Chapter 44

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

ZEVANDER

A black bird perched itself on a weathered branch of a tree just outside of Eidolon’s gates, as Zevander strode up to Ravezio, whose arrow was nocked and aimed at the small creature.

A mimicrow, no doubt.

The bird hopped along the branch, closer to the gates, but quickly jumped back when he seemed to hit the ward that shimmered on impact. It let out a caw and fluttered its wings. “I bring a message from the king.”

Zevander crossed his arms. “What is your message?”

“He requests your presence this afternoon. Urgently.”

Stifling a groan, or any sound of disapproval that the bird would’ve undoubtedly carried back to Sagaerin, Zevander rolled his shoulders back. “Did he say what for?”

“Did he say what for?” the bird echoed, and the Letalisz did groan that time, as the bird seemed to be out of further instruction.

“I will set out at once.”

“I will set out at once,” the bird reverberated and flapped its wings again. “Did he say what for? I will set out at once.” With that, the bird took flight, and Ravezio lowered his arrow.

The two of them started back toward Eidolon, careful not to say another word, in case another mimicrow might’ve been within earshot. Once safely out of range, Zevander asked, “When you visited The Hovel, you did as I asked?”

“The rumor about a stranger attacking the guards? Yes. Seems to have stirred some commotion. I overheard someone talking about it in the market square. It’s taken on a life of its own.” Ravezio chuckled, slipping the arrow he’d aimed at the mimicrow back into its quiver at his back. “They’re claiming he’s a dangerous nomad from the Eremician Deadlands. One of the merchants even said he’d seen him arguing with a guard days before their disappearances.”

“Good.” As they neared the castle, one of the fyredrakes, Zelos, prowled toward the two. Careful not to startle him, Zevander held out his hand, and the drake lowered its gargantuan maw that could’ve swallowed both Letalisz in one gulp, allowing him to pet the top of its head. Rough scales scraped across Zevander’s palm and the glyphs carved into his flesh tingled with the drakon’s power. He’d managed to keep the oversized beasts sufficiently fed on wild animals that roamed nearby. Bears and moose, mostly, and so far, they hadn’t yet eaten a person, to Zevander’s knowledge.

Seemingly bored with his affection, the drakon offered a gratified chuff and lumbered off.

The feeling of someone watching crawled over the back of his neck, and Zevander trailed his gaze toward the tower, where Maevyth stared down at him from her bedroom window. Long, lazy curls spilled over her slender shoulders, her lips curved to a bitable pout that accentuated her dolorously beautiful face. The soft glow of her pale skin gave her an ethereal and ghostly aura.

Delicate. Breakable.

An ache throbbed in his chest at the sight of her, his every thought plagued by her haunting allure. Damn him for not seizing the opportunity that night and ending this maddening curiosity. She’d laid down the gauntlet with that dress, daring him to indulge, but kissing her would’ve been the sweetest poison. An intoxicating elixir, as deadly as it was addicting.

Night after night, he’d watched her sing to his brother, laugh with his sister, and infuse life back into Eidolon. He’d secretly observed as she’d studied with Dolion and Allura, and exchanged lighthearted insults with Magdah while cooking. And those godsforsaken weavers she left hanging around served as a constant reminder of her presence, even when he wasn’t watching her. Yet, in spite of her infectious draw, he’d chosen to distance himself from her over the last week. A decision that burned in his chest every time he’d heard her voice carry from another room, or caught her staring at him, as she was right then.

“Heard her asking about you,” Ravezio said beside him.

After a moment’s pause, Zevander huffed and glanced back at his friend. “Are you going to leave me in utter suspense?” he asked sarcastically.

The Letalisz chuckled. “Asked your sister if you were angry with her.”

Instead of answering, Zevander stole another glance of her and whistled for Obsidyen. Moments later, the pound of hooves drew his attention to where the horse rounded the castle toward them.

“You wouldn’t happen to have thoughts about this mortal, would you?” Ravezio pried.

Zevander snorted, adjusting the saddle he’d strapped to the beast earlier in the morning when they’d gone out to patrol the castle’s perimeter–another poor attempt to distract himself from the girl. “I’ve plenty of thoughts,” he grumbled, not bothering to tell him most happened at night as he lay in his bed.

“You just seem rather eager to leave.”

