Each day, they raised the number of Unspoken he had to kill. Two was trivial. He ignored their Voices—blocking out their pain, fear, and cries for mercy. He knew if he listened he would fall apart.
Silas killed almost instantly. The moment he saw them, he crushed their minds. Ending their lives was effortless—it was easier than snuffing out a candle flame.
Ilyra and Sorne were visibly pleased. They grinned in triumph, uncharacteristically showering Silas with praise. The white coats hurried around, chatting excitedly about their discoveries. They crudely expressed their results to Silas, oblivious to his aversion.
"Necropsy revealed extensive hemorrhaging and edema of the cerebrum," one logister divulged. "Especially of the fifth lobe." He tapped his temple. "I bet your brain has the same structure."
"I'm certain of it," agreed Dr. Veyl. "The animals recovered from Coldspire Depot all had an extra lobe intermediate the temporal and parietal—exactly like the Unspoken."
"We should prioritize confirming this hypothesis," Dr. Korrel said, studying Silas like he was something growing in a petri dish. "I will propose the procedure to the General and Archarbiter."
The young machinist often interrupted these conversations. Silas soon learned her name: Kessara Lynth. She worked tirelessly to adjust the "electrode arrays" on Silas's temples, making constant adjustments to their design.
"Progress is underway," she said when the machine once again shut down and spat out smoke. "But the neural oscillations emitted by his brain are too powerful—they keep overloading the sensors." She stuck new sticky pads to Silas's head and stepped back, frowning down at a clipboard. "I need to decrease their sensitivity while maintaining integrity."
Every time Silas met her hazel eyes, she averted her gaze, looking crestfallen. He didn't know what prompted such behavior, but he also didn't care. After quickly killing the Unspoken pair, he was freed from the chair and led back to his cell.
Three Unspoken were harder than two. They attacked in a coordinated offensive, exploiting every opening in Silas's defense. He spotted their pattern—one feinting as another struck. Lacking their level of experience, Silas struggled to gain the upper hand. He strained his mind, giving his best effort. After an arduous battle, sheer power left Silas victorious. However, he narrowly escaped defeat and was left bleary-eyed with exhaustion afterward.
The Archarbiter berated Silas the entire time, perhaps convinced his poor performance was an act of rebellion.
"Kill them or Vera and Elias die," he reminded.
Silas pretended Sorne wasn't hovering in his line of sight, distracting him from the task before him.
Such a lack of ingenuity, Silas thought bitterly, using his frustration to force the Unspoken trio out of his mind. You repeat the same threat again and again. Every. Single. Day. I know. I'm not an idiot.
Sorne pretended Silas hadn't accidentally attacked him the first day of experimentation. Silas was glad for it. He feared he would wake up the following day with word of Vera and Pa's deaths whispered into his ear, but nothing happened. Silas began wondering if the Archarbiter was bluffing, but couldn't bring himself to risk the outcome if he was not.
This time, the machine survived the experiment. Still, Kessara was unsatisfied, aiming to perfect it. Silas remained in the chair while she adjusted the electrodes, took measurements, and performed calculations on her clipboard. He was so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open. He gave up and relaxed, the restraints holding him upright. Before he fell asleep, Kessara said something as she pretended to untangle imaginary knots in the wires.
"You shouldn't be stuck in this chair," she whispered, so low Silas opened his eyes to read her lips. She was going to say something else, but she quickly snapped her jaw shut when Dr. Korrel walked past.
Her words washed away Silas's fatigue. He watched her while she worked, noticing things he hadn't before. She glared at everyone else in the chamber, grimacing when they regarded Silas absently like he was a specimen instead of a person. She frowned when Silas's restraints were removed, red welts ringing his wrists and ankles. She was gentle when she touched him, her fingers barely brushing his skin while she took measurements or reapplied the electrodes.
Silas perked up—hope daring to manifest. He decided Kessara was one person in Garrison Mordant he could trust.
Four Unspoken proved too much for him. In retrospect, Silas attributed his defeat to the fact that the four were a family; their number was less relevant.
