“Paltro’s so secretive when it comes to House of Poison business, I doubt we’ll ever know.” Lyria shakes her head, then turns her attention to Beau, a playful smile on her lips. “Did you know he had given up on you? He was convinced a conduit led you into the Underiver.”
Beau raises his eyebrows at Sylas. “Despondent as always.”
Sylas waves him off with a smile, and Beau walks through the sofa, crosses through the coffee table, and plops himself on the opposite sofa. “You’re allowed to sit,” he tells Victor.
With a quiet sigh, Victor lowers himself to the hearth, his back now facing me. Beau gazes at him as Victor sticks both hands in the fire, the bright orange flames burning through his mild translucence. Next to the warm light of the fireplace, they don’t look human anymore, their bodies silhouetted with a faint silver film.
“Lyr.” Beau beckons his sister over. “I need your brain. Here’s all we have: Faro’s Cuff is missing;The Founder’s Book of Relicswas last checked out in 1918; Mortemagi poachers killed us for heirloom relics…”
“One aspier, one laurel, and we know they want Viola’s cuff,” Sylas adds as he walks over to them, leaning his arms on the back of the sofa between Beau and Lyria. “Gryff mentioned it could be for a ritual, but that’s all we have. No one else has been killed in a week.”
“Could your mom have taken Faro’s Cuff?” Beau hesitates.
“Are you saying…” Sylas pauses. “Could she have taken it out, and they…”
From across the room, Sylas lifts his head, and, for a fleeting moment, his eyes brush over me. They swirl with guilt, hurt, and deep sorrow. My legs take a step forward on their own, before I stop them. His sorrow isn’t mine to ease.
“No. Rogue Mortemagi killed Mom,” Lyria says quietly. “Dad told us the story countless times.” She pauses, tilting her head toward Sylas. “I don’t think… I would’ve known if she took out the cuff. It would be in her notes. She documentedeverything.”
Rogue Mortemagi. No wonder Sylas hates death magic. No wonder he hatesme. His hatred doesn’t stem from misconception at all. A Mortemagi killed his mother. The sudden revelation garrotes me, and I want to turn around and disappear into the Poisoned Stairwell.
Lyria catches my eyes, and she worries her lips between her teeth, a frown playing at her eyebrows. “Cuff aside, a ritual is plausible if Mortemagi and heirlooms are involved, but without theBook of Relics, we have no way to know. Paltro sent over the reports we asked for. I’ll peruse Dad’s field reports; he was investigating poacher cells when he died, and they might be able to tell us something.”
“Are you finished with the Deathbringer’s reports?” Sylas asks.
The Deathbringer, I’ve learned, is a sacred name within Gorhail’s walls. She’s the only Aspieri lauded in Mortemagi books, also the only Aspieri Mortemagi seem to respect—Delaney admires her, and even Nan used to speak highly of her. She used to lament her and her aspier’s disappearance and often blamed the rise of poachers on it.
“They’re in your room,” Lyria says.
As they talk, my attention sways to the dark ebony table that sits in front of the arched floor-to-ceiling windows next to the entrance to Beau’s room. Four ornate wood and blue velvet chairs are half-tucked under the table, two on each side. I walk over, running my finger down the side of what seems to be the Archyrs’ study desk. The wood is from the dwarf cherry trees in Gorhail Woods. Nan had one like this in her office, before Mother got rid of it.
When I look out the window, my breath catches. The cliffs of Gorhail overlook the Sea of the Gods. As the sky transitions from dark to light, thecliffs come alive, welcoming the slow crash of waves below. In the distance, the peaks of Mount Chazal shine with faint orange hues. If I lived in these rooms, I’d spend the day on the balcony, admiring the raw beauty of Bale. But I don’t belong here.
On the top corner of the desk, I find a stray sheet of paper filled with a random list of chores and a pen. Moving one of the chairs to the side, I lean over, grab the pen, and, on the flip side of the page, I begin scribbling a rough sketch of the layout of Dearly Departed: where the doors are located, the planter holding the spare key, and the cold room with Beau’s and Victor’s bodies. This is the last thing I have to do before leaving, my last chance to bring my sister justice.
The plan is simple. I’ll go in, and Lyria can help me move the bodies outside. Meanwhile, Beau’s and Victor’s ghosts can look for the puppeteer, and finally, Sylas can create a distraction while I work on stitching the ghosts and bodies together. But that’s only if the bodies haven’t been moved.
“Are we certain your bodies are still at Dearly Departed?” I interrupt the chatter across the room.
Beau looks up with a grimace. It must be strange, hearing that. “I was there yesterday, and both bodies are still in the cold room. I’ve been going every day, hoping to catch the puppeteer, but only Mara was in,” he replies. “The puppeteer has been trying to puppet both our bodies through Mara, but until the frost venom dissipates, they’re useless.”
Lyria stands up. “This shouldn’t be—”
“Possible, I know.” Victor finishes her sentence. “It takes generations of magic to be able to cross puppet a body, not to mention the knowledge,” he pauses, looking at the three siblings. “The only relics with that much magic are heirlooms dating back to the founders’ time.”
Gods. It all makes sense.The Founder’s Book of Relicswould have that knowledge, and Faro’s Cuff would have that much magic.
“Ancient magic, a missing cuff, and a missing book…” Sylas straightens, and as he heads in my direction, he frowns. Our eyes meet, and an ominous feeling swirls in my stomach. Our conversation earlier barrels into my mind, and at the same time, Sylas confirms my worries. “What ifThe Daily Magewasn’t all propaganda? What if poacher activity has been increasing to prepare for Grimm’s return?”
“The Daily Magespreads all sorts of lies to sell copies. They thrive on sensationalism.” Victor crosses the coffee table over to Beau and Lyria.
“Grimm’s return is impossible,” Beau adds, glancing at Lyria for confirmation. “Even with the cuff, they’d need the blood of the five founders to release him. Helna Azgar and Kali Telam have no descendants.”
“I am more worried about a mage following in his footsteps. Even on the off chance they had hidden descendants, Grimm wouldn’tneed The Founder’s Book of Relics,” Victor says.
“But someone trying to become him would,” Lyria reasons.
Sylas nods. “It would explain the heightened Firstline surveillance Gryff was talking about. Poacher cells are more active than ever.”