Chapter 26

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

ZEVANDER

A knock sounded at the door to Zevander’s office, before Ravezio peered in. “You have company,” he said. The fellow Letalisz stepped inside. The leather vest he wore, sans a tunic beneath, revealed his sigil that was inked in gold down his shoulder and bicep–the coiled body of a golden basilisk.

“Who is it?”

“A royal guard from the looks of it. Found him pacing outside the gates. Lucky for that ward, or I suspect the fyredrakes would’ve made a tasty meal of him.”

Zevander frowned and pushed to his feet, following after Ravezio to the grand foyer, where a familiar face glanced around.

The guard at Hagsmist who he’d cursed with the scorpion. There was only one reason he’d have sought him out. “Someone crossed. A mortal, My Lord.” Fear and urgency clung to his shaky voice.

“A mortal,” Zevander echoed. “When?”

“This eve.”

“Taken to the king’s dungeons, I presume?”

“Bonesguard.”

“Bonesguard?” Zevander frowned at that. Set apart from the main castle, Bonesguard Keep stood on the southern grounds of Costelwick, an impressive tower that hadn’t been used for defense in centuries. Not since the Brumanox Solstice siege, during the coldest winter ever recorded in Aethyria. The Keep had remained empty of royalty since then, its dungeons mostly used to house the most violent of criminals, who weren’t held for very long. Zevander knew firsthand of those cold, dank cells–he and his father had been guests there before Zevander had been sent off to work the mines in Solassia.

“Yes. Sometimes, female prisoners are … taken there.” Brow furrowed, the guard looked away. “I have nothing to do with that. But they … the other guards … they find it entertaining to watch the lady prisoners with the more … violent criminals.”

Zevander narrowed his eyes on the guard. “Are you telling me the mortal that crossed is a woman?”

“Well, yes.”

“Describe her.”

“Um. Long, black hair. Very slim. Petite. She smelled of oranges.”

The mere description of that scent had his mouth watering again. “Any notable features?”

“Her eye … it was …. Well, it had a strange, silver marking.”

Zevander growled. “Looks like I’ll be heading to Bonesguard.”

“Shall I accompany you?” Ravezio asked from where he leaned against the staircase, polishing his dagger. “You know how much I adore men in uniform.” His eyes fell on the guard, who shifted on his feet, obviously uncomfortable in the presence of the Letalisz.

With his scaled, Eremician skin, mostly unnoticeable unless touched, Ravezio had suffered the most at the hands of the guards during imprisonment, as they’d sometimes enjoyed the torture of tearing away the scales on his body. Eremicians, in general, were looked down upon, particularly by the royal elite–all deemed thieves and miscreants in the eyes of the king. But as an Eremician prisoner, Ravezio had been seen as nothing more than a caged animal to be poked and prodded.

“No. I’ll do this alone. Keep an eye on this one for a moment, will you?”

“Of course.” Ravezio’s lips stretched to a grin, as he held the blade up, letting the light catch on the steel.

The guard’s throat bobbed with a swallow. “Will you be long, Sir? I didn’t announce that I’d left Costelwick.”

“No. Not long.” Zevander strode from the grand hall and down a corridor, to a stone anteroom that housed a steel door. He pushed through to a narrow, stone stairwell that curved with his descent toward the castle’s crypts.

Centuries of family remains had been memorialized into stone statues, and as he passed his mother’s he offered the sign of the gods, as was the respectable thing to do.

Beyond the memorials stood the dungeons, and Zevander stopped on reaching the cell that housed Dolion. Though the mage had been imprisoned, Zevander had made every effort to keep him comfortable, with fine silk and a plush feather bed. A tankard of ale sat out on the cell floor, along with a half-eaten grimshank pie and a loaf of bread.

“I must say, being your prisoner is not entirely a punishment,” Dolion said, looking up from one of the scrolls he sat reading by firelamp.

“The girl crossed,” Zevander said, ignoring his comment. “She’s here, in Aethyria.”

Frowning, he sat forward and twisted around in his chair. “She crossed? The mortal?”

“Yes. How is this possible? It was my understanding the Umbravale was designed to keep mortals out.”

“Yes. However, this proves she is a descendant of the seven bloodlines. Only they would be permitted to cross so easily. Where is she now?”

“She was seized by The Imperial Guards.”

“Oh, gods.” He sank back in his chair and huffed. “The king will execute her. A mortal in Aethyria? Can you imagine the uproar?”

“She wasn’t taken to the royal dungeons. She was taken to Bonesguard.”

“ Bonesguard ?” Brows folded in confusion, he shook his head. “Whatever for?”

“I suspect the guards intend to dispose of her themselves. The question is, do we let them?” It would have been a shame, but Zevander didn’t care to entangle himself with her if they weren’t going to turn her blood to stone.

“ Let them? Are you mad? Of course we don’t let them! She is the last of her kind!”

“And she is a threat while living. Bringing her to Eidolon will only draw the magehood, and should they seek you out here, they will not only have you, but the final bloodline for the septomir.” Zevander didn’t bother to mention the fact that she’d seemed completely resistant to his power, somehow. That alone made her a threat to him.

“It is as I said, Zevander. She must be protected at all costs. If she should perish, we lose not just a bloodline but an entire ethnicity.”

“I did not ask to take on a ward.”

“Then you will be complicit in mortalicide.”

The Letalisz ran his tongue across his back teeth. “You have a funny way with words, old man. I want proof that she is who you say.”

“There is only one way to prove–”

Zevander held up the small sampling of blood he’d collected from the mortal world.

“How did you come about this?”

“It was all over the archway in the woods. It led me to her.”

“Very well. Very well.” He slid his magnifying lens over his eye and examined the small stone. “Far too small for the septomir, of course. But it might be enough to reveal her aura.” He scrambled for his bag, rifling inside one-handedly before setting a crucible on his desk. “I’ll need some supplies for the long term. A viewing scope and some potions.”

“And where am I supposed to find these supplies?” Zevander asked, watching him place the small blood stone into the crucible.

“My old lab in The Citadel.”

“Does the magehood not monitor your old lab?”

“They’d have already raided it and stolen anything of worth. I suspect the only items left behind will be my viewing scopes and what they’d consider useless potions that they could procure themselves.” Nabbing one of the many colorful vials standing in a holder, he poured a purple fluid over the stone, and it sizzled on contact. Black smoke rose up from the crucible, and when the sizzling settled, only the silver from the blood stone remained. The smoke weaved itself together in the air, then fell into the crucible, somehow dragging the bits of metal around the surface, until it formed a shape that looked like a glyph. A sharp hook symbol, like a scythe, the blade of it serving as the bony upper ridge of what appeared to be a bird’s eye. “The death glyph. The Corvikae worshipped the death goddess.”

“That does not mean she possesses any great power.”

“Bring her here. We’ll see if she carries the sigil on her flesh. In the meantime, I promise you I am working on another means to temper your curse. Do me this favor, and I will put forth every effort to rid you of this insufferable sablefyre.”

“If you don’t, I will put forth every effort to see that you suffer for eternity.”