This was the first time Silas had seen Unspoken children. They were small, about half as tall as the adults. Soft exoskeletons coated them, the chitin so thin it was translucent. Certain parts of their bodies lacked a hard shell altogether, namely their heads and backs. They had four digits instead of three. The youngest child had a longer fourth digit than the oldest.
Now that Silas could compare a male and female side-by-side, he noticed there was sexual dimorphism. The female had a rounder head and larger eyes than the male. Her abdominal segment was wider. The male was slightly taller and thinner, and his exoskeleton was thicker around his joints.
Briefly, Silas contemplated the ecological purpose of these morphology differences, recalling his biology lessons. His musings were interrupted by the Voices. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't block them out. The children were especially hard to ignore. Their terror tore through the numbness he'd wrapped himself in. He could no longer convince himself that what he was doing was just.
We're one and the same, Silas thought, smiling sadly at the child. It heard him and jerked its head, staring at him with its big black eyes. Immediately, Silas tried to clear his mind. He'd forgotten that the Unspoken could hear his stray thoughts.
Silas blinked.
Before Silas could respond, Ilyra began her usual tirade. "What a lovely conversation you five are having," she said, a blade in each hand. She crept behind the parents, dragging the flat edges across their exoskeletons.
Silas cringed at the sound that scraped like nails on a chalkboard.
"But I don't appreciate it when others talk behind my back." She stared at Silas as she slowly inched her blades toward the children's throats.
The parents tried rushing to them, but Guards held their chains, forcing them to stillness.
"You're here to fight, not chit-chat. Attack the boy or forfeit your lives. The choice is yours." Ilyra crouched in front of the youngest child. As she sawed on its flimsy exoskeleton, she murmured, "However, I promise bleeding out from thousands of tiny cuts is rather unpleasant."
The little one shook, its Voice garbled, frantic. ????????????????it asked, the words so distorted Silas struggled to hear it.
Does it not understand human speech? Silas thought. Maybe it's too young to have learned yet.
Silas's mouth fell open. He squinted at the child, then compared what he saw to the adults and elder sibling. The older Unspoken had small holes on either side of their heads, so small Silas hadn't noticed them before. On the other hand, the youngest's ears were covered in membranes.
"Start!" Ilyra shouted as she yanked the Unspoken's chains. When nothing happened, she growled and stabbed the youngest child in what looked like her shoulder. "I told you to start. Don't make me repeat myself again." She twisted the blade, slowly.
The child's torment cut through Silas. He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to shut out the sound. How could he kill these Unspoken? They were a family. Two of them were children! Silas shook his head as much as his restraints would allow. He opened his eyes and looked at the Archarbiter. Sorne's threats rang in his ears, but doubt whispered under their peal. What if he was lying, and Silas had been killing these Unspoken for nothing?
The Archarbiter narrowed his eyes. Silas glared back, his face set in enmity. Then, he returned his attention to the Unspoken. If he could reason with them, maybe they could think up a solution together.
As one, the parents unleashed a brutal onslaught. It collided with Silas like gravity, dragging him down. He felt himself falling.
Silas was still crawling out of the dark place he fell down. When he blinked, his eyes opened and closed at different times. Something was wrong with his muscles; he couldn't control his movements. Everything felt heavy. And tingly. Gooseflesh pricked his skin even though he wasn't cold.
This isn't good, he thought faintly.
He kept blinking, trying to clear his vision. Something was sticking to his eyelashes, weighing down his eyelids.
Fight back! Silas tried mustering his power, but he was having trouble remembering how.
Sorne crouched in front of him, scowling. "Are you seriously giving up already?" he scoffed and glanced at the white coats huddled around the shrieking machine.
"We've yet to record such readings," one of them exclaimed, racing to collect the printouts. He pointed to a line near the bottom and deliberated with one of his colleagues. "This spike-and-wave pattern, do you think—?"
Silas didn't hear the end of the white coat's question. He was battered with a series of sharp jabs that pierced deeper than Ilyra's blades. A weightless sensation rose from his stomach, along with an intense rush of euphoria. He wanted to laugh, but his throat was pinched tight. Instead, he made a noise like a teakettle boiling over. To him, it sounded like the way his skin tingled.
