Chapter Forty-Six Sylas
Announcement: Dispatch Firstline along all borders. No one leaves any province until we’ve apprehended Grimm and Aurelia Delaney. Kill poachers on sight. Lock up all crossmages—sealed or unsealed.
RODRIC PALTRO, NEWLY APPOINTED CHIEF OF FIRSTLINE
forty-six | sylas
The woman I love is the reason my mother was killed. She didn’t choose her fate, I tell myself for the tenth time today. Of course she was in denial and lashed out at me. I broke the tapestry of her life and expected her to weave everything back together with the snap of my fingers.
I come to terms with a single truth: I am an idiot who could’ve handled things better.
“I cannot tell if you’re sad about Lyria or sad that Viola isn’t here yet,” Beau whispers in a poor attempt at a joke as we stand outside of St. Fabian’s Ward for Altered Minds, the white two-story building that looks like a coal factory with the sheer number of black uniforms going in and out to visit Lyria. So many people. Except Viola.
“Shut up,” I tell Beau between clenched teeth. I haven’t told him about the memories Paltro showed me yet, and I wish he would stop reminding me of what an asshole I am.
At the same time, Lorne walks out of the building. He notices us, sighs, then approaches us with slouched shoulders and sunken eyes, pausing a couple of steps away.
“Thank you for coming,” Beau and I say at the same time, our tones clipped.
“Lyria doesn’t deserve this.” He shakes Beau’s hand, then mine, holding the handshake a second too long. His gaze trails past us, landing on St. Fabian’s brass name plaque. He blinks a couple of times, the beginning of a tear forming at his inner lid.
Beau and I exchange an uncomfortable glance. I cannot decide whether this is part of his usual theatrics; he’s not known Lyria for long.
“I’ve recommended her for an honorary Magus Principalis promotion. I cannot believe we’ve lost such a brilliant mind.”
Beau tenses at my side. We haven’t lost her, but he’s not the first to be talking about Lyria like she’s dead—even Paltro commented on his disbelief that Lyria was gone.
“Thanks.”
Lorne nods and walks down the steps toward his car. Perhaps he thought it was a nice gesture, but what’s Lyria going to do with a promotion when she can’t even function?
A moment later, Gryff steps out the front door, his Firstline uniform traded for a House shirt and black trousers.
Whoever stands before us is a morose version of our friend, like he’s the one who died instead of Lyria’s mind.
He rubs his eyes, the dark circles more apparent in the daylight.
“Grayson says they’re assigning her a private room, and they’ve commissioned some of DOTS’s best readers to untangle her memories. ”
“It’s the least they can do,” I reply, considering that Lyria’s mindtrap was irrefutable proof that Grimm has infiltrated Gorhail.
News caught on like wildfire, and by the evening, even the Common Ministry of Draterra was aware and pressuring DOTS to come clean about the real reason behind the Gorhail murders.
“Come with me,” Gryff says. Beau and I follow him inside the ward.
It’s as sterile as Riverview Prison, terrifyingly white.
I hate it. Hate that my sister has to spend her days staring at white walls or out a window facing a frozen lake and dead trees.
But we had no choice; our home in Iserine is too dangerous, and Gorhail is now a minefield of Firstline officers who are quick to throw any remotely suspicious mage in prison.
Grayson reassured us that he would personally oversee her treatment, and as our guardian, Paltro signed off on her admission because one of DOTS’s readers deemed both Beau and me as too emotional to make rational decisions.
He wasn’t wrong. Beau has fought with two healers and three readers since yesterday.
And between learning about my mother’s killer and watching my sister’s unblinking eyes, I cannot stop thinking about Viola.
I called her a corrupt Mortemagi, when all she’s ever done is prove that Mortemagi can be good.
If she hadn’t refused to hand over her stupid cuff, it wouldn’t have gotten as ugly as this.
She was angry; I’m certain she didn’t mean her words.
Maybe after we leave Riverview, I can apologize and convince her to surrender the Corvi cuff and get her own.
“I’ve resigned from Firstline,” says Gryff, pulling me back to the present. My jaw falls open. Firstline has been his dream since we were five years old; it was his reason to live and breathe, much to my sister’s chagrin.
“Someone’s finally seeing reason…” Beau drawls, and I glare at him.
“Why?” I frown.
Gryff runs his fingers along the large glass window separating us from Lyria. “Without her, everything is worthless.” He lowers his head. “I always thought I had more time.”
I swallow a lump as I think about my sister’s words: Tomorrow isn’t promised.
“She’s not dead, Gryff.” I glance at Lyria, sitting in a wheelchair, hands in her lap, eyes empty, facing that stupid frozen lake.
My chest hurts. Everyone’s right; she might as well be dead.
I chew on my lower lip. Without Lyria, life seems bleak, but Paltro’s words hold my tears.
I can’t grieve now. Grimm mindtrapped Lyria because she was too close to the truth.
I can’t give in. She wouldn’t want us to wallow; she would want us to find him…
and she would want me to apologize to Viola.
“Sy.” Beau pulls me aside. Mages have dwindled in number, a few still hovering around Lyria, setting books and cakes on her dresser. I don’t know why they keep bringing her gifts. She cannot read, cannot speak, cannot eat other than what comes through these Arkani-made tubes in her arms.
“Viola wouldn’t miss Lyria’s first visiting day.
” Beau leans forward, looking past the crowd that just walked down the steps.
Their presence makes the air stuffier. I know they come in support, but I wish they would leave and act like a five-century-old murderous mage is about to turn our world upside down.
“I told her not to come,” I mutter.
“You… what?” Beau jerks away from me. “You barred her from visiting our sister? Our sister who lost her mind while trying to save her?”