“Simply heeding to my king’s request.”

“I’m sure. As is your usual inclination.” Ravezio rolled his eyes and patted Obsidyen’s flank, and as the horse trotted toward the gate, he called out, “I’ll be sure to pass along a goodbye kiss to her for you.”

“Only if you intend to spend eternity in the Shadow Realm,” Zevander said over his shoulder, gnashing his molars at the thought of Ravezio’s lips pressed to hers. He shot one more glance toward her, noting she hadn’t moved from that window, as she watched him ride off.

T he road to Costelwick seemed longer than usual, and as Zevander guided Obsidyen through the village streets, he took note of the preparations that’d begun for the princess’s Becoming. Purple and silver streamers that matched Sagaerin’s heraldry. Banners and firelights strung between buildings. Merchant carts, spilling over with goods, lined the thoroughfare toward the castle.

Once inside the gates, Zevander found himself caught up in the hustle and bustle of guards and servants rushing to prepare for the many guests that were due to arrive from all corners of Aethyria over the next few days.

He made his way to the king’s meeting chambers, where he found Sagaerin pacing, his shoulders bunched with tension.

“You called on me, Your Grace.” Zevander said, as he strode toward the long conference table.

“Yes, yes.” He gestured to his cup bearer, who scrambled to fill two goblets. “Please sit,” he said, and Zevander settled into the nearest chair.

“There are rumblings of discontent.” Hands rubbing together, Sagaerin kept on with his pacing, looking more unsettled than ever before. “The public is insisting that Dorjan perform the Initios.” The Initios signaled the beginning of the festivities and blessings for the tournament, which gathered formidable contenders from all over Aethyria, who fought for the glory of claiming the princess’s womanhood. All major ceremonies typically began with the formality, which involved lighting a swirling wheel aflame. “They fear that his absence in the last few years indicates a weakness in the monarchy. That we’re hiding something.” He paused to swipe up his goblet of wine, spilling it en route to his mouth. “He’ll be exposed to all of the public, if I send him! A fucking walking target!”

“You’re asking me to escort him.”

He slammed his goblet down, the wine splashing onto the table. “I’m asking you to defend his life as if it were your own, or it’ll be everyone’s lives at stake!” With deep breaths, and a face as red as beets, he lowered his gaze. “I am beside myself over this nonsense.” He patted Zevander on the shoulder. “I trust you. I know you’ll do your best, but balls of Castero! Why can’t these godsforsaken people be satisfied with their king’s blessing! Why must they insist on putting Dorjan’s life at risk!”

Another gulp of wine, and he held out the goblet for the steward, then nodded toward Zevander’s. “Drink up. I don’t like drinking alone.”

Reluctantly, Zevander lifted the goblet and unfastened his mask to take a sip. Though he didn’t detest wine, it certainly wasn’t his drink of choice. “When does the ceremony begin?”

“Dusk. And I appreciate your timely arrival, Zevander. You are, as always, a most reliable and loyal subject.”

Loyalty had nothing to do with it. Zevander simply appreciated the time away from the castle, the distraction of the royal minutiae, instead of stalking the girl’s every movement. Had he been there right at that moment, he’d have probably been overly occupied with her interactions with Ravezio. Still, he acknowledged the king’s compliment with a nod.

“I’ll have Dorjan’s carriage inspected and prepared right away.”

“I’ll inspect it myself.”

“Truly, I am grateful for you.” With another nervous pat to Zevander’s shoulder, he gulped back his wine.

Zevander finished his, while the king sent his cup bearer to summon the carriage, then he pushed to his feet and exited the chambers. He made his way down to the front of the castle, where the carriage awaited and three footmen carefully scanned over its every inch. Zevander joined them, looking for any evidence of tampering, whether it be an explosive fragor, or cursed malustone, hidden somewhere on the body of it.

After a thorough scouring, he found nothing.

From there, he made his way to the armory for a suit that would allow him to blend in with the other guards. While he loathed the cumbersome weight of the armor, the way it slowed and restricted his movements, it kept his identity hidden while allowing him to remain in close proximity to the prince. Once fully garbed in the armor, he returned to the carriage.

Prince Dorjan strode up, donned in fine silks of purple and silver, with newly shined leather shoes. “I understand you’re to escort me to my doom, according to my father.” The prince straightened his cuff and smiled.

