Paltro pulls a rolled parchment from his pocket, and I recognize DOTS’s official red seal. The Mortemagi—Percy—snatches the letter from his hands, tearing the seal off. His eyes scan the page, every line deepening the scowl on his face. He calls a second Firstline mage and shoves the parchment under her nose. She takes one look at the bottom and nods. “Patient nine three zero four, you may leave.”
I suppose I am Parrish’s exception.
On my way out, I glance at the Mortemagi. “Do your fellow Aspieri officers know how you feel about their… disgusting snakes?”
“Less theatrics, more urgency.” Paltro practically pushes me through the building.
“Who has enough pull to accuse me of both Beau’s and Victor’s murders?” I ask Paltro right before we exit the facility.
“Who do you think?” Paltro sounds irritated. “Viv Rowan.” Fable’s aunt, one of the four Grand Masters of the House of Arcane. Together with the Grand Master of Death and the Grand Master of Poison, they make up the six Grand Masters of the Grand House. My case probably went to a vote, and she likely blackmailed the three other Grand Masters of Arcane to vote against me. The Rowans’ grudge against my family clearly knows no limits.
I’m about to ask him how he convinced Parrish to release me, but he motions me to the passenger’s seat of his car. In silence, he climbs in the driver’s seat and starts the engine. My stomach drops when I realize that Paltro does not have my aspiers.
“I hope one day you’ll forgive what I’m about to ask of you,” he says as we drive toward Gorhail.
By late afternoon, we’ve arrived at the House of Poison. Paltro doesn’t wait for me as he rushes down the winding hallway to Hollow Tree. Instead of taking the stairs to Rhodes’s office, we cross the dining hall, walk past the entrance to the House of Arcane, and go down another long hallway— this one dark and morbid, with dustmaker-powered red candles staggered on the right side of the wall. They look like blood dripping down the wall. Two right turns later, we are in front of double oak doors with a royal-blue raven crest in the middle.
I stop.
The overseer and I are standing outside of the House of Death. A line I refuse to cross. I’ve spent all my years at Gorhail avoiding that forsaken House and their mages that reek of despair. They deal with obscure magic, trading lifeblood and their sanity in the process.
“Sylas.” Paltro beckons me forward.
I don’t move.
Mom’s smile flashes across my mind. The last time she read Lyria and me a story before bed, she had promised us a trip to Osneau to see the wild redbird. A promise she died with because of the Mortemagi who ripped her away from us.
“At the request of PGM Parrish, the Grand House has agreed to return your relics and drop all charges against you.” Paltro’s words weigh heavy with hope. My aspiers are fine. But I know this institution too well to celebrate. The Grand House doesn’t grant favors without asking for twice as much.
The door opens.
Priya Parrish, the Grand Master of Death—who also serves as Principal Grand Master—steps out, her shoulders dropping the moment her eyes land on me. Beads of sweat dot her forehead. She is far from the pristine woman who’s often on the front page ofThe Daily Mage. Her red-stained lips are now a shadow of pink, and her painted face is gone, revealing dark circles and creases between her eyebrows. She looks taller than her sister, the Deathbringer, with a narrower face and a sharp nose.
In her hands are two boxes. Without a second thought, I reach for them, but she pulls them out of my reach. “Does our agreement stand?” she asks Paltro.
“Hewillneed his aspiers to heal her.” Paltro’s reply is short.
“Heal who?” I ask quietly.
“She’s barely holding on. Are you certain this will work?” She ignores me, directing her question at Paltro again.
“Priya, his healing aspier draws on the magic of Raiek, the Imortalis. Railesza is youronlyoption.”
“Whois barely holding on?” I inquire. For a moment I worry about Lyria, but it can’t be my sister. She wouldn’t be at the House of Death.
Parrish’s gaze lingers on me, then one after the other, she opens the boxes. Raiku springs out first, and I catch him with both hands. When he realizes it’s me, he hisses and coils around my wrist, resting against my skin like a long-lost friend. Railesza yawns like she’s awoken from the longest slumber. She takes her time slithering to my left forearm, going back to sleep the moment she settles.
“I’ll be inside when you’re ready. Please hurry,” she says.
The moment she walks through the double doors, I glare at Paltro. But he doesn’t look at me. “They need you to heal…” His throat bobs with discomfort. “A Mortemagi.”
“No.” I turn, then stop halfway. “Do you realize what you’re asking of me?”
Paltro still doesn’t meet my eyes. How could he do this? Heal a Mortemagi? He knew Mom. He was her friend.
“Sylas, you don’t have a choice.” He sighs.
I do have a choice. I can—my thought dies immediately. Paltro’s right. Idon’thave a choice. But if I do what he asks of me, I would be betraying myself. Worse, I’d be betraying Mom.