Chapter 29

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

ZEVANDER

T he girl lay draped in Zevander’s arms, as he carried her up the staircase to Eidolon’s entrance, her body limp from the spell he’d cast. The scent of her, like mouthwatering oranges, sent a wild rush to his senses. He’d been gifted some relief in the bog, when the odor of rot and sulfur had masked it, but once past the swamp, it had commandeered his every thought. Driving him mad with need. Not even the faint whiff of piss on her detracted from the overpowering smell of whatever the fuck that was.

Sickeningly sweet.

Through the castle’s entrance, he strode past the staircase toward the long corridor leading to the dungeon.

“What is this, Brother?” The air of intrigue in Rykaia’s voice grated on the Letalisz, as she descended the staircase and fell into step alongside him.

“Mind your business.”

“Your business is my business. That’s how it works when you force me to live in the same space as you.”

While she’d weathered the worst of her withdrawals in the last couple of days, confined to her room, she still bore the signs of exhaustion from long, sleepless nights. The red rims of her eyes and white pallor of her skin spoke of the hours she’d hung over the chamber pot, expelling the toxic remnants of the flammapul and tonics.

She followed after him, and at the grip of his arm, Zevander came to a halt. “That smell …” Gathering the girl’s hair, she held it to her face and inhaled. “What is it? I want to eat it from the air.”

He knew the feeling, unfortunately.

“She’s mortal, isn’t she? What in the gods are you doing with a mortal.”

“Taking her to the dungeons.”

Rykaia bristled at that. “The dungeons? Do you really think that’s safe?”

“She’ll be fine. Dolion’s been down there for a few days now.”

“Okay, but curiosity quite literally killed our cat, if you’ll recall.”

He did recall. He’d been the one to clean up its carcass all those years ago. “She’ll be locked in. And if you touch the keys, I will know, so none of your tricks.”

Scoffing, she crossed her arms. “I beg your pardon, they’re not tricks. You’re just mad that I happen to be one step ahead of you, sometimes.” She toyed with the girl’s long locks, running them through her fingers, which left Zevander curious to know how they’d feel tangled in his fist. “She’s beautiful, and she smells delicious. How long do you think she’ll be safe in a cell? Hmmm?”

“I said she’ll be fine. Get some rest. I’ll have some broth sent to your room.”

Rykaia released her hair and chuckled. “If I relied on you to keep me fed, I’d be a rotting corpse by now. Thank the gods for Magdah, or I’d have withered away to nothing.”

Instead of responding to that, Zevander grunted and kept on toward the south tower, away from his sister, who seemed far too interested in the girl. The fact was, the mortal was Dolion’s problem, not his. Better to be with the old mage, than in any other part of the castle where she’d undoubtedly make trouble. He had his hands full with his sister. No need to stoke his headache with another young woman that he could already tell would get along swimmingly with Rykaia.

When he’d finally reached the castle’s undercroft, he passed the memorial stones, shifting the weight of the girl to offer the sign of the gods for his mother, until he reached the cells.

Dolion stepped forward, pushing the door to his cell open, eyes wide with fascination. He didn’t seem to pose much threat, so Zevander had granted him freedom to leave his cell. “It’s her.”

“It’s her.”

“You cast a sleeping spell over her?”

“She wouldn’t stop talking.”

“Such a brute,” he muttered under his breath. “The daughter of the Corvikae.” He stroked his hand down her hair, and tilted his head to admire her face. “She’s quite filthy, isn’t she? Smells delicious, but a bath would certainly be in her best interest.”

“I did not agree to bathe her.” Zevander hoisted her over his shoulder and opened the door to her cell, the same one he’d occasionally assigned to Rykaia as she went through withdrawals, seeing as his sister had found ways to escape her room every time. With silk sheets, a feather mattress and plush pillows, it was hardly a discomfort. He’d also had a private chamber pot installed for her many bouts of vomiting. Zevander lay the girl down on the bed, ignoring the way her dark tresses fell around her face in a way that made her almost angelic. Like a goddess.

