Chapter Six Arion #2
I wave a hand, and a metal cloche drops down. Clangs against stone as it shields the rest of the tomes from view. “Leave.”
“But I’m having so much fun. Are you finally tapping into that child’s heart of yours? Healing repressed trauma and undoing the toxic chauvinism the elders baked into you?” He presses a flamboyant hand to his heart before spinning around with glee. “Wait until the other historians get a load of—”
I haul him up by his collar and lift him off the floor.
He chokes on his surprise, jerking and kicking in order to free himself, but Gavriall is weak.
He has never been able to hold his own in a fight.
“Enough, Praesepultus. You may work for Mortia now, but that doesn’t absolve you from the consequences of your actions.
Run your mouth to anyone—least of all a warlock—and you’ll end up buried behind Tower Historia with the rest of your newfound friends. ”
Terror squeaks from him, but I pull him closer.
My magic ropes around his throat, squeezing tightly.
“You may have fooled the king’s court into pardoning you, but I know who you are.
I know what you’re capable of. One day, either tomorrow or in a month or years from now, you’ll slip up.
You’ll make a mistake you can’t talk your way out of, and you’ll see me from the corner of your eye, and you’ll know.
You’ll know you’ve lost and I’ve finally come to collect. ”
Gavriall claws at my hands, then slaps them.
He wheezes painfully as his eyes water. Only when tears begin to trickle down his cheeks, however, do I let him go.
Without my touch to anchor him, he falls to the floor.
Crumbles with his knees pulled into his chest. “You—you,” he tries, though his voice warbles and breaks. “… trying to help.”
I stare down at him, unflinching. “No. You weren’t trying to help me. You were trying to humiliate me.”
Perhaps others would seek petty vengeance on Gavriall.
He made me look like an asshole in front of the court.
He played me like a fiddle. He used me. I’d been younger, newer then, still an initiate who believed this city could be saved with a bit of grit and determination.
I hadn’t wanted to simply purge Crestfall of its delinquents; I wanted to help them.
Gavriall himself proved that it couldn’t be done.
I found him broken and bleeding, and he convinced me a gang of vicious merrow were targeting innocent civilians.
Robbing them and leaving them for dead. In reality, Gavriall had merely been an addict.
He’d become indebted to the Scars since his first weeks in Crestfall, and he couldn’t pay up.
By the time I found him, he’d wagered a total of six apartments on their dime.
Even so, Gavriall has never been stupid.
At least, not completely. With one (false) word of pillaging merrow, he landed himself exactly where he wanted—with an audience before the court and king.
From there, it was a simple matter of seeking pardon, of feigning remorse for his gambling debts, of manipulating their bloodlust to his advantage.
He had an ear to the ground in the city, after all, and a unique set of skills.
It took little persuasion to procure himself a position within Tower Historia.
A position that would protect him against all those dangerous men he’d scorned.
Except me.
I don’t need petty vengeance, however. Gavriall has never been stupid, but he’s never been clever either. Not with such sticky fingers. He’ll reap his own painful ending eventually. He just needs to learn that he can’t fuck with me in the meantime.
He may not be the same boy he was twelve years ago, but neither am I.
Managing to pick himself up off the floor, Gavriall rubs his neck and glares at me. I smile in response.
“If you let me the fuck out, I’ll kill the warlock on your behalf,” Zephyra snarls.
“Shut up,” I say to her. To them. “I’m trying to work.”
She doesn’t listen. Just continues her tirade against the bars, against the walls, searching and clawing for any way out.
I conjure a pitch-black curtain around the bars of her cell, effectively separating her from our view and casting her in complete darkness.
Complete silence. Her voice cuts off in the middle of a scream, and I would smile, cherish the newfound quiet, if I weren’t so fucking screwed.
Returning to the desk, to a new pile of books, I begin to sort through them, but the pages blur.
The faded text blends together in a river of ink until my entire vision swims. How many books have I read now?
How much time have I wasted? I rub my eyes mercilessly, forcing them to focus.
Because it does not matter. I will not stop until I find the answer. I cannot.
“I could help you,” Gavriall offers quietly.
I glance at him with a skeptical stare, though it must look crueler than I intended since he flinches.
“No, no. Really. If you’ll recall, I have a portrait-perfect memory.
