I know blood Mortemagi exist—I read about them through the margins of Nan’s journals—but never understood how they worked, only the harm they caused. “What are the blood arts?”
Archyr recoils, looking at me like my question is sacrilegious. Then he sighs. “When you trade some of your years to live—your lifeblood— in exchange for magic from the Gods. Mortemagi can summon the un-dead from the ground and control corpses; that’s how the puppets work. Arkani can stretch the limits of their magic, able to practice it without requiring dust.” He pauses, then quietly adds, “Aspieri are the only mages who can’t use lifeblood magic. It doesn’t work with our aspiers.”
“There’s honor in not bowing to the blood arts,” I say softly. His gaze lingers on me, but I cannot lose my focus, so I turn my attention forward. In these rare moments of honesty, I wonder if his hatred of Mortemagi stems from a misconception that we are all like Grimm.
The narrow tunnel in front of us drips from the roof. It’s only water, I tell myself. It’s… Gods, save us. It’s seawater. We must be so deep in the catacombs that we’ve reached the part that stretches into the ocean, but it only means we’re getting closer to the burial chamber. We’re still only two steps out of the guardian’s chamber, when a huge slab slides down, slamming on the ground, shutting us out. My heart leaps out of my chest. Had we not moved, it would have crushed us.
I look down the narrow tunnel again. With the chamber closed behind us, we can’t go back the way we came from once we find the burial chamber. Our only way out is through. As if Archyr hears my thoughts, he reassures me, “We’ll find another way out of the catacombs.”
I gulp, wishing I had some of his optimism.
“I’ll go first.” Archyr steps sideways into the narrow passage, his arms stretched so far, his chest pushed up and his abdomen sucked in. He takes long strides, careful not to touch either side. Then he gives me the quickest nod.
I take a deep breath and, like him, angle myself sideways with my arms stretched as far as I can. Then I take the first step.
A half-split skull looks straight at me, partially buried in the wall, and I gasp, swallowing the scream that’s pushing its way out of my throat. Archyr’s head snaps to me, and his eyes travel down my heaving chest. He closes his eyes; takes a slow, deep breath; opens them; and gives me an encouraging nod.
I can do this. I refuse to die before I find the murderer.
Another sideways step, and I pause. My mind is stuck on the faint splat of water against the rocks. Every drip is a threat that the ocean will claim us. I will my legs to move, but they stop again after two short steps. The walls are getting narrower. Will they close on us? Will we be trapped down here for eternity and join the skeletons that leer at us from the safety of their wall?
Another step. One breath. I am safe. A second step. Two breaths. Olivia did this, and so can I. A third step. Three breaths. These walls have been here for centuries. They will not close today. Even if I cannot trust that Victor led me the right way, I have to trust that he needs me enough to want me alive.
“We’re here,” Archyr says. All the air empties out of my lungs, in relief that this nightmare has an end. He looks around in awe. “It’s grander than in the books.”
When I step out of the tunnels of death, I understand what he means. The ancient burial chamber is made up of three U-shaped rows of vaults that go up at least five stories high. The paths between them are veiny white marble, nothing like the filth we had to cross to get here.
The vaults are all black marble, with the faintest white veins. I’ve only seen these in photographs; marble, especially this much, is only accessible to the rich provinces like Iserine, Aurignan, and Holm.
In front of each square is a golden rectangular plaque. I feel so out of place here, and a part of me wonders if that was the purists’ intent. Even in death, they wanted to divide mages. What’s the point if we all go to the Underworld in the end?
Archyr walks to the second row. I follow him, until he rounds the corner and stops in the middle of the wall of vaults. He runs his fingers along the plaque, lowering his head with a sigh. I open my mouth and close it right away. His grief wraps around him the same way I carry mine: quiet and overwhelming at the same time.
“This is,” Archyr says, his words muffled, “Beau’s ancestral vault. Hisfamily is… was one of the oldest mage families, almost as old as the Founding families.”
He motions me forward.
CARDOT. The engraving on the plaque is in old Serinese calligraphy— we don’t see these around anymore, not even in Iserine; it’s a lost art from Old Iserine. Then my eyes catch on the engraving on the next vault, this one in the bold serif letters of Holm.CARVER.
Victor. This must be why he brought us here.
I touch the plaque.Open it. Victor’s voice is as clear as a ghost’s could be.
“How do we open these?” I feel around the seams.
“Magic,” Archyr replies. “They recognize bloodlines.” My heart drops, but a smirk grazes his lips.
“Or…” He unfastens his coat, revealing an arsenal of daggers sheathed in a harness strapped around his chest. Long, short, narrow, wide, silver, gold. Everything is here. “Brute force works, too.”
If I wasn’t in such a hurry to find out what Victor wants, I would have had a lot more questions regarding the sixteen daggers strapped to his chest. Grabbing the shortest one, I feel the weight of it, light enough to handle and strong enough to jam in between the seams. I slide the metal tip in the top seam and push the hilt toward the upper vault.
The front square opens in a loud click.
I don’t know what I expected to see. Weapons, maybe. Bones, for certain. But I wasn’t expecting something as mundane as a single laurel leaf, shimmering in frosted red. Did Victor lead me down here for an ancestral relic, one that’s been retired?
My fingers hover, hesitating. What if this wasn’t Victor at all? What if this was a trap, and, like Olivia, I was blinded by the glamour of Gorhail? The moment I wrap my hand around the relic, I’ll peel another layer of this magic, not knowing what it brings nor what it takes. Still, I cannot shake the small voice that whispers, What if this brings me closer to finding Olivia’s killer?
So I close my hand.