Silas swallowed past the tight lump in his throat. He could taste Sorne’s nefarious intent, feel its vile texture upon his tongue. Nausea swelled. Sour bile burned his tastebuds, flooding his mouth with saliva.
Sorne clasped his hands behind his back. "Did you think your treason would go unpunished?" he whispered, leaning forward.
Silas shook his head, his stomach churning. He gulped down the urge to vomit. Uncontrollable tears fell, but not for himself.
Vera and Pa are going to be killed because of me!
The Archarbiter nodded at Silas's realization. Something flashed behind Sorne's eyes—an idea snapping into focus. Black cape rippling, Sorne turned toward the door. Over his shoulder, he said, "I trust you already know the consequences of your actions." With these words, the Archarbiter departed, locking the door behind him.
Silas froze, staring at the door, willing it to reopen. He wanted Sorne to come back. He wanted to beg for Pa and Vera's lives. Me! Kill me. Not them—they've done nothing wrong. I'm the one at fault.
Silas careened to the door, staggering over books and feet heavy with despair. He tried the handle—locked, of course. Then, he banged on the door, throwing himself against it until his elbows and fists were bruised and numb. Anguished screams ravaged his throat; he tore the surgical mask off his face to let them breathe. Come back! he pleaded, sliding down the door to his seat.
No, no, no, no!
Silas remained like that for some time, shaking and sobbing until his energy was spent. Sleep tempted him, wrapping him in a drowsy embrace that promised escape from the waking world's torment. Moments before he was claimed by slumber, his eyes flew wide.
Silas reached out with his mind, digging his consciousness deep beneath the Garrison Mordant. The Unspoken who had followed him here, surely they would help.
Silas reminded.
He waited, each fluttering heartbeat like the ticks of a clock. After a minute, he tried again. And again. The silence laughed in his face, mocking his hopeful naivety.
it said, and Silas covered his face with his hands.
Now I'm going mad, he thought, his shoulders quaking with crazed laughter.
Silas peeked his eyes through his fingers.
And then he knew. Silas shot to his feet, scanning his cell like he'd find the source of the Voice within.
Silas gasped at the power of the Unspoken's wrath. He felt it in his mind like the heat of an explosion. Then, it diminished to a smoldering spark, and the Unspoken continued.
Silas's extremities tingled with giddy optimism. Pacing to expel the jitters, he said,
The Unspoken child went quiet. Silas worried she had abandoned him, but then he felt her probing his mind. The prod was partway between an itch and a tickle. His skull tingled with the sensation.
Silas was about to ask her to stop when she said,
Silas complied with her demands. He explained everything, including his brief alliance with Echo, concluding with the release of the biological weapon and his punishment's reflection onto Pa and Vera. Silas calmed himself, breathing to prevent his emotions from spiraling out of control. He asked the child if she knew anything about Echo's plans and what exactly the agent he released was.
Silas ceased his pacing, closing his eyes in concentration to remember everything the Unspoken had said. The Unspoken's social hierarchy sounds similar to eusocial insects like bees and ants, he noted.
Silas said, quickly concealing his disappointment.
The Unspoken made a rustling sound in Silas's mind that he perceived as a sigh. she finally said.
They began to plan. Silas explained that he could use his Voice on both humans and Unspoken. If he attacked the next time someone came into his cell, maybe he could fight his way out, freeing the child along the way. Concern for her momentarily lapsed his resolve; he was dragging her into danger just by speaking to her. He wiped the thought away.
The longer she stays here, the more likely she is to die.
The child said nothing. Instead, she sent him…
Silas struggled to understand it. A sensation. An abstract concept. It was vague and strange and impossible for him to describe. It sent the world spinning so fast Silas had to stop pacing lest he fall over.
Then she did it again.
Silas frowned at the floor. He was now sitting on the edge of his firm bed, his legs slightly unsteady from the Unspoken child's "name."
If the Unspoken don't think in words, do they think in… whatever that bizarre feeling was?
The Unspoken child moved to answer—Silas sensed her begin formulating a response—when her words were cut short. Then, she screamed.
Silas clamped his hands over his ears, not that it made any difference. Her agony shot into Silas, his brain perceiving everything like the suffering was his own. The pain was sharp, jagged. It cut her deep, sawing through her exoskeleton and slicing past her cuticle. When the blade—yes, she was being cut with blades—ripped apart her epidermis, it burned like cold fire. No, not blades. Blade. A sword.
