Chapter Thirty-Eight Sylas
Attn: Editor in Chief, The Daily Mage
Report to DOTS headquarters immediately.
thirty-eight | sylas
Paltro’s office basks in the evergreen scent of pine and the crispness of late-afternoon snowfall. It’s also freezing cold, and the flimsy House shirt does little to keep away the sting of frost on my skin.
The brown cushioned armchair wraps me in a welcomed warmth when I settle in.
Looking at the trinkets and books lining the multiple-wall shelves in front of me, I realize that Paltro’s office is a map of his travels.
There’s something from each of the Ten Provinces and so many photographs.
Only then does it occur to me that these aren’t books at all, but photo albums. I’ve been in and out of here since he joined Gorhail months ago, right after Dad’s death, and this is the first time I’m noticing that Paltro is a hoarder of memories.
Boots dust against the doormat, anchoring me to the reality that awaits me. My leg won’t stop fidgeting, and Railesza keeps glaring at me to stop. I am nervous. I don’t know how to lie to Paltro. I cannot. Dad trusted him with the three of us, and he’s never wavered.
“Scar has awoken,” he says again as he lays a black briefcase across his desk. He immediately reaches for a small tin—a new silver one—and scoops out two heaping teaspoons of leaves into the teapot. “The Death-bringer is alive.”
Or dead. And she has a daughter whose magic is forbidden by the laws we refuse to challenge.
He gives me a pointed look, waiting for me to correct him.
We fall into an uncomfortable silence, interrupted by the gradual bubbling of the teapot.
I feel exactly like the tea, like I’ve been dropped in boiling water.
My clothes feel too tight, my skin burns, and my chest constricts.
I get up, catching my breath in small increments.
“Oh, sit down, Sylas.” He rolls his eyes. “You are as good a liar as your father was. I know Alyria is dead, and you’ve confirmed that you know the whereabouts of her child.”
I stare at him, unblinking.
“Tea?” he asks, and I shake my head.
“Please, it’s a special blend Sierra brought from Aurignan,” he insists, but I don’t want tea right now. I want to leave.
“No,” I manage, and he sighs, giving me a look.
I wasn’t expecting my refusal of drinking tea to affect him so much; and I almost consider asking him to pour me a cup.
But he unbuckles the briefcase, laying it flat across his desk.
He moves several papers around, a few photographs here and there.
I recognize the neat calligraphy of my father’s handwriting.
“What do you know of—”
I drown him out because my eyes lock on to a photograph of a group of people in front of Helna Azgar’s statue.
They are all in Gorhail uniforms, some of them looking at one another with love; some of them in mid-laughter.
I gingerly pluck up the photograph, bringing it closer.
Mom and Dad are in there; so are Beau’s parents, the Deathbringer, and an almost identical version of Victor.
In this photo, they look younger than us, so full of hopes, dreams, and life. Now most of them are dead.
Between the Deathbringer and my mom stands a short girl with black hair cropped to her ears. They lean on each of her shoulders, and smile to the camera. Her eyes, and especially her smile, remind me of someone, but who that is escapes me.
“Uncle.” I don’t look away from the picture, afraid that if I do, I’ll stop piecing together the clues we’ve amassed. “Who are these people?”
He peers over my shoulder, adjusting his glasses.
“I haven’t seen this photograph in more than twenty years.
” He lets out a long exhale. “From left to right, Eloise Beauchamps, Lily Ronin, Willow LaCroix, Aly Parrish, Elena Carver, Yasmin Darro, Alis Ducas, Faal Rowan, Benoit Cardot, Victor Carver Sr., Petyr Quince, Han Archyr, and Tobias Corvi.”
My mind is working faster than I can speak. I need to get out of here. Beau’s findings weren’t absurd at all, and Viola’s words swirl in my mind: the killings were personal. Nearly everyone in this picture is dead, save for Gryff’s mom, Aunt Yas; Elena Carver; and the LaCroix girl.
“Sylas?” Paltro calls my name, but I don’t reply. Most of our parents are dead, and now the killer is coming for who remains of their bloodlines. Still, I cannot grasp how it’s linked to Grimm and the missing cuff and book.
“Can I take this photograph?” One of my boots is already out the door when Paltro stops me.
“Sylas, I am not finished. We have much to discuss about your father’s investigations.”