“Strange, I was under the impression I was escorting you to the nearest cliff to practice your diving skills.”

The prince chuckled, and waited as the coachman opened the door for him. “Honestly, Zevander, you’re the only one I’d permit to speak to me that way. And only because I fear you could pummel me into dust, if you were ambitious enough.”

“Pummeling is for brutes.” Zevander climbed into the carriage and took a seat across from the prince. “Poison is far more elegant.”

“Quite. Thankfully, your alchemy is shit, as I understand.” The comment brought a slight smile to Zevander’s face, even though his mind remained entangled in his infuriating preoccupations with a mortal beauty.

The door slammed, and the carriage set into motion.

Dusk mantled the village, and the festive firelights that’d been strung overhead glowed in the waning light. Through the window of the carriage, Zevander watched as an older villager climbed a wooden ladder and, with a strike of flint, lit the first bulb. The flame caught the second bulb and the third, lighting each bulb in its path. The village enlivened as the moon rose into the sky and a crowd gathered around a platform set in Hemlock Square.

The arena where the fighting would soon take place stood off in the distance, the stony pillars of its entrance adorned with flowers and lights, along with the purple and silver banners boasting the king’s heraldry and bloodline.

The carriage rolled to a stop beside where The Imperial Guard had gathered, and they shielded the prince as he strode up the stairs to the center of the platform, which held the elaborate wheel of silver filigree.

Dorjan stood before his audience and bowed. “My good people,” he began. “On this night, when the moons are nearly one, we honor my sister with three nights of tournaments and festivities.”

Zevander scanned over the crowd from his position beside the prince, his gaze not missing a single body in the throng as he searched for any sign of hostility. The Imperial Guard lined the perimeter of the platform, and a second line formed a barrier between the prince and the crowd. The mere gesture itself implied a lack of trust, but the king had spared no cost, nor measure, to keep his son safe.

Another sweep of the crowd, and Zevander’s gaze landed on a man toward the back, whose hooded cloak hid most of his face. He lifted a crossbow, aiming it square at the prince.

“Dorjan! Move!” Zevander shouted, and the prince flinched, ducking to the side.

The thunk of an arrow pierced the wheel’s wooden frame no more than a mere inch from Prince Dorjan’s face.

Zevander lurched forward, shielding the prince. He drew his Venetox sword from its scabbard, eyes scanning for the man who’d disappeared.

Vibrations against the wooden platform drew his attention to a raw, pale pink mass quivering there. Pig’s fat. A gesture of greed.

An outcry from the far reaches of the crowd rose into an angry chant, and as Zevander listened, he could make out the incredulous name on their lips.

“Cadavros lives! Cadavros lives! The king will die! The king will die!”

A group of hooded villagers rushed forward while drawing weapons and attacked the front line of Imperial Guards.

“Get the prince to the carriage!” Zevander called to the men near the staircase, and they gathered around Dorjan as he descended the platform. A flaming arrow hit the wheel, igniting the kindling that set it in motion.

The chants grew louder.

A villager slipped through the guard and rushed toward the prince, swinging a flail over his head.

Zevander jumped off the platform and hammered a powerful kick to his chest that sent the pale, skinny man flying backward.

Nilivir.

A larger crowd pushed toward the guard, forcing them back into a circle around the carriage. The prince’s protectors were severely outnumbered by the otherwise powerless citizens of the city.

One of the guards maintained a halo, a ward that kept the insurgent villagers back, while two other guards used Aeryz to keep those who charged forward from breaching it. Zevander climbed into the carriage after the prince, annoyed by the bulky weight of his suit. “Back to the castle! Now!” he ordered, and the carriage lurched forward.

The guard followed after, as they wound through the streets of Costelwick. At a screeching halt, Zevander peered out of the window to see another crowd of villagers blocking their path.

“Fucking godsblood!” he muttered and stepped out of the carriage.

Pig’s fat splattered across the cobblestones, the crowd keeping their distance at first, until one of them jumped forward, flinging brown clumps of what Zevander presumed was pig shit at the carriage. They closed in on them, chanting as they circled with their torches and weapons.