The Archarbiter? Silas thought dimly.
He saw him with the Unspoken's eyes. The Archarbiter's face was distorted—fractured into repeating hexagonal units through the Unspoken's compound vision. Malrick Sorne tortured the Unspoken child with an expression like he was watching paint dry: bored, uninterested. As the Unspoken's vision faded out, Sorne addressed someone in a white coat standing behind him, annoyance briefly alighting his features. When the Unspoken died, Silas was flung back into his body.
No, she wasn't dead. She was still screaming.
Silas fell out of bed. He tried to stand, only succeeding in ramming his chin into the tile.
His stomach lurched. Gagging into his hand, Silas crawled toward the hole in the floor that served as his toilet.
Dead. She's dead. The screams were not from her.
Silas retched, emptying his stomach.
It was him. He was screaming.
And he was falling, falling.
Folding in on himself like a ball and falling into somewhere empty and dark.
No!
Silas slammed his palm to the ground, pushing himself up.
Up, up, up, out of the dark place.
The Unspoken was dead. Silas knew that. But now he also knew that Sorne was still at the Garrison Mordant. That meant Pa and Vera were still alive. There was still something to fight for. Silas smiled and laughed as tears poured down his face. How much time did they have? He didn't know. But Silas couldn't afford to sit around, feeling miserable for himself while others' lives were on the line.
Silas rose unsteadily to his feet. Dr. Veyl's books towered high around his bed, taunting him with their red letters and secret messages. Silas lunged for them. Grabbing a book at random, he snapped it open, his eyes flying through its pages. With feverish intensity, Silas attacked Dr. Veyl's code, trying to convince himself the cipher was the key to unlocking his cell. He would unscramble the letters if it was the last thing he did, and in his freedom he'd save the ones he loved.
Silas opened his eyes—and thrashed. Something was covering his face. He couldn't see. He could hardly breathe! When he rolled over, the object fell away. Silas looked down.
He was lying on the bed in his cell, surrounded by books. The book that had been draped over his face slid off the edge of the bed, landing with a quiet plop on the ground below. Silas turned his head to watch it fall, noticing a full drinking glass perched upon one of the book stacks. Someone must have delivered it while he slept.
Silas hadn't realized how thirsty he was until he saw the glass. He snatched it—sloshing water onto his mattress—and chugged down its contents in three gulps. His parched tongue demanded more. Silas glared at the empty glass. The metallic water from the washbasin would have to do.
Hunger gnawed at his abdomen, alerting him to his hollow stomach. Silas hadn't eaten since dawn yesterday. He searched his cell for a tray of food but found nothing.
Hunger must be part of my punishment, Silas reasoned. He padded to the washbasin to refill the glass. I'll fill my stomach with water, then.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
As he quenched his thirst, Silas recounted the events of the previous night. Desperate to solve Dr. Veyl's code, he toiled away at the books until his vision blurred and exhaustion forced his eyes shut. He must have been reading right before he fell asleep, explaining the book covering his face when he woke. Silas set the glass down on the edge of the washbasin and returned to his bed.
Frustration cluttered his thoughts. Breathing evenly, he reminded himself of what was at stake. Pa and Vera were running out of time—they couldn't afford to wait while Silas bumbled around in irritated incompetence. Thoughts collected, Silas returned to the code, staring at the jumbled letters, urging them to arrange themselves into sense.
Trial and error wasn't working. There had to be a hint in the texts. But whatever it was eluded him. The first thing Silas investigated was the book titles. There was no pattern there. Subject proved more meaningful; the books with red letters were all novels. Yet Silas didn't think that had anything to do with solving the cipher. Dr. Veyl probably hid the letters in the novels because he assumed that Silas would have more interest in those than the nonfiction titles.
Perhaps numbers are the key. Silas arranged all the books with red letters in front of him on the bed, opened to the appropriate pages. He organized them in order of page number, from highest to lowest and vice versa. He sighed, scratching his head. The letters still spelled out gibberish.
Next he tried chapter number. He straightened.
That's it! The letters were found in chapters one through five. Most of these books have dozens of chapters. The fact that five is the highest must mean something.
