“That’s absurd, Darro.” Wren grunts as she pushes a puppet off her, slicing off its head with her short blade. Her long hair is dripping with blood, and her face bears the claw marks of an undead. She looks like an avenging god with her weapon drawn. “It’s not your time yet. Retreat. That’s an order.”
“But…” Gryff protests, but I pull him forward. I will drag him back to Gorhail if I have to. “I’m not letting you die.”
As we move away, Wren struggles with the last poacher, a man who towers over her. He knocks the knife from her hand as Gryff stops and turns around. “Dagger,” he says, but he’s already slipped my dagger out of its sheath. He throws it, desperately.
But it’s too late.
The poacher draws his own knife, slashing across Wren’s neck to her collarbone. I nearly gag from the blood spraying everywhere. She drops her dagger, clutching her neck as her knees thump against the mud. We don’t hear her scream, but the poacher lowers himself and snatches the knife relic around her neck, then takes off into the woods.
He didn’t take any other relics, yet nearly all the relics in our unit were heirlooms. He came for Wren’s. I have to stop this poacher; whoever heis working for is now one step closer to completing their collection. I jerk forward, forgetting that Gryff depends on me. He yowls in pain, and I move back, taking most of his weight again.
“Sorry,” I say through gritted teeth, as the shadows of the trees swallow the poacher. “Sorry,” I repeat, softer this time.
“Your recklessness…” Gryff sighs in pain, as we limp back to Gorhail. “You knew better. You were warned, yet you still gave in to your anger… Their blood is on your hands, Sy.”
The dead cannot be resurrected unless they were killed.
The dead cannot be resurrected unless their body is present.
Exceptions to the rule comprise: resurrection from entrapment.
YSENIA FARO,THE FOUNDER’S BOOK OF RELICS, CHAPTER 13
thirty-one | viola
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 2, 1939
My nails are painted with blood as I pace outside the infirmary. It took us half an hour to find which of the three Gorhail infirmaries they sent the Firstliners to, and now all we can do is wait.
My eyes fall on Azgar Fountain a few steps away from the round-roof building, where the statue of Helna Azgar winks at me with one hand holding a book and the other clutching her relic—a golden laurel leaf—behind her back. That same leaf later became part of the Arkani Coin when the four Houses merged into one in the name of unity. Maybe the Arkani were right all along—if mages weren’t so busy with petty House rivalries, they could’ve worked together to find a solution against poachers. The Riverview Division officers wouldn’t be dead or fighting for their lives right now.
For the third time, Beau touches my hand, prompting me to stop picking at my fingers. But I’m not the only one riddled with anxiety. Lyria sits on the steps, head hanging on her knees. She steals worried glances at Beau, jerks at the opening and closing of the door, and her usual optimism is gone.
I sit next to her, and she weaves her fingers through mine, her skin as cold as the morning frost. I glance down at our linked hands, and my throat knots.
I’ve told myself that Sylas cannot die about twenty times, yet I cannot help the pit of despair gnawing at my insides. He doesn’t have Railesza anymore; he could be severely hurt. And what if they found a way to take Raiek off? My fist balls at my stomach, and I feel sick. The last time I spoke to Sylas, I told him to rot in the Underworld. Gods, if anything happens to him, I will never forgive my rotten tongue.
“We don’t even know if they were part of this unit. They could be in Riverview.” Beau kicks the pebbles in frustration, and Railesza hisses at him.
Boots slosh against the wet grass. I look up, and Overseer Paltro heads toward us, his face wearing a scathing look. When his eyes land on me, it’s worse. “What are you doing here, Miss Corvi?”
“I…” I get up, flattening my coat. “I am…” I try again, but his threatening glare buries my tongue. Do I even have a right to be here? Sylas istheirbrother, and I’ve only known them for mere weeks.
“She’s with us, Uncle,” says Beau, while giving me a reassuring nod. “We told her to come.”
The overseer doesn’t spare him a glance. His eyebrows lift in question. “Miss Corvi, do you have family in Firstline?” He regards me from the bottom of his glasses, as if I am worthless. “Friends, perhaps?”
“I—” My face warms. No, I don’t have family. Friends? Can I even call Sylas a friend?
“Then you have no business being here.” His words are a final blow. My cheeks burn, my eyes sting, and my vision blurs from the hot tears. I begin to walk away, drowning out Beau’s and Lyria’s protests. The overseer is right. I don’t belong here, not when I told Sylas to die the last time we spoke.
“Viola,” Lyria calls out. “Wait.”
“Sit down, Miss Archyr,” the overseer snaps. “A Mortemagi killed your mother. It serves you well to remember that.”
His harsh words seep into my heart, turning it to stone, and I sink in this poisonous reminder. Nothing will change that a Mortemagi killed their mother.
Nothing will change that Iama Mortemagi.