There isn’t a single thing I can’t remember once I’ve read, seen, or heard it.
And the training that goes into becoming a historian is about as extensive as becoming a warlock.
Though a little less violent, I’m assuming.
I read ninety percent of the books in Tower Historia during my training.
The other ten percent were books I already memorized as a child.
If you’re looking for something specific, I can remember it.
” He hesitates, then sinks back into his chair.
“I don’t want to be on your bad side, Arion.
I want to be friends. Tell me what you need, and I swear I’ll help. ”
I glare at him, but this time, he doesn’t flinch.
And, the truth is, I’ve scoured dozens of books in the last few days.
I can’t remember much more than a few sentences here and there.
Warlock ability has allowed me to read quickly, but my comprehension isn’t anywhere near Gavriall’s.
Most importantly, I’ve wasted too much fucking time.
My magic is devouring me. I’m devouring it.
I don’t know how many weeks I have left, and if I can’t find something soon…
Grudgingly, I glance at Gavriall. At the books. At the curtain behind us hiding the demon from sight. Do I really want to end up like her? A swift death. A quick burial. It’ll be as if she—as if I—never existed at all.
Clearing my throat, beckoning Gavriall closer, I lower my voice to a brusque whisper. “What I tell you stays within these walls. Do you understand?”
“Sure. Of course. Definitely,” he agrees hastily. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”
“I mean it, Gavriall. Don’t give me another reason to punish you.”
He lifts a shaky hand in awkward salute. “Promise, Warlock Stone.”
I exhale a harsh breath, hesitating for one last second. Gavriall is an addict, a criminal, and I shouldn’t trust him—which all pales in light of my imminent death. “I’m interested in the Fall of Mortem.”
Gavriall’s eyes narrow in immediate confusion, and his chair thuds back on all fours. “Oh-kay? There are many texts on the subject. Tutors teach it to young children—”
“I know.” I wave a terse, impatient hand.
“I’ve heard the stories. Details change depending on who teaches it and where, but the bulk of the legend remains the same: The God of Life was tricked by a mermaid thirsty for his power.
She carved out his heart to eat it. However, he did not die as she believed he would, and the god murdered her before she could consume it.
Though, he did not escape unscathed. Without his heart, he lost the powers of life, but instead of withering to oblivion, he developed new ones—powers of death.
He was the first god to conquer the afterlife, where he erected the Fathoms in his image, creating a safe place to harbor all human souls who pass through this world.
That is when Mortem became the God of Death. ”
“Sounds about right.” Gavriall leans forward, tilting his head and crossing his arms atop the table. “So what are you interested in exactly?”
“Some mythological interpretations believe the heart is buried somewhere. They say Mortem hid it where no mortal could ever find it, in fear they’d abuse the divine powers he left behind.”
I am no mere mortal, however, and I have no plans to abuse his power.
No. If I’m correct—and I usually am—his heart might be the only thing to save me.
Such raw, unfiltered power, the power of a god, would stabilize my magic as nothing else can.
My heart pounds at the possibilities; it floods magic through my veins until my chest aches and my limbs tremble.
I clench every muscle to keep them still.
More than stabilizing my magic, the heart would renew it. Strengthen it. The immortality of a god would ensure I never die—the only warlock to live forever. There are no known cures for our magic, no antidotes in the thousands of histories I’ve read.
There is only this. There is only Mortem’s fabled heart.
My hands curl into fists beneath the table.
If it’s even real.
Gavriall nods along, still stroking his chin well after I’m done speaking. “Devoutly Spun by Iris Gabris,” he announces suddenly, as if the answer has just been plucked from his brain. “Page two hundred ninety-four.”
I shake my head. “Gabris? She writes poetry. Rhyming nonsense.”
Gavriall leans even closer, his breath hot on my face. I resist the urge to kick his chair away. “Read closely,” he says.
Then he whirls around and pulls a book from the bottom of my discard pile, slamming it down in front of me. Magic flares from my fingertips—bruising my ribs—as the slender book opens itself to page 294. My gaze catches on the second stanza.
Deep in a chamber
A heart doth lay
Torn from a god
A cold, wintry day.
Life befalls Death
Death befalls Life
For true balance
Makes no sacrifice.