“She must be exhausted from whatever hell she’s suffered to look so … disheveled.”

“She was chased in the woods by a figure. The same one I saw when I ventured to the mortal lands. A man that looked more beast, with his antlers and hooves.”

“In the mortal lands, you say?” Dolion looked thoughtful for a moment. “I wonder if it’s possible …”

The pensive expression on his face had Zevander’s mind spinning. “You believe it’s Cadavros.” It wasn’t a question.

“In my visions, I imagined him returning from the very flame said to have consumed him. Summoned from death. But what if he hasn’t been consumed? What if he was simply denied his power? Stripped of it and banished to the lands where no vivicantem exists? What if he’s been slumbering there all this time?”

“I’d say if he were going to make trouble, he’d have done it already. Centuries without vivicantem … he’d damn near be mortal.”

“Yes, though the body can be nourished on blood and flesh.” Dolion shook his head and waved a dismissive hand. “It can’t be, though. I saw the Black Pestilence. Sablefyre and death and suffering.”

“Is it possible, in his state, to cross back to Aethyria?”

“It would take tremendous power to shatter those wards. If he resides there—and I’m not entirely convinced of that—in his current state, without vivicantem? Certainly not. The question is … why? Why would the king have spared him? Why not destroy him?”

It seemed as if he’d been destroyed. A mage without power for centuries was essentially useless. “What kind of power would shatter the wards?”

“There are only two ways to shatter that ward. The blood of the seven, and a vein. Where there’s a vein, there’s penty of vivicantem and sablefyre, and Cadavros knows how to wield it.”

“And you’re certain there’s no vein in Mortasia.”

Brows raised, Dolion shrugged. “Mortals have no need for vivicantem. I don’t see why one would exist there.”

“Then, he’s weak. I’ll cross over, track him, and kill him.”

His face pinched to a frown, and he cupped his jaw in his palm. “Yes. But if he lives, I fear there’s a reason for this. That is what is troubling me.”

“He lives because no one killed him. I’m happy to solve that problem.”

“Given the vision I had, I don’t think that’s wise. You, in particular, harbor the very power he seeks. The very power he is proficient in controlling. I’m admittedly not as versed as Cadavros in sablefyre, but what I do know about him is that he can be exceptionally manipulative. Who knows what control he could wield over you.”

Zevander sneered. “What is essentially a mortal, wielding power over me? Not likely.” As soon as he said the words, Zevander damn near choked on them. A mortal had wielded some kind of power over him. And it pissed him off. “So, we wait until he dies off? Or your vision comes to fruition?”

“There may be some … precautions we can take in the meantime.”

“Perhaps gathering the final stone for the septomir, and ending my curse, while we’re at it.”

Dolion released a frustrated huff. “You asked for proof of her power. We’ll see if she’s worth sparing. Turn her on her side, if you will.”

Reluctantly, Zevander obliged, turning her over as requested, the smooth curve of her hips not escaping his attention.

Dolion pushed her long locks of hair upward to reveal her nape, and ran his finger over her skin. “Poor girl is a bit cold. These dungeons are not the warmest.”

Hand outstretched, Zevander groaned and sent a radiant heat over her that gave her otherwise pale skin a pink glow.

Dolion set his inner wrist against the crook of her neck and nodded. “Much better.” From his coat, he yanked a quarter vial of vivicantem. “This will be the last of my supply. Let’s keep our fingers crossed.” He dropped the last bits across her nape and smoothed it into her skin before it could drip on the sheets.

She let out a quiet moan, and godsblood, the sound of it strummed his muscles like the quiver of a spider’s web.

His hand curled into a fist at his side with whatever maddening effect the woman had on him. That he welcomed such sensations, when his entire bloodline hinged on breaking this curse, a curse that required her sacrifice, infuriated him.