"Perhaps this is his limit," Dr. Veyl said somewhere, his voice floating in an endless sea of nothingness. "Let's end this trial before—"
The Unspoken struck—all four of them, all at once. The discharge enticed Silas, drawing him in, enveloping him in a warm embrace. For a moment, he basked in their love. Too late, he realized he was caught in a trap. The hold tightened, constricting until it felt like his skull would rupture. A mouse in a constrictor's squeeze of death, Silas struggled feebly, trying to claw his way out. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't think.
Oh, Silas thought, swimming through an expanse of static. So, this is what it feels like to die.
Peace washed over him. Death wasn't so bad after all. If only he could see Pa and Vera one last time…
The first thing Silas noticed was a firm surface. It supported him from underneath. His fingers twitched. They brushed against something. Fabric. Soft.
It was quiet. He heard a gentle susurration. It climbed and descended, then repeated. Again, and again. His chest rose and fell. The sound was coming from his throat. He was breathing.
The air smelled strong. Caustic. Sterile. His mouth was open. The taste clung to his tongue. He swallowed to rinse out the flavor.
His head hurt. It hurt badly. His brain throbbed with each heartbeat. The pain crawled down his neck, settling in his jaw. He screwed up his face, grimacing. Something wet and cold pressed against his forehead. It slid over his eyes when he furrowed his brow.
He tried opening his eyes—and winced. Too bright. Now he knew what was on his forehead. It was a rag, half-covering his eyes. It made the lights more bearable.
Silas rolled to his side and attempted to push himself into a seated position. Immediately, he was hit with such intense vertigo he retched. He flopped back down. The world stilled, and the nausea dissipated.
Quiet bootsteps approached. They paused, then made a shuffling sound like they were turning around. Silas tried opening his eyes again. Turning his head in the direction of the sound, he found a man standing in the doorway. He wore a white coat. The man looked familiar, but Silas couldn't quite remember where he'd seen him.
The man's face broke into a wide smile. He sighed in relief, shoulders dropping away from his ears. Silas noticed the man's hands. He was carrying a large bowl of water. Ice cubes bobbed up and down, tinkling against the sides of the bowl.
"It's good to see your eyes open, lad," the man said, hurrying to Silas's side. He set the bowl of water down on a nightstand.
Silas looked over his shoulder. He was lying on a bed. It looked like something Sanctorium patients would rest on. Silas frowned, confused. Was he at the Sanctorium? Why? He couldn't remember.
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Suddenly recalling what had happened to Vera, Silas's eyes flew wide. He thrashed, tangled in the thin blanket draped over him. His heart fluttered, its frantic tempo aggravating his aching head. He didn't know what was going on. Vera was in the Sanctorium. That he knew. But what was he doing here?
“Now, now," the man peeled the rag from Silas's forehead and dropped it into the ice water. Wringing it out, he said, "There's nothing to fear. You're safe now."
Silas seized the blanket with his right hand and tore it off. He inhaled sharply, surprised by the pain that pierced through his index finger. Holding his hand above him, Silas stared in puzzlement at the bandages. Where had they come from? How had he hurt his hand?
Carefully, the man laid the rag across Silas's forehead. The cold was soothing, distracting Silas for a moment. He sank into the pillows, a sigh escaping his throat. Silas tilted his head back to peer at the man hovering above him. The man smiled. Was he a physick?
"I'm sure you have questions," he said and eased into a wheeled stool, his knees popping. "I'm more than happy to answer them, but first” —he scooted to Silas's bed— "let me check your vitals."
Silas would have fought against the man's advance if he could, but his sluggish limbs disobeyed his commands. The best he could do was flinch and turn away when a penlight seared his eyes. Writing frantically between assessments, the man rambled to himself. Silas ignored him; the noise did nothing to alleviate his headache. Finally, the man—who Silas was convinced was a physick—scooted away and nodded at his notepad.
"Excellent, excellent. You're fully stabilized now. How do you feel?"
Silas shrugged. It didn't seem like the physick knew he couldn't talk.