Silas collected the letters into groups based on the chapters they were in. When he did so, he got:
I ma no ruoy deis
Silas gripped the book he was holding so powerfully his thumbs left imprints in the vellum. It was a sentence starting with "I." Silas played with the arrangement of the first three words; trial and error would work with only two letters.
I am no ruoy deis
Silas smiled wide. It was working!
I am on ruoy deis
His smile drooped. He could continue with trial and error for the final four letter words, but he knew there had to be a quicker way. Silas scrutinized the pages, scouring his brain for an answer. Numbers still sounded right. After all, the chapter numbers revealed half of the equation. But he had already tried—
Silas inhaled sharply.
What about paragraph number?
Silas began counting, his mood improving the longer his eyes surveyed the pages. The red letters were only found in paragraphs one through four. Using his thumbnail to "write," he pressed the numbers under their respective letters. This revealed:
I am on ruoy deis
1 12 12 4321 3421
Silas understood. The paragraph number denotes the position of the letters in the words! When he arranged the letters in ascending numerical order, he finally cracked the code. It said:
I am on your side
That's it? Silas shook his head. Confusion beget rage. Pressure built in Silas's throat, culminating in a strangled cry as he threw the nearest book across the room. He recalled Dr. Veyl's paranoid behavior after his first return from the Western Quadrant—how he kept glancing at the door like he expected someone to be listening.
You went through all this trouble—made an entire puzzle—for something you could have whispered into my ear at any time? Silas ran his fingers through his hair, tearing at knots; he stopped when his aching scalp prompted him to let go. If you're on my side, then help me protect those I care about!
Silas bundled into his thin blanket. Huddled on his bed, he wept until even tears refused to keep him company. Each moment that passed brought Vera and Pa closer to death. Every second pushed Silas toward the verge. Teetering at the edge of reason, Silas peered down into the void. Tendrils of darkness emerged from below, ensnaring his soul. One slip would pitch him into the bottomless depths. If he fell, he'd never see the surface again.
Two days passed in isolation. At least, that's how long it felt. Nobody visited Silas, not even Dr. Veyl. Water abated the hunger for a while, but only food would fill the empty space in his stomach. Silas was so ravenous he began to crave the leather bindings of his books.
At first, he paced. Bare feet slapping against the cold tile, Silas spent hour after hour moving back and forth across his cell. Eventually the hunger reached his head, leaving him lightheaded and agitated.
He napped frequently, mostly to pass the time. Reading was no longer interesting, not when his mind constantly veered back to the Sanctorium. As he lay there, comfortable in his bed, were Vera and Pa swinging from the gallows? Were they already dead? Times like these made Silas glad he hadn't eaten. His stomach roiled whenever his thoughts drifted to uncertainty.
What happened to Ilyra? Corin? Had the virus he released been contained, or was it spreading far beyond the Western Quadrant, killing everyone it touched?
On the second day, Silas returned to the door, banging and throwing himself against it. Why was nobody coming? Silas stopped mid-knock—fist poised above the doorknob.
What if the virus ravaged the Garrison Mordant? If everyone is dead, and I'm stuck here forever…
A fit of manic laughter brought Silas to his knees. He giggled and wheezed, then hiccuped a sob, pressing his forehead to the door's soothingly cool metal. Maybe the sickness caught the Archarbiter too. That might be better. I'd rather starve to death in here than have Sorne return to Droswick.
There was an abrupt sound from the other side of the door. Silas froze, holding his breath. The sound came again. He held his ear to the door, listening. Someone had sneezed. High-pitched. Feminine. Ravelin, most likely. Silas kicked the door with his heel. He overbalanced and stubbed his big toe, the nail bending backwards. Hopping on one foot, Silas wondered about Ravelin. Why was she standing out there, doing nothing? If only Silas could talk. He wanted to shout his frustrations and demand answers from anyone who would listen. Instead he could only yell and flail.
With an indignant grunt, Silas sank to the floor, rubbing his throbbing toe. I must sound like a child having a tantrum, he thought, resting his chin between his knees.
An idea struck him. Silas listened hard, ear to the door. Ravelin—he was convinced it was her—was still there. She gave herself away when she mumbled to herself softly and shifted her weight, the soles of her boots squealing against the slick tiles.
Silas extended his consciousness beyond the door, imagining his mind like a spill of smoke trickling through the keyhole. He pictured Ravelin guarding the door, leaning against the wall distractedly. She wouldn't notice, not if he was quick and subtle. Slowly, carefully, Silas wormed his awareness into her head.