I pocket the photo anyway. Paltro continues, “Han was investigating your mother’s lifedrain research shortly before his death. I have scoured his notes to no avail. Could we look over them together, and perhaps take a reader to Zoya?”
What would the library custodian know about Dad? That she’s nice and greets people every day doesn’t mean people will tell her their every secret. More than anything, I want to find out more about my parents, but they are already dead. Viola isn’t. My choice is clear.
“Son, you look unwell. Have some tea, please…”
I run a hand over my face. I’ll have to tell him sooner or later.
“We know the killer is collecting a set of relics and is killing mage lines,” I blurt out, dragging the photograph out of my pocket to Paltro’s face.
And suddenly it all clicks together. “I think… the killer needed The Founder’s Book of Relics, the heirlooms, and the dead lines for a ritual.
They have an aspier, a laurel, a pen, a knife.
We know they want the Corvi cuff, and what remains is—”
“A key. Rituals usually require one of each relic.” Paltro looks at me cautiously.
“Viola…” I clear my throat, looking away. “Viola’s anchored ghost said the killings were personal.” I pause, blowing out a heavy breath. “Everyone in this photograph is dead, Uncle. Save for Aunt Yas, Victor’s mom, and this girl—Willow.” I tap the girl between Mom and the Deathbringer.
Paltro takes the picture from my hands, shaking his head.
“Yasmin left Gorhail shortly after this picture was taken. Sadly, Willow died a few years later, not long after your mother. Her death was tragic, a spell gone wrong—all of them were involved, and some say that’s why Elena went mad.
It’s the reason interclass magic is forbidden unless you acquire the proper rank. ”
“Did Willow have any children?” I ask. Because this may lead us to the next victim… or maybe to the murderer.
“No.” He reaches for a pen and a stack of letters. “Her father, Noa LaCroix, tragically passed away during her first year at the institute, and her sole living relative is her mother, Overseer Delaney.”
The moment he says her name, my limbs freeze.
The pen slides out of Paltro’s hand, clattering onto the desk, and we stare at each other, the air tight with panic and shock.
I don’t have to ask; I already know we share the same thought.
They’ll need two more relics for their ritual, and if we are to go by this picture, the only two relics that remain are Sierra’s key and Viola’s cuff.
“Check on Sierra, and I’ll go find Viola,” I say as I rush to the door. The next moment, he’s scribbling on multiple sheets of paper, and I am bolting onto the wet grass with the picture in my hand.
Overseer Delaney knows more than she’s letting on. And I would bet my life that she’s trying to resurrect her daughter.
As I run, all I can think of is how Viola is alone in her death lair.
“Have you seen Magus Corvi?” I ask a scrawny Magus Mortemagi when I reach Hollow Tree. The boy’s face pales, his eyes darting to my aspiers. He shakes his head vigorously, scurrying away toward the buffet soon after. One would think I am the murderer around here. Railesza hisses at me to calm down.
I look around and see a few mages eating an early dinner under the watchful eyes of Secondline officers.
Two of them bark at a group of boys to finish their meals so they can return to their respective Houses.
Gorhail feels more like a prison than usual.
With Secondline reduced to sitters, they’re grasping at any avenue to exert their dominance. Pathetic.
I glance toward the entrance to the House of Death. Three Firstline officers stand in front of it, the red glow of the hallway behind them making it look like they’re guarding the doors to the Underworld.
Screw this lockdown—there’s no way they will let me into their forsaken House right now, and I won’t be able to sneak in with Firstline guarding every entrance. So much for being promoted to the highest Firstline Division—I can’t even pull rank to be let in the House of Death.
Still, I have to try. I hope Firstline isn’t also guarding the Poisoned Stairwell.
As I rush back to the House of Poison, images of Viola dying cross my mind.
I shove them away; I will not rest until I know she is safe and away from Delaney.
And as much as I hate Lorne, his overbearingness may prove useful for once.
He is likely hovering over Viola like the ghosts he corrals, and Delaney wouldn’t dare kill a Magister in the middle of Gorhail. Would she?
When I cross through Fang’s Nest, I speak to no one. Two Grand Magus try to stop me to talk about the importance of Aspieri staying behind to protect Gorhail. I don’t care. If they knew better, they would be far from this place right now.
I step into Founder’s Room, slamming the door shut behind me. I walk across the living room and head straight for the Poisoned Stairwell, pulling on the door. It doesn’t budge. “Fuck.” My fist slams on the wooden panel, but it doesn’t even shake.