Chapter Twenty-One Viola
twenty-one | viola
Everything about Sylas Archyr feels like a sin.
The softness of his hands on my skin, the steady rhythm of his heart when he’s next to me, and the faint scent of mint and vanilla that wraps me with warmth.
Then I remember the clipped tones, the threats, Olivia’s warning, and I realize that Sylas Archyr is a sin I can never indulge in.
Nearly losing my mind to the ghosts made me realize that Gorhail is not the place for me.
I am fighting an uphill battle with unsharpened tools, trying to solve a murder when I can’t sort out my own wants.
I pray to the Gods that we catch the puppeteer when we go to Albion for Beau’s and Victor’s bodies.
With that, I’ll have avenged my sister, and Sylas will have his brother back.
Then I’ll seal my magic in Osneau, and this life will be a distant memory.
You just never choose you. Sylas’s words simmer in my mind until they bubble over. Leaving Bale means I am choosing me.
The moment we step out of the iron doors of the catacombs, Sylas extends his hand. “Your cuff.” His tone is as cold as the aspiers he wears.
“Why?” As soon as I ask, I understand. I sigh, unclasping the cuff. I don’t know how to break out of ghost paralysis without relying on the magic of the catacombs. Out here, there’s no river of magic, only angry ghosts yearning to be heard, and I am still a novice.
Our fingers brush when I press the cuff into his hands. “Thank you,” he snaps.
We walk through the dank hallway until we reach the base of the Poisoned Stairwell.
The lights cast a warm glow on the intricate designs of the railing.
As we climb up, I notice that every flight has its own story, from the metal railing to the unique engraving in the wooden steps.
Gorhail’s history, dare I say, is beautiful.
Etched in the metal are a visual of the tales Nan used to read to me when I was a child, and carved in the wood are the corresponding stories in old Balish calligraphy.
After Olivia would fall asleep, I’d crawl into Nan’s bed and she would pull out a big book of old tales.
I remember the soft leather bookmark and the gilt edges so well.
She would tell me the same stories over and over, never tiring of my asking for more.
I wish she were still alive so she could see me here, in the place she loved so much.
A yelp up ahead snaps me out of my reverie, followed by sobs. We’re already back at the House of Poison, the passageway door half open, spilling the faint light from Founder’s Room onto the landing.
When I walk in, Lyria is kneeling on the floor, crying in front of Beau, who keeps trying to comfort her in vain. She sees me, jumps to her feet, and crashes into me with a tight hug. I glance at Beau, and he gives me a soft smile.
“There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you,” Lyria says between sniffles. I wear the filth of the catacombs, yet she doesn’t seem to mind at all. She pulls away, thanking me at least three more times. Each time slaps me with guilt, because their reunion is eating me from within.
I am not jealous of their happiness. I am sad that I don’t get to share any of this with Olivia. I wish more than anything to speak to her one last time, to hug her and tell her I love her.
The fireplace crackles every time Victor sticks his hand through it. He stands next to the fire, his shoulders slouched, his eyes blankly watching the flames dance. Like me, he probably feels out of place. I have half a mind to sit by him and ask him about my sister’s days at Gorhail.
“I’m impressed.” Victor looks up at me from the fireplace. “It takes years of training for a whisperer to walk through the catacombs so seamlessly.”
“Or sheer luck and a good teacher,” I reply nervously, glancing at Lyria.
She looks back and forth between Victor and me, then narrows her eyes. “Did you anchor to a ghost?”
“No.” I roll my eyes. Why did both she and Sylas ask the same question? If I had anchored to a ghost, I would’ve known by now. “I only listened to Sylas’s voice.”
Deep down, I begin to question myself. Did I accidentally anchor to the woman’s ghost by listening to her story?
Sylas clears his throat, and I’m grateful for the change of subject. “Faro’s Cuff is missing.” He frowns at Lyria, and her head snaps up at him, eyes flared.
“Did you take it out?” she asks.
“Of course not,” Sylas answers. “Did you?”
“Sy, I don’t even know how to access the Ronin vault. Paltro had the relicsmith fashion a second lock a couple of months ago,” she says. “And this one opens with his aspier.”
“Why would he do that?” Sylas’s shoulders relax. “I thought…” He trails off.
“Paltro’s so secretive when it comes to House of Poison business, I doubt we’ll ever know.” Lyria shakes her head, then turns her attention to Beau, a playful smile on her lips. “Did you know he had given up on you? He was convinced a conduit led you into the Underiver.”
