Chapter 33

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

ZEVANDER

M uscles wound tight, Zevander ground his teeth and made his way up the stone staircase, brushing his hand across his face again. He snarled when another bit of dried grain flecked off.

On the upper level, he found Dolion staring at a painting on the wall while spooning a bite of his pottage into his mouth.

“I need to speak with you,” Zevander grumbled as he passed. “In my office. Now.”

“Of course.” The sound of his trailing footsteps followed after Zevander, through the Great Hall and up another staircase.

Past the solar room, Zevander led Dolion to an office with a wide Eremician redwood desk, where Rykaia still sat with her feet propped on it. Her lips pulled to a smile when he entered, stirring the ire already pulsing through his blood. “Who pissed in your pottage, Brother?” She chuckled, setting down the book she’d been reading.

A growl rumbled in Zevander’s throat. “Give us the room.”

“Of course. I was on my way to the dungeons to assist Maevyth with a bath.”

He ground his teeth harder at the mention of her name, loathing the way it stirred a deep and pleasurable surge of blood to his cock. “Good. Her scent has become absolutely repulsive.”

Acids shot up into his throat, and Zevander realized the Nilmirth still hadn’t entirely left his system. Palms to his desk, he took a moment to swallow it back, eyes watering from the burn in his nose.

“Everything okay?” Dolion asked, falling into one of the chairs set out before the desk.

“Fine.” Zevander stumbled once on his way to the chair and fell into the already warmed leather seat. “I met with King Sagaerin this afternoon.” He removed his mask, breathing through his nose while the last remnants of acid slipped back down his throat. “It seems the Magelord has a new apprentice. A young woman.”

“Woman? What in the gods …” Dolion looked thoughtful for a moment, lowering his bowl to his lap. “Did you catch her name?”

“Melantha.”

A contemplative look crossed Dolion’s face, and he shook his head. “I’m not familiar with her. This is quite strange.”

“Well, she is determined to prove that you’re alive. And she apparently reads auras, as well.”

He winced, catching onto the implication. “She detected the Corvikae.”

“Yes, and I entertained quite a few of her inquiries,” Zevander gritted.

Eyes wide, Dolion rested a hand against his chest. “Nilmirth?”

“I told them nothing.”

“Nothing? Do you have some sort of an immunity to Nilmirth ?” The mage chuckled with an air of disbelief.

“A tolerance.”

“My gods … I didn't think that was possible. How?”

“That’s unimportant. I learned something today that has me wondering if it may be the root of these visions you’ve been having.” Zevander eased back into his chair. “King Sagaerin made me privy to an amulet he wears. Crafted by Cadavros. Should anything happen to Prince Dorjan, it will unleash a deadly plague on Nyxteros.”

“You saw this amulet?” Before Zevander could answer, Dolion leaned forward, eyes brimming with intrigue. “What did it look like?”

“Black with a black chain and a spider etched into its surface. Dragon’s claw to seal it.”

“A soulbinder.” Brows pinched together, he stroked his long, white beard. “It can’t be, though … I … saw Cadavros in this vision. Clearly. He sat on the throne!”

“Perhaps your vision is a bit more abstract.”

“Perhaps.” He blew a resigned breath and slumped back into his chair. “Though, they’ve always been rather straightforward.” Exhaling a breath, the mage shook his head. “If the plague is unleashed, then that means …”

“Someone, or something, will kill the prince. My question is … how many of your visions actually come to pass?”

The old mage pressed his lips to a flat line. “All of them. So far. I’ve a couple in the works.”

“What are the others?”

Dolion waved his hand in dismissal. “Certainly not a plague. So, the prince must be protected at all costs,” he said, changing the subject.

“Yes. In a fortnight, Princess Calisza’s Becoming is going to bring nobility from all over Aethyria. Including the Solassions.”

“Gods’ teeth, whyever would he risk that his daughter would end up with one of the brutal beasts for the evening?” It wasn’t that the Solassions looked like actual beasts. On the contrary, with their blond hair, bronzed skin, and blue eyes, they were considered exceptionally attractive by most.