Frustrated and out of patience, Zevander summoned his scorpion to his palm and set it on the cobblestones. The creature grew and expanded, the crowd gasping as it towered over them, snapping its pincers. Some screamed and scattered. One bold bastard had the nerve to lift his sword and charge toward them, but before Zevander had the opportunity to swing out and lop his head off, the scorpion struck first with its metallic stinger and sliced the attacker in half.

The villagers backed away as the scorpion led the carriage along the path to the castle, until they fell back entirely, and he retracted his magic.

Returning to the carriage, he took a seat across from Dorjan, who stared out the window, shaking his head.

“This is my father’s doing.” Jaw clenched, he breathed hard through his nose, his anger apparent in the red flush of his face. “He starves them and then expects them to bow? What logic is there in such a thing?”

Zevander couldn’t argue with him. He’d always been put off by the king’s greed. How the wealthy were supplied with much needed vivicantem, while the poor withered, their bloodlines dying off like a frosted vine.

Tears formed in Dorjan’s eyes. “They hate me as much as they hate him.”

“They’ve no idea you’re not like your father.”

“I hate him for this.” Tears fell down his cheek. “I hate him.”

Zevander remained silent as the carriage rolled to a stop inside the gates, and the guards awaiting his return escorted the prince to the castle. King Sagaerin stood on the stairs of the entryway, and as he reached for his son, Dorjan knocked his hand away and kept on.

Consternation wrinkled the king’s brow, when Zevander reached him. “Attacked by my own people.” He shook his head. “How can I fix this? How can I possibly fix this mess?”

“I’m no advisor. But a gesture of charity seems wise.”

“Vivicantem.”

“They’re starving. Weak. Angry.”

“I’ve only got enough to make it to one more moon cycle, and with Calisza’s Becoming Ceremony, I’ll need my reserves.” For his wealthy guests, of course. He winced. “The humiliation. The last thing I need right now is an uprising. Dear gods, what will the Solassions think, when they see I can’t even walk through the streets of my own city!”

That his only concern was the humiliation he faced eroded what little respect Zevander had for the man.

“I thank you for being there. Again.” From his pocket, he pulled a bag of coin and vial of liquid vivicantem, a slap in the face, if Zevander thought about it. “You’re welcome to stay for the night. Eidolon is quite a journey this late at night.”

“I’ll be fine.” Without another word, he headed toward the armory to doff the suffocating and exceptionally miserable suit. Once free of it, he strode toward the outer courtyard and whistled for Obsidyen. Watchful and cautious, he rode through the gates, back out into the streets of Costelwick. Without the presence of the prince, nor the armor that identified him as an Imperial Guardsman, he slipped by unbothered. The village had settled into festivities, drinking and eating and singing. Aside from the spatters of blood on the cobblestone, there was little evidence that they’d gotten unruly at any point.

Zevander kept on, beyond the center of the village to the outskirts, where he arrived at Black Salt Tavern.

After dismounting his horse, he strode into the small and quiet hostelrie that offered rooms on the top floor, if he felt like staying for the night. Sitting at the back of the tavern was a familiar face, an old blacksmith who’d since retired from his lifelong work. Hunched over a tankard of ale, he didn’t bother to look up as Zevander approached, until the Letalisz stood alongside the booth.

The old man, with graying red hair and a silver eye where his natural one had been popped out by a hot fleck of metal, snorted. “Well, look what the wind blew in.”

Zevander removed his baldric and slid into the booth. Not a minute later, two tankards hit the table, before the barmaid who’d set them there sauntered off.

Hiking a brawny arm onto the back of the booth, Oswin tipped his head. “What brings you out of your crypt of a castle?”

“The Initios.”

His brows kicked up. “Ah, you were there, eh? Quite a spectacle.”

“I heard them chanting Cadavros’s name.” Zevander lifted the tankard, unclasping his mask for a gulp.

“There are rumblings in The Hovel that Cadavros will return. The Nilivir believe he’s going to deliver them from their miserable lives.”

“How so?”

Oswin took another long sip of his ale and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “By giving them the power of sablefyre.”

Frowning, Zevander drowned his thoughts in another swill of his drink. “Sablefyre is dangerous. It causes horrible deformities.”

“In those with magic. Nilivir have no magic. They have no control over it, either, so it doesn’t bode well, anyway. Not when there are mages who know how to wield the flame. And Cadavros was the worst of them.” Oswin would’ve been alive during the years when Cadavros posed a threat to the crown.