Beau raises his eyebrows at Sylas. “Despondent as always.”
Sylas waves him off with a smile, and Beau walks through the sofa, crosses through the coffee table, and plops himself on the opposite sofa. “You’re allowed to sit,” he tells Victor.
With a quiet sigh, Victor lowers himself to the hearth, his back now facing me.
Beau gazes at him as Victor sticks both hands in the fire, the bright orange flames burning through his mild translucence.
Next to the warm light of the fireplace, they don’t look human anymore, their bodies silhouetted with a faint silver film.
“Lyr.” Beau beckons his sister over. “I need your brain. Here’s all we have: Faro’s Cuff is missing; The Founder’s Book of Relics was last checked out in 1918; Mortemagi poachers killed us for heirloom relics…”
“One aspier, one laurel, and we know they want Viola’s cuff,” Sylas adds as he walks over to them, leaning his arms on the back of the sofa between Beau and Lyria. “Gryff mentioned it could be for a ritual, but that’s all we have. No one else has been killed in a week.”
“Could your mom have taken Faro’s Cuff?” Beau hesitates.
“Are you saying…” Sylas pauses. “Could she have taken it out, and they…”
From across the room, Sylas lifts his head, and, for a fleeting moment, his eyes brush over me. They swirl with guilt, hurt, and deep sorrow. My legs take a step forward on their own, before I stop them. His sorrow isn’t mine to ease.
“No. Rogue Mortemagi killed Mom,” Lyria says quietly. “Dad told us the story countless times.” She pauses, tilting her head toward Sylas. “I don’t think… I would’ve known if she took out the cuff. It would be in her notes. She documented everything.”
Rogue Mortemagi. No wonder Sylas hates death magic. No wonder he hates me. His hatred doesn’t stem from misconception at all. A Mortemagi killed his mother. The sudden revelation garrotes me, and I want to turn around and disappear into the Poisoned Stairwell.
Lyria catches my eyes, and she worries her lips between her teeth, a frown playing at her eyebrows.
“Cuff aside, a ritual is plausible if Mortemagi and heirlooms are involved, but without the Book of Relics, we have no way to know. Paltro sent over the reports we asked for. I’ll peruse Dad’s field reports; he was investigating poacher cells when he died, and they might be able to tell us something. ”
“Are you finished with the Deathbringer’s reports?” Sylas asks.
The Deathbringer, I’ve learned, is a sacred name within Gorhail’s walls.
She’s the only Aspieri lauded in Mortemagi books, also the only Aspieri Mortemagi seem to respect—Delaney admires her, and even Nan used to speak highly of her.
She used to lament her and her aspier’s disappearance and often blamed the rise of poachers on it.
“They’re in your room,” Lyria says.
As they talk, my attention sways to the dark ebony table that sits in front of the arched floor-to-ceiling windows next to the entrance to Beau’s room.
Four ornate wood and blue velvet chairs are half-tucked under the table, two on each side.
I walk over, running my finger down the side of what seems to be the Archyrs’ study desk.
The wood is from the dwarf cherry trees in Gorhail Woods.
Nan had one like this in her office, before Mother got rid of it.
When I look out the window, my breath catches.
The cliffs of Gorhail overlook the Sea of the Gods.
As the sky transitions from dark to light, the cliffs come alive, welcoming the slow crash of waves below.
In the distance, the peaks of Mount Chazal shine with faint orange hues.
If I lived in these rooms, I’d spend the day on the balcony, admiring the raw beauty of Bale. But I don’t belong here.
On the top corner of the desk, I find a stray sheet of paper filled with a random list of chores and a pen.
Moving one of the chairs to the side, I lean over, grab the pen, and, on the flip side of the page, I begin scribbling a rough sketch of the layout of Dearly Departed: where the doors are located, the planter holding the spare key, and the cold room with Beau’s and Victor’s bodies.
This is the last thing I have to do before leaving, my last chance to bring my sister justice.
The plan is simple. I’ll go in, and Lyria can help me move the bodies outside. Meanwhile, Beau’s and Victor’s ghosts can look for the puppeteer, and finally, Sylas can create a distraction while I work on stitching the ghosts and bodies together. But that’s only if the bodies haven’t been moved.
“Are we certain your bodies are still at Dearly Departed?” I interrupt the chatter across the room.