When a mage line dies, an aspier is free to choose a new Aspieri.
ROME RONIN,A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE HOUSE OF POISON, PAGE 23
six | sylas
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 17, 1939
Overseer Paltro’s office hides one of the oldest passageways from Gorhail Institute into Gorhail Woods. When Beau, Lyria, and I mapped out the closest starting point for all three of us, we landed on the moss-covered trapdoor to the right of Paltro’s office. Six years ago, just weeks after we’d joined the institute, Gryff and I tried to use these passageways to sneak out after curfew, but we ran straight into the previous overseer of the House of Poison, and he suspended us from Secondline for a fortnight. Lucky for us, Paltro values his sleep and won’t be in until dawn.
The sky is still dark, covered with disapproving clouds whose warning we should heed. The slippery grass doesn’t inspire confidence as I search for the circular latch, knees in the mud and my hand mostly digging through dirt. Raiku could help, but he’s slithered from my wrist to my forearm.
“I thought you knew where it was,” hisses Beau.
“By all means, I’d like to see you digging your pristine nails into the soil,” I retort just as my hand brushes over cold, hard metal. I jerk the door open with a crack.
One after the other, my siblings and I squeeze down the narrow stepsin front of the ridiculous statue of Sileas Ronin. His marble face looks down on us, glasses resting on his nose, judging us for bringing shame to the Ronin line.
“It reeks down here.” Lyria turns up her nose and halts.
Beau grimaces. “Lyr, did you expect Gorhail to maintain its hidden passageways?”
I run a hand over my face. At this pace, we’ll be lucky if we make it out ofhereby dawn. “We don’t have all the time in the world. Move along.”
With a grumble, my sister continues on.
The moment I step into the tunnel after Beau, the pungent odor of death and mildew assaults my senses. Lyria wasn’t exaggerating. It reeks, but thank Haal, the walk is short.
“If either of you even have a sense that poachers are around, promise you’ll run back right away,” I tell them as we emerge from the tunnel into a small clearing bordered by redbushes. We should be about fifteen minutes from Beau’s and Lyria’s tasks and about twenty minutes from mine.
“We will,” Beau promises, readjusting Silver around his left hand, but my nerves coil tighter in my throat.
“Nothing bad will happen, Sy,” Lyria reassures me, twirling a dagger between her fingers. Sometimes I forget that she’s trained with Gryff for most of her life. Our parents were friends, and after Mom died, the Darros were frequent visitors. Over the years, Lyria joined him, Beau, and me as we began combat training. And Gryff took it upon himself to make sure Lyria had the proper techniques in case she ever needed them. Beau and I think it’s because he secretly wanted her to join Firstline with him, but he’ll never admit to it.
“Chasmore isn’t far from here. If I finish early, I’ll come help or send Nyx.” She glances down at her black aspier, whose venom kills within seconds.
Haal, she’s already deviating from the plan, and we haven’t even started. “Stick to directions, Lyr. You may have the deadliest aspierafterthe Deathbringer’s, but you have no field experience.”
“Neither does Beau,” Lyria retorts. “And the Deathbringer is gone, so Idohave the deadliest aspier.”
“I do have field experience,” Beau adds nonchalantly, while adjusting two daggers on each of the thigh holders of his combat pants. “It’s not entirely legal, but it’s still experience.” He winks at Lyria, and she rolls hereyes. Before disappearing into the woods, he looks over his shoulder and yells, “Last one back cooks dinner for a week.”
“Sylas doesn’t know how to cook.” Lyria chuckles. She sets off, Nyx slithering ahead of her.
If their quips are supposed to reassure me, they don’t. As I watch the silhouettes of my siblings fade in the shadow of the trees, the reality of what awaits sinks into the pit of my stomach. If we fail, this ends in a prison sentence and a funeral.
The quiet of the woods is unsettling. Even the dead leaves have silenced their crunch with the drizzle of an unusual nightly rain. Gorhail Woods is known as the Talking Woods, where the trees hum the songs of the night and the flowers echo the morning chirp of the birds. Where owls hoot at foxes trotting from cave to cave, and wild cats hunt for mice in redbushes.
Tonight, it sleeps.
And that only means one thing: poachers.
Raiku slithers to my index finger, and Railesza stretches the length of my forearm. Both aspiers are well acquainted with the dangers lurking in every crevice.
I trudge deeper into the woods, where the massive trees hug each other so tightly they block out the light of the moon. Something shifts ahead, and I press my back to the nearest trunk, my finger nudging Raiku forward. He slithers off, his bright onyx scales dulling to blend with the shadows. There’s a brief pause, a cry of pain, then a muted thump.
My ears reach for the rustle of leaves, the cautious clap of a poacher’s boot, the slash of a knife, but nothing comes. In three strides, I’m kneeling next to the body of a middle-aged man. His eyes are empty, his breath gone. Raiku doesn’t usually kill without command. But then I see it. A single arrow tattooed behind the poacher’s neck that marks him as a poacher of magical animals. I nod at Raiku; I would’ve killed him, too. Animal poachers are cruel, hunting for sport rather than necessity. But their hunting grounds are up north in the provinces of Aurignan and sometimes Holm. Not in Gorhail Woods. Haal, I’m a fool for leaving my siblings alone.
Raiku hisses hesitantly before slithering back onto my wrist. His neck veers north, in Beau’s direction, then he looks back at me expectantly. I shake my head. I have to trust that my brother can handle himself. Besides, he and Lyria should already be on their way back to Paltro’s garden by now.