Within seconds, a soft metallic glow appeared in the ancient death sigil he’d seen in the crucible. “Is that enough proof for you?” It was there. Her sigil. Her bloodline. “Come. Allow me to show you something.”

Z evander stood over Dolion, who sat hunched over his desk. A firelamp beside him flickered over the strangest book Zevander had ever seen. One that appeared to be made of bone and feathers, carved in wood that smelled aged, and held strange carvings in its surface.

Dolion ran his fingers over the surface, as if it were a precious treasure. “In the scrolls I read, the priestess of the Corvikae spoke of a grimoire belonging to their people. In it, she explains how the old pass along their powers to the young. Baptized by death.”

“And how are mortals baptized without blood magic?”

“In the age of the Corvugon, the blood of the raptor was used, which created a bond between the child and the beast. It served as a protector.”

Zevander stroked his jaw in thought. “The Corvugon egg I saw hadn’t hatched.”

“Perhaps there was something else. I don’t know her circumstances yet, but I look forward to picking her brain. And opening this blasted book that might offer even more insights.”

“Why can’t you open it?” It was then Zevander noticed the edges appeared sealed together, confirmed when Dolion gave a small tug of the cover.

“It’s a puzzle book, meant only for the Corvikae. It’s sealed by a spell, of some sort.”

“So, in order for her to have acquired power, someone had to pass it down to her. Which means there may be another and killing her isn’t ending her bloodline?”

“It is a cycle. If she dies before she can pass on her powers, then they are lost forever. And her gifts may prove more beneficial than her death.”

Chuckling, Zevander shook his head and sneered. “Forgive my doubt. The girl nearly fell victim to a boggyr this evening. I’m finding it difficult to imagine her useful against the most dangerous power in Aethyria.”

“We cannot be selfish about this, Zevander. It is a girl’s life we’re talking about here.”

“Allow me to show you something, as well.”

Frowning, Dolion rose up from his desk and followed Zevander from the cell, into the shadowy recesses at the end of the corridor. Zevander shot a blast of flame toward one of the sconce torches, illuminating the stone walls that surrounded them in an alcove and the iron door in the floor. A chain had since been placed over the handle of it, preventing escape.

“What is this?” Dolion asked, staring down at it.

The door thumped, rattling the chain.

Eyes on the mage, Zevander yanked a key hanging from a hook on the wall and knelt down to unlock the chain.

“Y-y-you’re not going to open that, are you?”

Without answering, Zevander loosed the chain and stepped back.

Nothing stirred.

The door creaked slowly, and a black spider the size of a full-grown cat crawled out.

Dolion’s eyes widened.

The spider lurched toward the old man, and Zevander sent a lash of black flame that coiled around its mid-section. The spider hissed, its legs still scrambling across the concrete. In one swift yank, it burst into black guts that spattered over Dolion. Grimacing, the old mage wiped the gore from his face.

Zevander swiped a mirror from the wall, along with a flaming sconce, which he lowered just inside the hole. The light illuminated a wall of webs, and in the corner crouched Branimir. Of course, he no longer looked like the brother Zevander had come to know. His face had hardened to a bark-like texture, his eyes black as onyx. Three horns had grown out the top of his head.

Dolion stared, seemingly entranced. “Dear gods of old … what is this?”

“My brother. Cursed by the same sablefyre that resides in me.”

The reflection of Branimir turned toward the mirror and hissed, showing a mouthful of sharpened teeth. Smaller black spiders rushed forward.

“Close it!” Dolion jumped back, as Zevander withdrew the mirror and flame, and slammed the door shut.

Boot braced on the surface of it, he felt a hard thump hit the other side, while he wound the chain back in place. “It is not a selfish pursuit that compels me to rid this curse. I have watched him evolve into this creature since I was a boy.” He removed his mask, revealing the black veins over his face that had begun to branch out along his jaw. “Should that become my fate, I’d sooner plunge a dagger through my heart.”

