TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 16, 1939
Dean Rhodes’s office is where happiness comes to die. It reeks of sterile surfaces and the faint smell of tulips.
“Mr. Archyr,” she says. “Are you Mr. Cardot’s keeper?”
“No, but—” I didn’t want Beau to come here alone, now that I know someone’s framing him for murder.
She ignores me and takes a seat behind her desk. “Victor Carver is dead.”
Beau doesn’t answer. This is exactly why I’m here. Because Beau would choose to walk to the execution block instead of explaining himself. “We’ve only heard it ten times in the last five minutes.” I roll my eyes. Next to me, Beau rubs his thumbs together, his eyes fixated on his hands.
“Victor’s relic is missing,” she continues. How is this news when relic poachers exist? They must have stolen it to be reforged. The market for counterfeit relics is huge. Although, the poachers risking capture so close to Gorhail only to get Victor’s relic doesn’t sit right with me. Relics areworthless once the mage is dead, and reforging doesn’t warrant the proximity to Gorhail. So it could have been anyone. Did he have enemies?
“Don’t you have those creepy eyes all over our House? Can’t you read them to see where Beau was when Victor died?” I snap. Rhodes is an accomplished Arkani Magus Principalis. Before taking on the position of dean at Gorhail, she used to be one of DOTS’s leading inventors. She largely contributed to the creation of dustmaker-powered cars.
At the request of the Grand House, many years ago, Rhodes enchanted a dozen glass eyeballs and had them placed in every corner of the House of Poison’s study hall and great hall. Serpent’s Den and Fang’s Nest are the only halls she watches. As if we’re some unruly degenerates, plotting the downfall of the institute. Yet, she won’t watch the real threats: the ones who’ve proven over and over that they don’t deserve our trust. The Mortemagi.
“I did,” she says. “And I saw nothing. Someone has tampered with my watchers.”
“Isn’t that proof enough? Beau could never do that!” I slam my hands on her desk. Rhodes’s face falls, and I find worry in her gaze. She wouldn’t have called Beau here if she didn’t believe in his innocence. “How much time can you buy us?”
“The Grand House has agreed to grant one day for us to conclude internal investigations.” Rhodes pulls open her drawer, retrieving a blank Gorhail letterhead.
When I don’t reply, she adds, “If there isn’t concrete evidence of his innocence by tomorrow, Beau will be executed without trial.” The Grand House—the governing power of all mages across the Ten Provinces of Draterra—would find the littlest excuse to condemn an Aspieri. They claim that we have too little regard for our fellow mages, that they often end up dead when paired with us on the field. As if it’s our fault they don’t know the limits of their own relics.
“I’ll see to it that we have concrete evidence.” I close my fists. Only Haal knows how we’ll prove his innocence.
Before dismissing us, Rhodes looks at Beau. “I would hate to lose one of my most brilliant students.”
And I would hate to lose my brother.
We walk out of Rhodes’s office, and I nearly bump into a small woman rushing in. It’s her—the Mortemagi who latches on to Victor like a leech. Why is she here? Does she know something about Victor’s murder?
“Go ahead,” I tell Beau. “I’ll meet you in our rooms.”
I retrace my steps until I’m out of sight but within earshot.
“Dean Rhodes, would you sign off on my exemption for practicals? I’m afraid I’ve lost the sight. I must be too stressed about my promotional exam.” The panic in her voice tells me there’s more to her request.
The door closes, and I realize why this Mortemagi has been sticking to Victor so closely. Victor, illusionist extraordinaire from the House of Arcane, dies, and this woman suddenly “loses” her sight. Even without their relics, conduits never lose their sight.
Haal, she’s a nonmagi.
Over the years, we’ve had a few nonmagi pretending to be mages— illusionists charge an outrageous amount of money for their trouble, although none have lasted as long as this one, as far as I’m aware. Unless Rhodes is too preoccupied with Victor’s murder to connect the dots, today is the day her carefully crafted facade will shatter.
“You have five minutes to tell me why Silver’s venom is in Victor’s blood,” I say the moment I step into our rooms. Lyria, Beau, and I share the House of Poison’s Founder’s Room. Every House has one and every descendant of a founder is privy to these large living spaces—three bedrooms, one kitchen, one living room, a study area, and an expansive personal vault downstairs. Is it unfair? Yes. But I’m never going to complain about not having to share a bathroom with four other mages in the common rooms.
Beau’s face is sullen. He sits on the navy velvet couch by the fireplace, fiddling with his aspier. Silver coils and uncoils around his arm, restless. When an Aspieri is executed, their aspiers are executed, too. After a long pause, my brother turns his attention to the crackling fire, and I take the seat opposite him. “Three minutes.”
“Can you stop?” Lyria emerges from her bedroom, a scowl on her face. “He’s already on death row.”
“If he doesn’t tell me why his aspier’s venom is in the blood of someone he doesn’t know, Death won’t have to wait until tomorrow to welcome him. One minute, Beau.”
His eyes snap toward me, narrowing when our gazes meet. “I’m not a child.”
“Clearly.” I lean back into the sofa. “Since you will not speak, I’ll get Paltro…”
“You’re insufferable.” He glares at me, then mumbles, “I sold a few vials of venom to Victor a couple of weeks ago.”