Zevander wasn’t most.

“Social graces,” Zevander muttered. “In the meantime, you will continue to lay low and keep the bloodstones hidden.”

“Of course. Though, it might be considered wise to hide the bloodstones somewhere else.”

Zevander snorted and reached for his empty glass from earlier and filled it again, before kicking back a long swill. “Surely, you’re not considering the mortal lands.”

“Of course not. If Cadavros resides there, we’d be handing him six of the seven stones. I was thinking the home of my birth. Calyxar.”

An island of predominantly Elvynira in the south. A world of mountains and ice. If Zevander thought Nyxteros winters were cold, they were nothing in comparison.

“Cleaving?” Zevander asked.

“Too far, I’m afraid. But even if I could, the Elvynira take great care in making sure no one enters their domain without their knowledge. I’d find myself in chunks of meat on the floor, if I attempted such a thing. Which, again, speaks of its level of safety for the stones. In fact, the first septomir resided for a millennia amongst the Elvynira, until it was stolen by the former king.”

“Then, just how do you intend to stay concealed on this trek to Calyxar, seeing as it’s my head the king would demand for lying to his face?” Zevander fought to tamp down the ire burning through him at the mere prospect that Dolion would risk such a thing.

“I’ve become privy to a very effective cloaking spell. It would require a decent amount of vivicantem. If you can procure that, I can assure safe travel.”

With both the Magelord and Captain Zivant a little too focused on him, it made sense to get rid of the stones. Zevander reached into his pocket for the remaining vivicantem the king had given him earlier and passed it to the mage, who examined its contents.

“Should get us to Wyntertide,” Dolion said, stuffing the vial into a pocket of his robe.

“You intend to journey by foot.”

“Well, by steed, if you’d be so kind. I’ll board a ship in Wyntertide.”

“And what of breaking this curse?”

“Calyxar is home to the most brilliant minds in our world. I will consult with them and return.”

Zevander sneered before taking another sip of liquor. “I thought you were one of the most brilliant.”

“Certainly not. In fact, I’m beginning to question my visions, as of late.” He nodded toward Zevander’s drink. “Might I trouble you for some of that?”

The Letalisz opened a small cabinet beside him, retrieving a glass that he filled with the fiery, orange liquor. “I want a guarantee that you’ll return.”

Dolion sipped the liquor, his brows raised. “It’s quite potent, isn’t it?” When Zevander didn’t bother to answer, still waiting for a response to his demand, the old mage lifted the sleeve of his robe to reveal three gold bands wrapped tightly around his bicep. Family relics that served as a source of protection for the Elvynira. In Dolion’s world, there was nothing more valuable. “I’ve worn these bands since I was a boy. My own father placed them upon my arm.” He unwound the bands from his bicep and handed them to Zevander. “Please take care of them. They are all I have left of my bloodline.”

“You are the last?”

“I am. All my power dies with me.”

It suddenly made sense why he was so against killing the girl. “And if you encounter trouble on the way?”

“I have six stones of the septomir. Surely, that should be enough to ward off trouble.”

“Who will train the girl while you’re gone?”

He stared back at him over the rim of his glass before taking a sip. “I trust you’ve sent for Allura from The Citadel?”

“Yes. Kazhimyr is expected to return with her.”

“I’ll educate her on the basics and leave my codex for the glyphs. I suspect she’ll need tremendous practice with the first few.” Dolion huffed, swirling the drink in his glass. “Or I could take her with me. She would be safer in Calyxar than here.”

“If I didn’t have some level of trust in you, I’d say that’s a fucking shady plan. You with all seven bloodlines at your fingertips.”

“I’ve made my position clear. The girl will live so long as I draw breath.”

Zevander mentally chewed on the idea of sending her away. It certainly would’ve made his life easier, a thought he held onto as he fought to ignore an intrusive sliver of disappointment that he wanted to stab with a blade. “I suspect the king will have his mages in attendance at The Becoming Ceremony as a means of protection. Consider leaving that night, and the two of you may have less to contend with on the road.”