Her mind was malleable. That must be why she had been so afflicted in 47 Brimthorne Lane's cellar where Vera had fought off Silas's accidental projection with ease. But it was fragile, too. Silas knew if he wasn't careful, he'd break her. Gently, he gave her a nudge. She didn't need to be controlled, only fed a compulsion. All she had to do was open the door. A mere peek would suffice. As she considered this, Silas heard her stray thoughts like a whisper in a quiet room. She was hesitant to open the door. The Archarbiter had given her explicit orders not to.
No, I didn't, Silas murmured, his voice in her head like Sorne's. I told you to check inside last night, remember?
The faux memories manifested, overwriting reality. Ravelin's hand reached for the knob—
"What are you doing, Elsbeth?"
Silas was wrenched from Ravelin's mind. Slammed back into his body, he found himself sprawled on the ground, panting with exertion. Head pounding, skin glistening with sweat, Silas lay like that, listening to Sorne and Ravelin speak as he tried to regain his strength. Strangely, subtle suggestion was more difficult than outright controlling people.
After several unsuccessful attempts, Silas managed to push himself upright. This is similar to what happened when I tried to fight the ten Unspoken in the training hall, he thought, fighting to focus his vision. Blood leaked from his right nostril, collecting in the palm of his hand.
"I-I'm not sure," Ravelin said breathlessly. "I just—"
"Move aside." A pause, followed by Sorne clearing his throat.
"Yes, Archarbiter Sorne," Ravelin said, deflated.
Feet shuffled. Keys jingled. Silas fled from the door, swaying on his feet, the room listing dangerously. He leapt for his bed as a key was inserted into the lock. The door opened with a loud creak. Silas faced the wall, his blanket covering his face. Ignoring the burning objection from his lungs, he breathed deep and steady, feigning sleep.
Bootsteps approached. Silas knew by their languished pace they belonged to Sorne. It took all of his willpower to remain motionless while his limbs screamed at him to run and hide. A hand rested heavily on his shoulder. Silas couldn't pretend anymore. He startled with a yelp, involuntarily swinging his arm wide. Sorne caught it before Silas could smack him in the face. Cautiously, Silas turned, his forearm still clamped within Sorne's iron grip.
"Good morning, Silas," said the Archarbiter with an arched eyebrow. Briefly, Silas marveled at Sorne's lack of sanitary vestment. Had the virus been vanquished after all?
Silas's arm went slack in Sorne's hand. He knew. Sorne's face—a malevolent grin upturning his lips—said it all. They were gone. Pa and Vera were dead.
Silas's cheeks were saturated with steadily falling tears. He whimpered, his sobs gaining momentum until they shook his shoulders, wrenching his arm free.
No. Please no.
Ravelin poked her head in, glanced at Silas. Sorne shot her a sidelong look and she averted her gaze, stepping back, hidden by the wall.
"Indeed," Sorne said, kneeling. Sitting on his heels he added, "I figured you'd understand immediately."
Silas's vision swam with tears. He was glad for it—he didn't have to see the way Sorne watched him with unfettered delight.
"I shall tell you about their final moments."
Silas shook his head. He shoved his fingers into his ears so he wouldn't have to listen. Sorne chuckled. Leaning forward, he pried Silas's hands away with contrived tenderness. He guided them to the boy's side, where they lay limp. As the Archarbiter spoke, Silas stared at the ceiling, his back propped up by the wall behind him. The ceiling moved farther and farther away as Silas fell into despondency.
"Vera's recovery was faring well. Her wound was nearly closed, the alchemical poisoning completely purged from her system. The physicks told me she was to be discharged soon to return to the Imperial Crownhold. Not as an Arbiter of course," Sorne said, his smile deepening, "but as a prisoner awaiting trial. You merely sped things along. If anything, Silas, you saved her from syzygies of suffering. She would have rotted away in a cell, waiting for a fate she was so kindly granted early."
Silas responded with a choked sob.
"Elias was still comatose," Sorne continued. "We had to carry him to the gallows, where he swung quietly. It was the most tranquil public execution I've witnessed. He died with no pain, passing on like slipping into a dream."