"Pardon my blunder," the physick said, correcting himself. "Are you in any pain?"
So, he did know. Silas stared at him, squinting in concentration. He must have seen this physick before, but where—
Silas blinked. Of course! How could he forget? This was Dr. Veyl, the physick who cared for Pa and Vera. He looked around, but didn't recognize the room he was in. It was a medical room, yes, but its layout was not that of the Sanctorium. Then, where was he?
"Hmmm." Dr. Veyl pressed his lips together. "Your mind seems a bit addled. That's to be expected, of course." Grumbling, he added, "I told Archarbiter Sorne and General Curne there might be lasting damage if they allowed Dr. Korrel to push the experiment to such lengths. Why doesn't anyone listen to me? I'm the physick, not them."
There were a lot of names in that remark. All of them flickered in Silas's mind—each one prompting a spark of recognition. He grew frustrated. Whenever he tried to harness the memories, they slid through his reach.
"Not to worry, lad," Dr. Veyl said. "Those experiments are on hold for the time being." He frowned, then cleared his throat, brushing aside his emotional slip. "Now where was I? Oh, yes…"
The physick began speaking, but stopped when Silas gaped at him in confusion. Through Silas's gestures, he became aware of the problem: Silas's memories of the past few days were shrouded. The physick rewound, starting with when he met Silas at the Sanctorium after Vera's injury. As he listened to the retelling, Silas began to remember. Dr. Veyl's narration wrenched the memories out of their hiding spots, putting each one back where it belonged. The longer he spoke, the worse Silas felt. Not physically. His headache slowly dissipated; his limbs regained their strength. Silas had been killing innocent Unspoken. The guilt settled in his chest and clenched his heart.
"That brings us to today," Dr. Veyl said, wrapping up yesterday's recapitulation. "I knew this round would go badly when General Curne brought in a family unit. I swear she did that just to spite you."
Silas grunted in agreement.
"After you collapsed, she killed the Unspoken." To Silas's horrified expression, Dr. Veyl explained, "It was a lie of course—that the creatures would go free if they could defeat you. The purpose of this round of experiments was to discover your limits. That is all. For the next phase, we will work on strengthening your power. We aim to go beyond the boundary—stretching the margins of your abilities until nothing can stop you."
Silas's bottom lip quivered. He looked away and wiped at his eyes.
"It's not all bad," Dr. Veyl said softly. "One of the young was preserved. For study of course, but it's alive nonetheless. We've already made such fascinating insights. The creature's gamma waves mimic yours when you're engaged in psionic projection. Isn't that exciting?"
Silas scowled at Dr. Veyl in disbelief. How is that better? he thought, exasperated. Death would have been a mercy. What else are they planning on putting that poor child through? And what are gamma waves?
Someone knocked on the open door's frame. Silas was surprised to find Ravelin hovering in the threshold. A bandage still circled her head. She wasn't as angry as she was the last time Silas had seen her. Had she been observing the other experiments? Silas didn't know—she could have been lurking in the dark where he couldn't see her.
Ravelin averted her gaze when Silas looked at her. Her eyebrows knit together, her expression troubled. "The others are waiting for you, Dr. Veyl," she said quietly. "To…" her eyes briefly flicked to Silas "... discuss next steps."
"Ah! Of course." Dr. Veyl stood with a groan, his joints creaking. "I'll be right there."
Ravelin bowed and, with one last glance at Silas, left. He didn't know what to make of her behavior. A few days ago, she looked like she wanted to kill him. Now she was hesitant, something weighing heavy on her conscience.
"You can rest here for the remainder of the day," Dr. Veyl said. "I'll come check on you again later. If you need anything, my colleagues are right outside. Now, if you'll excuse me." The physick exited, his white coat fluttering behind him.
For a while, Silas stared at the ceiling, mulling things over. He was glad this round of experimentation was complete—for now. Yet he feared the "next steps" Ravelin mentioned. Silas rolled over, facing the wall. The rag slipped off his head, its moisture seeping into the pillows. Silas flung it into the bowl. It splashed on impact, water sloshing to the floor.
As long as I don't have to kill more Unspoken, I don't care what they do to me.
