A young woman around my age stands up from her seat on the couch. Her black hair sits at her waist like a curtain of silk, and her skin is a shade darker than Archyr’s, with warm undertones that remind me of honey. She is probably the most beautiful person I’ve seen at Gorhail, but her eyes are red, swollen. She’s been crying. I’m not the only one who notices because Archyr is in front of her in a blink.
“Lyria.” He holds her face so tenderly. He can’t be the same person who threatened me on the stairs in Hollow Tree earlier.
She leans against him. “We can’t even have a funeral. You know how important burials are, Sylas. Will he go down to his family crypt or be buried next to Mom and Dad in Iserine?”
Archyr sighs, resting his chin on her head. “I never asked him.”
Funerals are perhaps one of the most important rites for mages. Without burials, the ghosts are lost in the Underiver forever and if they do escape, they become wandering ghosts with nowhere to go. They can’t cross into the Underworld. It’s why Nan made a fuss about Dad’s burial when Mother wanted to have him cremated. For someone who lauded Olivia for being a mage, she never really respected mage customs.
A fist of envy knots in my throat. They are all mages; in death, they will have one another. But for Olivia and me, her funeral tomorrow will be our last goodbye. I am a mage, and she is a nonmagi. Even after I die, we’ll never be reunited.
“I’m sorry,” the young woman says as she notices me. “It’s… it comes in waves, as you probably know. I’m sorry about your sister.” She pulls away from Archyr, wipes her eyes, walks from the seating area to where I stand by the door to the Poisoned Stairwell. “I’m Lyria, Beau and Sylas’s sister.” She reaches for my hand.
Sylas. What a beautiful name, although it stops at that. Lyria radiates the warmth of a spring morning by the sea, and Archyr might as well be a lake frozen twice over.
“Viola,” I say, gently shaking her hand.
“Please, you’ll help us speak to Beau, won’t you?” She still holds my hand between hers, and I stare at them awkwardly. Is her friendliness a trick of some sort? But her eyes are so earnest, her words so sincere. As much as I want to help her, my inexperience is catching up to me, and I don’t know how. Before Beau at the funeral home, I had never spoken to a ghost. Only corpses, and only when I touched them.
“I’d never seen one up close before Gorhail.” I gesture to the black serpent around her wrist, desperate to veer the conversation away from my magic. More than anything, I don’t want to disappoint her.
“Our aspiers?” Lyria beams, lifting her arm. I don’t know much about aspiers, other than that they are a form of living relic.
“This is Nyx.” The black snake uncoils from around her forearm, revealing a soft gold underbelly, and stretches the length of her arm. Its red eyes lock on me, and I don’t move, afraid it will attack if I do. But no one else seems to worry. Lyria continues, “She’s a killer aspier. She poisons blood.”
She talks about killing with such normalcy, as if it’s common to have relics that murder. Then again, with the arts of blood, any mage becomes a weapon. I think of Mara, of how she was being controlled by a puppeteer—a blood Mortemagi. And my throat closes again, my chest tightening. Maybe one day I’ll revisit that night without feeling the sharp claws digging through my flesh. For now, I press my eyes together, thinking about Nan, about Olivia, about the books we used to read.
Lyria lowers her arm with an apologetic frown, and my breath evens out. Between the harrowing memory of that night and the aspiers, my heart feels like it will give out.
“Railesza, you already know.” Archyr takes over as he joins us, lifting his left forearm, where the green aspier watches me with interest. “She’s a healer. Not as common as killers, but we have quite a few of them in Secondline.” Up close, I notice the depth of her emerald scales; if I didn’t know what she was, I’d have mistaken her for a jewel. Her eyes are a mesmerizing pale green, and I wonder why Olivia would tell me to be wary of a healing serpent.
Then the black serpent around Archyr’s wrist slithers forth, bowing his head, his onyx eyes never leaving mine. I tell myself that I am not scared, but killer aspiers are terrifying. They can kill within seconds, should they choose. “Raiku, also a killer, like Nyx,” Archyr finishes.
“Lastly, there’s Raiek,” Lyria gestures to Archyr’s neck, where the thin, golden serpent is coiled like a necklace. “The Imortalis, a Founder’s relic, as you may know. It grants immortality to the wearer and can only be given in time of need. We’ve had Raiek in our family since Sileas Ronin.”
This explains the grand room, the lavish furniture, and the sculpture made of gold. These siblings are the descendants of the founder of the House of Poison, who was also the first founder of Gorhail.
Lyria finishes her introduction. “I have a book on it, I—”
Her brother’s stare drowns her words, and her face falls.
“I would love to read about it,” I tell her honestly, and her face lights up. The pang of guilt punches my gut again. Her heart is so true, and it will break the moment she realizes I am a fraud who can’t help them.
“Have you heard from Beau at all?” Lyria asks. “I apologize for asking so soon, but I know my brother—he’d be trying to reach us.”
Her eyes remind me so much of Olivia’s. They watch me with hope, and I feel sick because I will shred every ounce of it. I haven’t heard their brother speak since Dearly Departed, and as much as I want to believe his ghost is in hiding, I get the sinking feeling that he may have moved on through the Underiver.
“I… I don’t know how to speak to ghosts.” I settle for a half truth. I can’t bear sharing my morbid theory.
She presses her lips together, her eyebrows scrunch into a worried knot. I want to disappear. Nothing hurts more than hope being ripped away when you need it the most. Like the hope I nurtured in the brief hours I thought Olivia was coming to Osneau with me.
Archyr frowns, because it’s not something he wants to hear. “You are a whisperer, for Haal’s sake.”
“An untrained one, you said it yourself.” My gaze cuts to him. I never onceagreedto speak to his brother. Suddenly, the space feels so small. I’m trapped between them and the door to the stairwell behind me.
“Maybe I was wrong.” Lyria reaches for her brother’s arm and whispers, “Sy, I don’t think Beau’s ghost would be around Gorhail, given how many conduits there are.” She says something else, but I can’t make it out because Archyr pins me with a distracting glare.
“Don’t waste our time, Corvi.”