I was wrong, but instead of admitting that, I lash out.
“Rhea Corvi started this whole thing; if she hadn’t killed Mom to find Viola because of her obsession with her untainted line, Willow wouldn’t have released Grimm by trying to resurrect her.
Rhea wouldn’t have had to fragment Willow’s soul into six relics, damning six families to Delaney’s revenge.
And Rhea wouldn’t have had to murder the Deathbringer for Viola because she was the cuff’s sole heir and needed to be hidden away.
Your parents would still be alive… and so would everyone else. ”
Gryff’s head snaps toward us, and Beau’s eyes twitch; I shouldn’t have told him in this way, but he deserves to know who caused his parents’ deaths.
Briar uncoils from around his forearm and rests her head on the back of his palm.
Her eyes narrow at me, then lower to Scar, but the aspier looks away.
“Viola…” Beau takes in a sharp breath, his eyes drilling into me, his fists curling at his sides. “Thank Haal Lyria cannot watch your prejudice blind you yet again. You’re blaming Viola for something entirely out of her control.”
“That’s not it.” I exhale, releasing yesterday’s frustrations. “When I told her to give me the cuff, she refused. Maybe you’re blinded because she brought you back from the dead, but Mortemagi are all the same in the end; it’s their magic over everyone else.”
“You’re a fucking idiot,” Beau huffs out, stepping away from me. “You’ve no idea what she’s prepared to give up for us.”
What is he talking about? She made it clear. She chose her vicious grandmother over me. She chose her cuff over me… Haal, Beau is right. I am an idiot. It was never about her murderous lineage; I’m angry because I thought she’d trust me enough to believe me.
Sylas.
A soft breeze grazes against my skin, raising the hairs on my neck. We’re inside St. Fabian’s, and there are no open windows or doors around us. Dread coils in the pit of my stomach. I look around, but no one seems to have called my name. Haal… something is wrong.
Sylas, please. We don’t have much time.
Ysenia’s grave tone fills me with guilt when I should be moving. Beau and Gryff frown at me in question, and I gulp, my lungs drowning from the realization that Viola is in danger.
“Sy.” Gryff hesitates. “Is everything—” I don’t hear him over the deafening sound of my own heart. Where is she, I want to ask, but my lips don’t move.
Hurry, Sylas. Delaney is holding her in the Eastern Greenhouse.
I don’t wait for her to speak again—I bolt.
As I speed down the stairs, through the reception area, and out the door to my car, I pray to all six Gods that I make it in time. Because I’ll never forgive myself for this. I let my prejudice consume me, and I may lose Viola because of it.
The rivers are quiet, the birds absent, and the snow slushed into low piles under the trees.
The orange hues of the afternoon sun give way to the mesmerizing silver of the moon, not quite her time but still announcing her presence.
My boots slosh in the melted snow, drawing the attention of a white owl, a rarity in Gorhail Woods.
Maybe it’s a sign that I’m getting closer to the Eastern Greenhouse.
“Scar, please find her.” She drops to the ground, slithering ahead.
A moment later, she stops, her golden eyes fixed on a narrow muddy path.
She hisses once, twice, then starts moving at lightning speed.
I follow her across two ponds, through an abandoned courtyard, past a thick stone pathway, through a small gazebo, and along paths I never knew existed before.
I run past a wild doe, and she freezes. This part of Gorhail isn’t even on our maps; no wonder my presence is confusing the wild animals.
Scar leads me farther east into the woods, closer to the border between Gorhail and Albion, to a cottage with a small greenhouse attached to the side. The low waterfall of Albion creek masks the sound of my footsteps. Scar pauses, hissing at Raiku and Railesza.
My aspiers listen. Then the three of them disperse toward the cottage, moving silently through fallen leaves and piles of snow.
Right in front of the main door, two poachers stand, lost in quiet conversation with each other.
I squint, trying to make out their class of magic.
One of them shifts, her pendant catching the porch light.
An Arkani; this shouldn’t be a hard kill, but the other one is still out of sight.
If they have poachers guarding the door, there must be more around the perimeter and even inside.
I look around, and there are no trees to shroud me, nothing to hide behind. If I want to get close, I’ll have to crawl to the back door, preferably somewhere the poachers don’t notice me.
A deep sense of unease stirs through me. It tells me to turn around and run for help. But I’m already flat on the ground; I’m not leaving Viola alone again.
Crawling through the wet grass is colder than I anticipated.
The poachers should’ve noticed me by now, but they’re too busy talking about whether they’ll be assigned positions when Grimm takes over.
From their obnoxiously loud conversation, I gather one of them is a reader and the other a dustmaker.
It makes no sense to have the two noncombative Arkani classes as guards.
I crouch onto the flaky wooden side steps of the cottage, right below a broken window, wiping grass and mud from my shirt and waiting for one of my aspiers to signal me to move forward. The poachers are now debating why Viola is still alive.
I huff, and they quiet.
Haal. I hold my breath, pressing my back to the wooden planks.
Footsteps clap against the wood, and my heart races. Killing them will be easy, but if I cause a commotion out here, Delaney might kill Viola before I can get to her.
“I don’t feel so well,” one of the poachers says.
“Here, sit on the steps,” the other replies, and the wood creaks, then stops. A moment later, I hear a soft thump, a gasp, and another muted thump. Then Raiku slithers around the corner, his head held high. I nod at him, breathing out a sigh of relief.
Beau and Gryff are on the way, Ysenia says.
Once I’m certain the poachers are dead and there are no other guards around, I peer into the broken side window, looking for Scar and Railesza. But it’s not my aspiers I see.
In the middle of the room, Viola is bound to a chair, her eyes heavy with defiance as she raises her head at… Lorne.