Eventually, Silas gave sitting up another go. This time, the nausea stayed away. After waiting a few minutes, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. Standing was more difficult. His balance was off, and his knees shook. He admitted defeat when the headache crept back in, the nausea along with it.
Silas sat back down. Boredom soon became his enemy. He could only stare at blank walls and drab storage cabinets for so long before growing stir-crazy. A book drew his attention. It was resting on the countertop. He stretched out his arm, reaching for it. His fingertips brushed its surface, and he reeled it in.
Silas frowned at its cover. He didn't know what he was expecting—he was in a medical room, after all. The book was filled with medical jargon that went over Silas's head. Still, it was something to pass the time. The diagrams and figures, at least, were interesting. Silas sprawled on his stomach, his knees bent toward the ceiling, the book open below his chin. For hours, he flipped through the pages. He learned a lot from studying the figures. His favorite new piece of knowledge was that the appendix is something known as a vestigial structure—it's a remnant body part that lost its original function over evolutionary history. Silas was glad he no longer had such a pointless organ.
Dr. Veyl rushed into the room, startling Silas. The boy slammed the book shut and pushed it under the blanket.
The physick chuckled. "It's alright, lad. You're not in trouble for reading." He paused, tapping his chin. "You like books, do you? Then, I'll bring some to your room later."
Silas studied Dr. Veyl's face, searching for the trick. There was none to be found. The physick grinned so hard his eyes were engulfed by his wrinkles.
He would bring me entertainment? Silas thought, touched by the gesture. He reasoned that the physick might not be so bad after all.
"Let me check you one last time before I return you to your room." Dr. Veyl coaxed Silas into a seated posture.
Satisfied that Silas was sufficiently recovered, Dr. Veyl discharged him and led him to his cell. Silas's legs were still a bit wobbly, but standing no longer caused a headache. The boy kept watching the physick as he walked. Again, Dr. Veyl was babbling nonsense. He swung too sharply between obsession and kindness for Silas's comfort.
Maybe he is as bad as I thought, he grumbled to himself as Dr. Veyl held the door to his cell.
A tray of food waited on Silas's cot. A loud growl issued from his stomach. Ravenous, Silas dashed to the cot and tucked in. Stale bread and thin broth had never tasted so good.
Without a word, Dr. Veyl shut the door and locked it behind him. Silas frowned at his empty tray, dread creeping up his throat. What had they discussed at Dr. Veyl's meeting? Now that the first phase of experiments was over, what would Silas face next? He placed the tray on the floor and tried to make himself comfortable on his too-firm bed. As he fell asleep, he predicted what new horrors the next day would bring.
Ilyra came for him in the morning. Stomach twisting into a knot, Silas scrambled out of his bed and fled to the corner of the cell. Ilyra said nothing. Slowly, she approached, hands hovering near sheathed blades. Trembling, Silas stared at her, his back flush against the wall. What had he done wrong this time? She stopped in front of him, her blank face scrutinizing his huddled form. Silas squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for her attack.
It never came.
She seized his biceps and yanked him toward the door. He bit back a surprised cry, stumbling after her. She offered no explanation. Silently, she marched him down the corridor, a retinue of armed Guards trailing behind. They passed the intersection leading toward the dark chamber, and Ilyra turned the opposite way. Silas glanced back, tripping over his own feet.
Where are we going? he wondered, mind racing. Is she taking me to the military wing?
Bright lights and white surfaces faded to dim torches and dark stone. The floor was rough against Silas's bare feet, stone biting into his heels. Military personnel stopped what they were doing and saluted Ilyra. They ignored Silas, their gazes phasing through him. Ilyra carried herself tall, her chin held high. She nodded at the soldiers and Guards but said nothing.
They stopped in front of what Silas assumed was a barrack. It was a long hall, bunk beds crammed together against the walls. He peeked through the doorway, catching glimpses of soldiers lounging on beds and sitting on the ground playing card games. Someone must have told a joke, because laughter erupted from the card players. They slapped their knees and grinned like fools, smacking a red-faced young man on the back of the head.
