watch, sighing. He is the overseer of this House, so why isn’t he overseeing Delaney out? And Rhodes stands next to Paltro, in her usual red garb, her lips pulled in a grimace. Delaney reports to her—why is she letting this happen?
Lyria’s door opens to an empty room.
Delaney surveys the room, pausing on the large sheets of paper glued to the wall.
They are filled with Mom’s lifedrain theory.
I’ve always wondered why Mom chose to pursue lifedrain—her research, albeit not nefarious, is an expansion of Rafael Grimm’s own lifedrain theory with healing aspiers, enough to make our ancestors roll in their graves.
“Impressive,” Delaney muses as she studies the equations.
I breathe out. Thank the Gods for Lyria’s obsession with the House of the Forsaken.
“Are you satisfied now, Overseer Delaney?” Rhodes unclasps her hands. “Before I leave, I require both you and Overseer Paltro in my office. DOTS wants to know why mages are leaving Gorhail past curfew, despite your draconian rules.”
I stifle a smile. As long as they leave the Poisoned Stairwell open, mages will never respect curfew. Preventing us from leaving Gorhail grounds is reasonable, of course. But locking us in our rooms from ten at night until six in the morning is preposterous, even for the children at the academy.
“Out,” Delaney barks at the Mortemagi, as if she’s not the one who told them to search our rooms in the first place.
She scowls at me as she follows Rhodes out and slams the door in Paltro’s face.
The overseer pinches the bridge of his nose, as he often does whenever he deals with the Mortemagi… or me.
“Where is she?” he snaps.
“Who?” Inside, I am sweating. I cannot lie to Paltro, and the more he lingers, the more I will say.
“The Mortemagi, Sylas.” Paltro shakes his head.
“Uncle.” I adjust the collar of my shirt. “Today is her sister’s funeral. One would think she’d attend, no?”
Paltro’s glare lowers to my empty wrist, where Raiku usually sits. I change the subject. “I was on my way to your office to pick up Dad’s field reports and the Deathbringer reports that Lyria requested.”
“I’ll have them sent to your rooms.” He sighs, then leaves without a word. I stand alone, like a traitor to my kin. I tell myself that I am doing this for Beau and for the greater conspiracy at play. The Mortemagi is my only ticket to the catacombs. I had no other choice.
But the truth remains, I lied to Paltro for Viola.
Olivia’s funeral starts with a downpour that folds our large black umbrellas.
We reach Albion’s cemetery soaked, like the hundred-something other people sitting in the rain on unnaturally green grass.
Most of the seats are taken, so Lyria and I stand to the side under the shelter of a willow tree.
I insisted we attend in case the killer is also in attendance, although now that we’re here, I doubt the murderer would risk discovery with so many readers around.
I scan the area, realize I am looking for Viola, stop looking, and then start again until I find her.
She sits in the front row next to a woman who looks like an older version of Olivia… and Lorne. Only two days ago, he was pretending not to know Olivia. Now look at him, cozying up to her family.
He wraps a hand around Viola’s shoulders, and both Railesza and Raiku awaken with a hiss, eyes drilling into him. I hate this bond. Railesza, I understand, but Raiku… since when did he take a liking to her?
As soon as we find out what Victor wants—and hopefully he’ll clue us in on Beau—I have to keep my distance. Viola might be clever, but no amount of cleverness will save her if puppeteers are involved. If they so easily clawed out Beau’s and Victor’s lives, she doesn’t stand a chance.
While I may have wished for her death before to break this wretched bond, my sister’s words now play in my mind—We honor our parents through our choices.
They wouldn’t want me knowingly risking an innocent person’s life.
Viola can read about her sister’s murderer in The Daily Mage when we catch them.
“Breathe, brother.” Lyria purses her lips. “Breathe.”
I breathe out a curse. I don’t know whether it’s directed at Lorne or at Lyria.
Viola shrugs his hand off. Her face is a mask; she bites her cheeks and looks down. I hate that she’s looking down. Her black-rimmed, round sunglasses are covered in droplets, yet she doesn’t wipe them off. Her neatly tied low ponytail drips with rainwater, and her mouth is pulled in a frown.
A quick scan of the attendees brings me pause—Sierra, Fable, the three overseers, Rhodes, a lot of mages from Gorhail, and over a hundred people I don’t recognize sit in silence.
Not a single dry eye is in the audience.
Olivia was so… loved, and they’ve all come to bid her farewell despite her lies.
The officiant says words I can barely hear, and the woman next to Viola—her mother—sobs violently.
She gets up without sparing a glance to her daughter and walks to the half-open wooden coffin.
She places something that looks like a necklace in the casket, then lays white tulips and lowers her head.
Her lips move in what must be a prayer to the Gods to light Olivia’s way to the Orga—the segregation of mage and nonmagi in the afterlife will never make sense to me.
They’re all dead anyway, so what difference does it make?
The woman’s shoulders shake as she walks back to her chair.
As she sits down, not acknowledging Viola for a second time, it does something to me.
What kind of mother ignores her child while burying another?
Viola gets up next. Her mid-length dress clings to her skin—it’s soaked and she’s not wearing a coat.
Albion’s warmer than Gorhail, but the occasional wind picks up, dragging the chill across the lake.
How is she not freezing to death? Her steps falter the closer she gets to her sister’s casket.
Why isn’t someone there with her? Her shoulders rise and fall, and her hand reaches for Olivia.
For a breath, she tenses. It happens in the crack of a second; her body goes rigid.
It’s almost like she’s here but not here.
I blink, and she’s gently pulling her hand away, but I notice the slight shiver, the unsteady gait as she walks back to her seat.
The lines of her face harden, and she looks straight ahead, not acknowledging the dozens of people who pay their respects after her.
Rain continues to pour, and she remains still, unmoving, like something within her died when she said her final goodbye to her sister.
Viola looks like a painting in the middle of chaos, frozen in time.
Lorne finally drags his lanky frame to the casket.
His long black coat, soaked with rain, seems to weigh him down, slowing his steps.
When he reaches Olivia, he lifts his hand, presumably to fix her hair.
I glance at Viola, and her fist clenches.
Then, Lorne does something no one else did: he leans in.
He places a kiss on Olivia’s forehead, then grabs her hand, slides a ring on one of her fingers, and wails.
I’ve known Lorne for two years, and the man has never once lost his composure.
He is so out of himself that the officiant has to walk him back to his seat.
Did Olivia really leave after finding out about his affair with Fable?
Does he blame himself for her death? Next to him, Viola’s knuckles are white.
The officiant says a few words, and everyone stands. Olivia’s coffin, an ornate wooden affair engraved with flowers and vines, lowers into the ground under a myriad of tears. Everyone is crying, even coldhearted Delaney. Everyone, except Viola.
Soon after, people trickle away, offering more empty words of comfort to Viola and her mother. In truth, they’ll move on by tomorrow.
Lyria and I stand in the same place for half an hour, long after the other people are gone, long after Viola’s mother gave her a single nod before walking away, long after Lorne tried to hug her twice, and she shoved his hands away.
Now, she kneels in the rain, her back to me, the hem of her dress drowned in mud, her hands clenching the stems of white roses at her sides. All I can think about is that I hope the stems don’t have thorns.
“Sy.” Lyria taps me on the arm.
“Go ahead.” I’m already walking toward Viola, cursing the bond that was forced upon me.