“What are the ingredients?” Beau asks before I can.
A sinister smile pulls at the corner of Fable’s lips. “Chasmore, Afa’s Bloom, and Purple Bittercress.”
Absolute silence follows her words. I don’t know how long it lasts, but my sister’s sharp inhale snaps us back to reality. Beau shifts uncomfortably, and Sierra gapes at Fable in horror.
Fable has no intention of helping us at all. Chasmore is in the Eastern Forest, nearly impossible to find at night because the flowers blend with its surroundings. Afa’s Bloom is locked in the Northern Greenhouse, deep in the Northern Forest—only the overseer of the House of Arcane has a key. And Purple Bittercress only grows at the junction of two rivers, under Junction Bridge.
This is a death sentence.
“Poachers,” I manage to say, repressing memories of the last time I was by that junction. Dad was killed on that bridge, and sheknowsthat. “Substitute the bittercress,” I snap.
“I assure you I’m not being malicious.” Fable’s smile says otherwise. “Devil’s Wort is the only substitute, and it only grows in the Farbon Desert. I suppose you could wait a week, and I’ll have someone send it from Imglen.”
We don’t have a week. We don’t even have half a day.
“If you leave now, perhaps you’ll make it back in time,” Fable sneers, as if I needed another reminder of why people hate the Rowans. They’re cruel.
“You haven’t changed at all, Fable. Your selfishness will catch up to you one day.” Sierra shakes her head.
“Yet you need me to save your little friend.” Her high-pitched voice rings against the quiet of the night. “Bring me the ingredients no later than five. I’ll need at least two hours to make the dust.” Then she leaves.
“That bitch,” Lyria curses. “Chasmore? At this hour? That plant is virtually invisible in the dark.” Not only invisible but also protected. Even to pluck it for classes, we need special permission from DOTS.
“The three things we need are in opposite directions. There is no way you’ll make it back on time,” Beau points out.
He’s right. It will take me hours to get to all three locations, not counting the time it’ll take to search for the Chasmore and dive for the Purple Bittercress. But I have Raiku and Railesza—maybe they’ll help me go faster.
“You know nothing about plants, so I’ll find the Chasmore,” Lyria volunteers. The words hurt my ears like nails on a chalkboard. Lyria isn’t field certified; no matter how I try to spin this into my going on an impromptu Secondline patrol, I will be severely reprimanded if Paltro finds out I took my sister with me. Besides, how will she fare if she comes face-to-face with poachers when a Secondline-trained mage like Victor succumbed to them?
“I’ll get the Afa’s Bloom. Silver can freeze the lock on the greenhouse,” Beau adds. Are both my siblings out to antagonize me tonight? Beau, too, is not field certified, but to his credit, he’s not a stranger to sneaking out into the woods past curfew.
“Fantastic,” I grunt. One wrong turn, and their fate is sealed to the God of Death.
“It’s either this, or I die tomorrow anyway.” Beau shrugs with a nonchalance that grinds my teeth. “We have a better chance of succeeding if we split up.”
“True, but…” My protest dies immediately. He’s right.
“I can do this. Trust me?” He looks at me with clear blue eyes that take me back to the first day Dad brought him home. He was so small, only two then, but his eyes have always been so profound. Perhaps he is right, perhaps I should trust him. Would things have been different if Dad had trusted me that night? Would the poachers have found us if he hadn’t come looking for me?
“That leaves you with the Purple Bittercress.” Lyria winces in apology.
“I’ll be fine,” I lie, running a hand over Railesza. Sooner or later, I’ll have to face my fears. “Set your watches. If you’re not finished in an hour, come back and we’ll find another way.”
What I don’t tell them is that thereis noother way. If we fail, I’ll take responsibility for killing Victor Carver.
Arkani need relics to practice their magic.
Mortemagi need relics to channel their magic.
Aspieri need relics to exist.
YSENIA FARO,THE FOUNDER’S BOOK OF RELICS, CHAPTER 2
five | viola
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1939
Four loud bangs jolt me awake.