Ravelin emerged from the barrack. She was clutching a bundle of cloth. Silas looked on in puzzlement. Ravelin was an Arbiter, not a militant. What was she doing with the soldiers? And what was she carrying?
No words were exchanged. Ilyra handed Silas off to Ravelin, who guided him away from the barrack. He stared at her, confused, as he was led down a corridor and into an empty storage room. Ravelin thrust the bundle of cloth into Silas's arms and shoved him inside.
"Change," was all she said before slamming the door in his face.
Silas regarded the garments he carried. He dropped the trousers to the floor and held the coat in front of him. It was a military uniform in miniature—sized down to fit his small frame. His hands shook. He hugged the coat to himself for comfort and sank to the ground.
Already? They're already sending me to the battlefield?
Silas remained crouched until his breath calmed and his heart slowed. Hands still shaking, he peeled off his skimpy gown and dropped it to the floor in disgust. It was stained, covered in his blood and tears. He pulled the undershirt over his head and slipped into the coat. The buttons fastened cleanly, reminding him of the coat Vera gifted him. A pang of guilt made him pause. He had a habit of ruining things people got him out of the kindness of their hearts.
Silas had to remove the coat to put on the trousers. He didn't realize until he held them up that they were fastened with suspenders meant to be worn over the undershirt. The suspenders needed to be adjusted so the hem didn't drag on the floor. Silas tugged the coat back on and considered his bare feet with concern.
They don't mean to send me out there barefoot, do they?
Despite himself, Silas couldn't help marveling at the uniform's design. The coat's collar was stiff, but not uncomfortable. It rested below his Adam's apple. The Empire's star and crown sigil lay above his heart, the brass embellishment stitched into scarlet fabric. The trousers and coat were warm without being stifling, a pleasant contrast to the gown Silas had been shivering in for days. When he bent his knees and elbows, the sturdy fabric stretched. The sleek gold stripes running down the trouser legs didn't crease when he walked.
Silas lost track of time admiring his new uniform. Ravelin impatiently stormed into the room. He squealed in surprise and jumped a few inches into the air. She snorted and tossed a pair of boots and socks at Silas's feet.
"Put those on," she said and backed out of the room.
Silas eagerly obeyed, warmth seeping into his chilled feet when he pulled on the insulated socks. Like the uniform, the boots were a perfect fit. Silas hardly had to tighten the laces before he tied them. He remembered leaving his clothes with Dr. Veyl his first day here.
They must have gotten my measurements from them.
Ravelin was waiting for him when he stepped into the hallway. She held a pair of manacles and eyed his wrists. He shuffled back a step, shaking his head furiously.
"Don't make this harder than it needs to be," Ravelin said and grabbed Silas's left forearm.
The cold metal stung his skin and set his bandaged finger aching. At least this time, his hands were tied at his front.
Ravelin wrapped the chains around her arm and cocked her head, pointing down the corridor. Silas nodded glumly and followed at her side, reluctance shortening his strides.
They came to the enormous stone doors barring the portal of the keep. Guards on either side of the doorway cranked great wooden wheels. The doors yawned wide with a groan from their hinges. Silas was forced to shut his eyes against Dysol's morning radiance. Blindly, he stumbled outside, letting Ravelin tug him forward.
When he heard Ilyra's voice, he opened his eyes. Squinting through the haze, he saw her leaning against a shiny new boiler, conversing with a soldier Silas had never seen before. He looked to be around Ravelin's age—early twenties, most likely. His mousy hair was collected into a loose bun that sat at the nape of his neck. Turning at the clatter of Silas's chains, he flashed Ravelin a bright smile. She ignored him, bowing and saluting to Ilyra when she stopped before her.
"What took so long?" Ilyra asked, her empty stare forcing Silas to look away. "Did he need to take a potty break?"
Ravelin said nothing. She handed Silas's chains to the young man and bowed again before marching back to the keep. The doors clanged closed behind her. Silas was locked outside with Ilyra and this stranger.
"Your name's Silas, right?" said the young soldier, stooping to the boy's eye-level.
Silas didn't respond.