“Any idea who’s behind the uprising?”

“I thought it to be The Mad Mage, but as I understand, he was put down like a lame dog.”

Not exactly, but Zevander didn’t bother to correct him. “And when do they believe he’s due to return?”

“I don’t even think they know.” Shaking his head, he tipped back his tankard for a guzzle. “Costelwick is going to shit. Between the uprising and the murder of sexsells.”

Zevander’s eye twitched with the stupifying news. “There’s been another murder?”

“Earlier tonight, yep.”

“What happened?”

Oswin shrugged and shook his head. “Don’t know the details. I only know that the brothels have become mighty stingy about time. No more than a quick fuck is all you get these days.” He gestured to himself. “A virile stallion like me needs a good hour. Maybe two.”

Zevander snorted, and when he glanced away, he noticed a pale, skinny boy hiding beneath one of the adjacent tables. As the man sitting there flirted with the barmaid, the boy reached a bony arm around the edge of the table, dumping a crystalline powder into the man’s tankard. When the kid crawled out, he and Zevander made eye contact.

Gavroche.

Frowning, Zevander plopped down a coin for his ale and, after saying a quick goodbye to Oswin, followed the kid, who scampered out of the tavern.

“Hey!” Zevander called out to him. “Gavroche!” When the boy didn’t bother to stop, he added, “Is that how you treat those who save your scrawny hide?”

The boy slowed his steps and huffed, allowing Zevander to catch up.

“What is the powder?”

Gavroche glanced toward the tavern and back. “Dindleweed.”

Dindleweed? It was given to the poor old bastards who could no longer get a proper erection. A powerful aphrodisiac that gave men, in particular, certain urges.

“What are you doing with Dindleweed?”

“Bringing business to Madame Lazarine.”

Zevander crossed his arms. “You’re still staying at the brothel?”

The boy nodded. “I take care of the linens and draw in the patrons, and she lets me stay in the cellar.”

“Does she now.” A loud clatter from behind had Zevander turning.

The man who’d been flirting with the barmaid spilled outside, cupping his groin as he strode quickly for his horse tied up out front. Once astride the beast, he cantered in the direction of The Hovel.

Zevander snorted. “You know anything about the sexsell that was murdered earlier? How she may have died?”

Gavroche shrugged. “Flammapul, I think. Madame Lazarine is pretty flustered over it.”

“I want you to do something for me, Gavroche.” The Letalisz unclasped a satchel at his hip and pulled out the vial of vivicantem the king had just given him. When he held it in front of Gavroche, the boy’s eyes widened. “I want you to be eyes and ears for me. In the tavern and brothel. You hear anything about the sexsells and who might be hurting them, you don’t tell anyone but me. Can you do that?”

The boy gave a frantic nod, his long skinny fingers reaching up for the vial that Zevander yanked back.

“You know not take it all at once, yeah?”

“I know. One drop.”

“One drop,” Zevander echoed, handing it off to him. “Don’t need you joining the carnificans.”

With trembling hands, the boy popped open the vial and squeezed a drop of the nutrient onto his tongue. Eyes closed, he smiled and shivered. “It’s tingly.” The red in his eyes sparkled and dulled to a pink. By the end of the week, if he’d taken the whole vial, they might’ve returned to their natural appearance. Unfortunately, his bloodline magic was gone for good. It would’ve taken centuries of consistent consumption to restore his power, and unfortunately for Gavroche, he’d probably never have access to pure vivicantem again. He’d also not likely live that long, either. While the lifespan of spindling children was far longer than humans, it was nowhere near as long as a healthy Mancer, who might live to be nearly a thousand years. At the very least, it made them feel energetic and whole again.

“You know anything about Cadavros?”

The boy shrugged. “Some folks call him a god. Say he’s due to return.”

“Any idea who’s spreading that around?”

He shook his head, stuffing the vial into the pocket of his trousers that fit better than the last pair he’d worn. “I only hear folks talking about the black flame. How it’s supposed to save the Nilivir and restore our power.”

Zevander huffed. “Take it from me, kid. Sablefyre isn’t going to save anyone.” He patted the boy on the shoulder. “Give Madame Lazarine my best.”