Dolion’s brow flickered with the sort of empathy Zevander could no longer summon for his brother. He trailed his gaze toward the spider and Zevander sent a blast of flame over it, setting it ablaze. “Why not …”

“Kill the spiders? I have. Each time I do, the nest grows bigger and bigger. I tried to kill him once, as well.”

“You couldn’t do it.”

“He didn’t ask for this. Neither of us asked for this.”

Dolion nodded toward the pile of ash. “I suspect those spiders have the potential to infect. Crawling beneath the skin. In a baby whose magic hasn’t matured, it presents less damage. In a mage like myself, the mutation would be catastrophic. Sablefyre is an exceptionally dangerous power.”

“It is the will of the wielder. Branimir does not long for power. He longs to die.”

“But his longing could change, and what then?”

“What then, indeed.” Bracing one hand against the stone wall, Zevander rubbed the other hand down his face. “I’d hoped to cure him of this affliction. That is what you promised with the stones.”

“This plague in my vision. It is not the first we’ve seen of its kind. The priestess spoke of one during the aegrogrian age. A wide-spread scourge of locusts that turned Mancers into flesh eating beasts.”

“If you’re asking me to kill my brother …”

“The Corvi were the only ones to survive.”

“How?” Zevander asked, intrigued.

“I don’t know. We don’t know the extent of their power. What this girl may offer alive .”

“If the girl has any power, she certainly doesn’t know a thing about it.” Zevander stepped past him, heading back toward the cells, and Dolion followed after.

“She will need to learn how to tap into it. Which will require training.” An irritating, expectant lift of his brows suggested he wanted Zevander to train her.

“No.” Zevander snorted and shook his head. “I know nothing of the Corvi and their power.”

“And I know very little. Only what I can scrounge from these few tomes. But there is someone who may be able to help. She’s a bone scribe for The Citadel. Her uncle was renowned for his work.”

“A historian.” Zevander’s tone couldn’t have been any flatter. “How does that help, when there is no history of the Corvi to be found, aside from what you’ve already stolen?”

“ Borrowed . As we do in libraries. And I don’t know yet. At the very least, she can read bones. Perhaps there might be history buried beneath the girl’s flesh. In the meantime, you can train her to call upon her power. That is a basic skill for any mage–whether born, or made.”

“So, now I’m to seek out this bone scribe, as well.” Zevander wanted to laugh at how ridiculous it was—opening the doors to the castle he’d spent years protecting, like a fucking inn and tavern. Instead, he snarled. “This sounds far more complicated than merely turning her blood to stone. It would take seconds . Educating and training her would take months. Years, even.”

“Think of what we may stand to lose. Yes, we possess all seven stones of the septomir, but you said it yourself, that is too much power for one person.”

“Enough of this feigned altruism, old man. Was it so long ago that you can’t recall having ordered her death yourself?”

Chin tipped up, Dolion stared back at him in challenge. “And I’m curious, as well. Have you ever hesitated to kill anything?”

Zevander didn’t bother to answer that. His reputation spoke for itself.

“Yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to kill her. If only you could! Yes, I suppose these horrible visions would be laid to rest, and I might find peace in sleep. But the gods stepped in, and they demanded another path.” The old mage shrugged. “Who am I to challenge them?”

“You said in your vision that I would join Cadavros in his destruction. Why would you trust me? If this power makes me such a threat, why not eliminate it now?”

“It’s not you that I trust. It’s the signs of the gods that I put my faith in.”

“And I fear they will lead you astray.” Zevander jerked his head toward the door in the floor. “You still wish to remain in the dungeon after having seen that?”

“I lived amongst the Carnificans in an abandoned castle. A few spiders seems manageable. I’ll put a ward to keep them out of both cells.”

“Fine. Your choice.” On those parting words, Zevander strode out of Dolion’s cell. After pausing for one more glimpse of the girl, sleeping peacefully, he growled in frustration and kept on.