The soldier smiled warmly, his soft green eyes glittering like gemstones when he tilted his head, catching Dysol's stray beams. "I'm Corin Cyr. It's a pleasure to meet you." He held out a hand for Silas to shake.
Silas studied his hand incredulously. This must be a ruse, he told himself. Why is he treating me like a person?
Corin chuckled. "Go on," he said. "I don't bite."
Cautiously, Silas placed his hand in Corin's. The young man's smile grew wider. He shook once, vigorously. Silas wished he could massage his shoulder; it was nearly wrenched from its socket by the force of Corin's shake.
Corin climbed into the backseat. Since the young man held his chains, Silas was forced in after him. The boiler's cabin reeked of chemicals. Pa never got a new boiler in Silas's lifetime, but the boy had heard that new vehicles had a distinct "new boiler smell." Is this what that was?
Ilyra glanced at Corin in the rearview mirror, scoffing at his perpetual grin. Shaking her head, she started the boiler and pulled it onto a narrow gravel path. Silas twisted in his seat to watch the Garrison Mordant shrink in the distance. He'd been asleep when he first arrived; he hadn't seen it as they drove in. At this distance, he could appreciate how massive the facility was. Ilyra drove for minutes without it dipping below the horizon. When its tallest turret finally sank into the ground, Silas turned back around, gazing at his lap.
Where are we going? He shot Corin a worried glance.
He only smiled in response.
Silas rolled his eyes and slouched in his seat. With his hands in front of him, he could get comfortable, at least. However, he was still unharnessed. He hoped the roads out here weren't marred by gnarled taproots.
She's going to make me kill Unspoken in the Western Quadrant, isn't she? Silas thought, glaring at Ilyra's back. What's she going to do? Threaten me with Pa and Vera's lives if I refuse? Cut off my fingers?
Ilyra must have felt Silas's malice. She glanced at him over her shoulder, the corners of her mouth curling upward at his face—red with indignation.
"I suppose I shall tell you your purpose here, wretch," she said, her eyes on the road. "A group of Unspoken fugitives in the Western Quadrant evade capture. It vexes me to admit this, but they have the upper hand. They know the terrain well—they've weaponized it against us. I spoke at length with Malrick and the others, and they've agreed that it's my turn to use you."
Silas shuddered. I'm not a toy, he wished to say.
Ilyra sneered, the expression distorting her usually impassive face.
Silas had to look away. She's a monster, he thought, his throat tightening.
"If human soldiers can't track them down," Ilyra continued, "then perhaps an inhuman boy could use his mind to find them for me. You, wretch, will lead my troops to their hiding hole under the cover of night. Those creatures will have nowhere to run once their sanctuary has been compromised."
Silas hung his head. This is worse. This is much worse than the experiments. How many will be killed because of me?
As if she could read his mind, Ilyra added, "The physicks and logisters will be overjoyed. They'll have no end of subjects to test on you after this operation."
Silas sniffed. He flattened his face against the door to hide the tears that stung his eyes. To distract himself, he thought about Ravelin. What was she doing at the Garrison Mordant? What was the Archarbiter doing there, for that matter? Arbiters were keepers of the law. They weren't soldiers, nor were they researchers. It made no sense to Silas. And where had Ravelin gotten that wound on her head? The last time he'd seen her had been at the public address—
Silas sat upright, his eyes wide. The memory, hidden somewhere deep and dark, rose to the surface.
She got hurt because of me. Again. Silas shook his head. No wonder she looks at me with such hatred.
Silas chewed his bottom lip. No, hatred's not the right word.
He thought back to Ravelin's face when she came to collect Dr. Veyl yesterday. What was that expression she was wearing? Her half-face mask made it difficult to tell, but Silas swore he saw something akin to pity.
Silas's restless mind kept him occupied for the duration of the ride. He hardly noticed time slipping by, lost in his musings. Silas heard their arrival before Ilyra announced it. Never before had he perceived such a sound. The Voices of countless Unspoken struck him like an alchemical cannon. The closer he got to their source, the stronger the barrage.
How was he supposed to find the Unspoken when the air itself thrummed with the legion of their Voices?