The Archarbiter's hand dug around in his pocket. He pulled something free—a thin, black strip of ribbon. The ribbon Pa used to tie his hair and bundles of parchment. Sorne pinched it between his index finger and thumb, holding it in front of Silas's face. Silas watched it flutter in the draft wafting from his shallow, rapid breaths.
"This came free from his hair," Sorne explained. He overturned Silas's hand—palm up—where he deposited the ribbon. "It got caught in the noose, you see. I figured you'd want it back. Something to remember him by."
Silas's fingers curled around the ribbon. It matched the one circling his wrist; he'd never taken it off after finding it in Coldspire's murky depths.
"Oh, before I forget," Sorne said, moving closer. "Would you like to hear Vera's last words?" he whispered.
Silas didn't react. Sorne wasn't expecting him to. The boy would hear her last words whether he wanted to or not.
"They were simple and succinct. No melodrama. No longwinded, maudlin goodbyes." The Archarbiter stood. Facing the door, he said, "She asked if you were safe. That was all."
A siren went off. Silas heard it far away, echoing in the distance. Sorne heard it too. Gaping in surprise, he spun around, watching as Silas lumbered out of bed.
Silas had nothing left to lose. Before, Sorne's threats kept him tame, holding him back when he wished to retaliate. Sorne severed his own lifeline with the same knife he used to cut Vera and Pa from the hangman's noose. Nothing could protect him from Silas's hysterical counterstrike.
It wasn't a siren. The sound came from Silas, wailing as he struck Sorne with every ounce of his power. His grief and rage flooded from his mind, crashing into Sorne, sending him crumpling to the ground, black cape ruffling behind him. The Archarbiter didn't get back up.
But Silas didn't stop. Instead, he increased the output, discharging his vast, endless supply of power. Sorne convulsed, eyes rolling white. Silas felt the Archarbiter's mind rebel against his onslaught. Sorne fought back, feebly pushing Silas out. Silas only laughed. Or perhaps it was a sob. He smacked down Sorne's frail defense, dispelling it with ease. Then, he became aware of something in his own mind. This was his first time sensing it. It was akin to a valve. The valve was stuck open, allowing Silas's power—his aether—to flow through unimpeded. Silas knew that if he twisted it the opposite way he could dampen the flow, or even stop it all together. He didn't want that. To kill Sorne, he'd need to hit him with everything he had. He didn't care if it meant he had to die too.
He took a sledgehammer to the pipes branching from the valve. He hacked away at it with his own aether, felt the pipes splinter and crack. The cracks grew longer and deeper, spidering along the pipes. Aether gushed out of them, allowing more cracks to form. Finally, the pipes ruptured. Silas's awareness was wrenched back to the physical world.
He was lying on the ground. Ravelin was above him, pinning him down. He bucked, trying to throw her off. He needed to see. His head swiveled, looking for Sorne. Where was he? Was he dead? Silas wanted him dead.
Ravelin was talking to someone. Her mouth was covered with her usual mask. Silas's ears weren't working. He could only tell because she kept looking over her shoulder, her jaw tensing and relaxing when she spoke.
The person she was conversing with stepped into the room. Rather, he wobbled, hanging onto the doorframe for support. It was the Archarbiter. He was still alive.
Silas bucked again, lifting his head and slamming it back down. He tried to attack Sorne with his mind, but something was wrong. The surging, pulsing power he normally felt in the center of his skull was gone. No, that wasn't right. It was there, but steadily weakening. It spurted like blood from a severed artery. Silas tried to gather it up and return it to its place, but it was no use. As his aether left him, an overwhelming sleepiness took hold. He no longer had the energy to fight against Ravelin.
She released him, leaning away, watching Sorne intently. Silas didn't move. Couldn't, really. His leaden muscles refused to so much as twitch. Ravelin seemed torn with indecision, hesitating while she glanced between Sorne and Silas. At the Archarbiter's incessant shouting that Silas couldn't quite make out, she stood and ambled to the door. With one final concerned look at Silas, she left, following the Archarbiter into the corridor. Silas stayed on the ground, his gaze above. When sensation seeped back into his arms, he reached them overhead, clawing at the air like he could collect his bleeding aether and hug it close. Pa's ribbon fell when he opened his palm, hovering in the air for a moment before flitting down to land on Silas's cheek. Silas fell with it, plunging somewhere so harrowing and forbidding even light couldn't escape.