He gave an assenting nod, steepling his fingers. “A wise idea. Unless, of course, you’d prefer the girl stays with you. I’m certain you’d make a fine preceptor.”

“I’ve no interest in playing school with an unfledged mortal.” Another twist of his gut had Zevander’s hands curled to tight fists, as the Nilmirth made itself known once again.

Dolion laughed at that. “She’s lost her family and her home, Zevander. Whatever must this poor girl do before you’ll warm up to her?”

“Sew her lips shut. That’s a start.” Zevander tipped back another gulp of his drink, letting the burn distract his mind from the many things he’d have enjoyed about those lips.

“You are perhaps the most irascible creature I’ve ever met. I pity the girl, truly.” Dolion pushed to his feet, grabbing his empty bowl from the desk. “And, so, we shall begin training in the morning.”

“I’ve assigned Torryn to work with the two of you.”

“Excuse my Elvynese but Torryn knows fuck all about glyphs. You are the one person most equipped to train her, as you did not acquire the powers of sablefyre by blood.” It was true that, unlike most Lunasier, who typically acquired the power of their parents and could anticipate which glyphs they would inherit, he’d had to learn on his own. And because most mages either didn’t know much about sablefyre, or feared it all together, he hadn’t had a mentor. “Even Torryn, though he doesn’t have a sigil, knows what powers he wields. But you, Zevander, are as much a curiosity as she is.”

“And why the fuck should I care? I learned on my own. She can, as well.”

“Aren’t you the least bit curious? You couldn’t kill her. Why?” When Zevander didn’t answer, Dolion continued, “Her powers may have some answers for your curse.”

“I’ve conceded time and time again for you, old man. I will not bow to your request again.”

“Yes, you have. And you are not a man who entertains the requests of others, so I have to believe it is not for myself that you have made these concessions, but out of your own curiosity.”

Again, Dolion’s words rang true. Since the night he’d snuck into the girl’s room with every intent to kill her, she’d roused a maddening plague on his mind. Why couldn’t he kill her? Why had the flame that he’d known his whole life turned on him?

“Training her could take years,” Zevander groused. “That is not a burden I long to carry.”

“Two weeks. Train her for the two weeks so she has some skill in defending herself before I leave with her to Calyxar. You may glean something in that time, or nothing, at all, but it may also satisfy your curiosity.”

“Every day, this curse threatens to consume me, the way it has consumed my brother, and he has little time left before I’ll be forced to entertain his only request.” Killing him was the only way for Branimir, as the spiders would never have allowed him to take his own life. “I have moments myself, where I can’t control it. As if it longs to break free.”

“It is a power forged by the gods. It wasn’t meant to be controlled , or wielded by mancers, but still, I know nothing of the septomir’s power. If you killed the girl today, it would take countless days for me to understand a magic so ancient that it’s not even written in scrolls. And, what then? What if I can’t help you, and she dies for nothing?”

“You’ve lost your confidence.” Zevander stared into his drink, the conflict burning in his own mind.

“If you saw what I’ve seen in my visions, there would be no question. Two weeks, Zevander.”

It was bad enough that he’d agreed to save the girl and shelter her from the mages, but to ask him to train her felt like a fucking slap to his pride. “No. I’m done pandering to you. I spared her life and gave up the only hope I had for finding a cure for Branimir and me. Brought her here, gave her shelter. She’s your problem, not mine,” he snarled.

A troubled expression crossed his face. “Please, Zevander. I’m begging you. I’m an old mage whose mind is slipping. I cannot be tasked to train her myself. I’ve no knowledge of defensive magic, I’m merely a scholar. And she needs protection. You are the girl’s only chance of survival.”

Gnashing his molars, Zevander curled his hand to a tight fist. It was only his burning curiosity about the girl that had him considering it. Resisting the flame might’ve been a gateway to controlling it. Controlling it might’ve meant slowing its faulty side effects. “I will give you two weeks. And you will take her away. Far away. She must never return, do you understand?”

“I do. Two weeks.”