There’s a note of sadness in her hum, but no regret.My lover was a prophet, a whisperer extraordinaire with reader magic. Spirits would tell him of the future. It was a gift until it became a curse.
My breath hitches, caught in the elegance of how she strings her words up here. Something’s changed within her, like a deep sorrow took root the moment she came back to Death Spire. I don’t dare speak, afraid that if I do, she will stop telling me her story.
I loved someone who was in love with himself. I never stood a chance. He wanted the world to see the greatness of our magic, but as you witnessed, our magic comes at a great cost. He began to sacrifice innocent lives. In a vision of the future, he saw them—the world of mages—shunning us Mortemagi, burning us, throwing us behind bars, executing us.
Dread fills my bones, because I can see mages doing this. There is so much prejudice, so much unfounded hatred across the classes. Purists would have no trouble executing crossmages, and Aspieri would sooner be rid of Mortemagi if they could.
I tried to stop him. I tried. I told him I couldn’t love someone whose lust for power ran so deep, that I wouldn’t stand by someone who chose to kill people over helping them see our differences.
She pauses. Her heart bleeds out through her voice, as I sit there, helpless, listening to a story from centuries ago. I remember Lyria telling me this is how poachers came about. Mages who rebelled against DOTS, who sided with the powerful Mortemagi who wanted magical freedom, freedom that would come at the expense of innocents. Perhaps death magic isn’t meant to be practiced at all, other than our base magic as whisperers and conduits, helping the dead find their resting place. Perhaps, the Gods made a mistake in giving us the power to control what’s left of the dead.
He was wrong. His arrogance wouldn’t let him see reason. What he saw of the future was the aftermath of his abuse of power. The spirits were warning him of a world where Mortemagi and crossmages would be feared by all. But the fear existed only because of him.
The truth is in front of me. Rafael Grimm.
I came up here on my final night. I wanted to see the stars one last time,to beg for forgiveness from the Gods who gave us a piece of themselves so we could make our world a little like theirs. In exchange for my cuff, I begged them to take my life and return all the innocence lost. But it wasn’t the Gods who answered. It was my lover. He pushed me, and the moment the rocks claimed my last breath, he doomed us all with the cuff I foolishly left behind.
My face is wet with tears I didn’t realize were flowing. The pain blooming in my chest for this woman I do not know, for all these people I never knew, for all of us who live in the shadow of Grimm, knocks me to my knees. And I let it swallow me whole, crying until I run out of tears.
I know who she is. I know her as well as I know my own name. Ysenia Faro, the Sixth Founder of Gorhail. “Ysenia.”
She hums quietly.
“What happened to him after you…?” Died? Disappeared? Were imprisoned in the catacombs? All of these feel wrong. He robbed us of the greatest Mortemagi. She authored and hand-illustrated nearly all of our earliest texts.
He amassed a following, convincing anyone who would listen that mages were blessed by the Gods and that restricting our magic was only to the benefit of DOTS. He harbored, encouraged, and trained an army of crossmages to fight against our own. He did unspeakable things in the name of magical freedom. Sileas Ronin, the founder of the House of Poison, trapped his soul in his—my—relic, and the price he paid for it was dear. The Gods allowed me mercy. Right after I died, they made it so I—my ghost—couldn’t see him or hear him. With that came the condition that I can never cross the Underiver. But he’s long gone now, while I’m trapped here for eternity.
Ysenia traded freedom for an eternity trapped in the catacombs to be away from this evil man. “Entrapment… someone released him, didn’t they?” I ask.
She hums in confirmation.Two decades ago, a young mage released him.
Dear Gods, we were wrong to assume Grimm couldn’t come back. Sylas and I were correct in our theory that the history books didn’t record the events correctly. The cuff has been missing for over twenty years. But… if a mage released Grimm’s trapped soul, he’s either a wandering ghost, or he’s anchored to someone. If we go by poacher movements andThe Daily Mage’s propaganda, it’s easy to guess which he is.
Then again, the book I was reading in the library, Isobel Corvi’sDeath Magic, or a Life of Servitude, had a passage on complex resurrections. Theydon’t require a body, only a human sacrifice to resurrect someone. The pieces are slowly falling into place. Grimm could be trying to resurrect himself.
A shudder rips through me, and I pause at my thought, at the implications that Grimm has had two decades to prepare an uprising, and Firstline continues to bury leads.
Given all his power, it would make sense why he needs so many human sacrifices. That would also account for the missing cuff and perhaps the missing book. Still, something doesn’t quite add up. Why us and why heirloom relics?
“What was his name?” I know my question drives a knife through her, but I still want to hear her confirm it. She doesn’t answer me at first. In fact, she doesn’t answer me for a while, until I see the moon creeping from behind the mountain.
Rafe, she finally says.Rafael Grimm.
I was right.
“I think you may have helped me solve the murders, at least partially,” I tell her. “And you must know, even before you anchored to me, your books helped me navigate my magic when I had no one to turn to.”
A smile, or at least I think I hear her smile.You are a direct descendant of Isobel Corvi, the reason Mortemagi even have a right to education after Grimm’s catastrophe. You don’t need a book.
“I am only a whisperer,” I say.
Only a whisperer. She laughs.You’re judging yourself against inexperience. You cannot compare magic you’ve been honing since you were a child to the burst of magic you must learn to control with a newly acquired relic. These things take time.
“And if I don’t have time…”
Then you have choices. You can either give up your magic and live out the rest of your years. Or you can lifedrain those who seek to do you harm.
“I don’t want to be like Grimm,” I say, remembering what Lorne taught me about the bird. “I don’t want to trade people’s lives for mine.”