Chapter 52

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

ZEVANDER

U sually determined to keep his senses sharp, it was rare that Zevander drank while guarding the prince, but turmoil consumed both his mind and body. Between seeing Maevyth in that dangerously tempting dress, to his appetite quickly souring when he ran into General Loyce, he needed something to relax the fiery clash of tension blazing through him.

He tipped back the first goblet, finishing it off entirely, then filled it with wine from the elaborate fountain--the sculpture of a white rose--and swallowed back another. Dancing with Maevyth might’ve been foolish, given the eyes that watched him, but fortunately, everyone had seen the prince urge him onto the dance floor. Declining would’ve looked suspicious, and watching Maevyth dance with another would’ve had him gnawing off his own fist to keep from burying it in someone’s face.

“Was that any way to greet an old friend?” Even the sound of the woman’s voice stirred a dark violence inside of him.

“Who said we were friends?” Zevander didn’t bother to look at her as he filled a third goblet.

General Loyce chuckled, the sound of it twisting his lips with disgust. “You were just a scrawny boy when I saw you last. Look at you now. A beast of a man .”

Zevander had been young, only just having stepped into adulthood, when she’d made him her toy. He hadn’t had a clue about his power then, nor did he have the training to fight. When she’d seen him last, he truly was a pathetic and scrawny boy, starving and afraid. Plagued by an unbridled rage that General Loyce had sought to smother and control.

“You clean up nicely, too. Are those the fine silks of a highblood ?” When he didn’t answer, she leaned in. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were attempting to blend in. Unfortunately for you, love, I could find you with a blindfold.”

“If you value your spine and internal organs, I suggest you keep your distance tonight, General.”

She threw her head back on a laugh. “I wish I could say that your threats enrage me, but they merely turn me on.” With a lazy saunter, she closed the space, holding her goblet up, as if to assure she was only intending to fill it. “Would you believe me, if I told you that I think about you nearly every hour of every day?”

“You’ll be disappointed to know I haven’t thought about you, at all.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” Tipping back a sip, she stepped closer, her proximity sending alarms through him.

His palm itched to yank his blade and silence her.

Doing so would’ve started a war right then.

Instead, he ground his teeth and finished off another goblet.

“I think you hear my voice every time you take hold of your cock. I think you smell my cunt every time you come. And I think, somewhere deep down inside, you enjoy the torment I put you through.”

A spasm of pain struck his skull as he gnashed his molars, wanting nothing more than to strangle the life right out of her. To set her aflame and watch her scream as her insides burned to liquid. He quietly set his goblet down on the nearby table to curb the temptation of using it as a weapon.

“I’m certain your little beauty over there finds pleasure in those delicious piercings. She has the most exquisite little body I’ve seen in a while. Perhaps I’ll ask her back to my room for a bit of play tonight. It would be fun to watch her delicate little body ravaged by a pack of hungry Solassion men.”

In a wisp of a breath, Zevander yanked his blade and held it at her throat, fury tearing through him in pulsing waves of violence. “You fucking look at her, and I’ll carve your eyes from their sockets then cram them down your gullet.”

“Bold words.” The clank of metal from behind warned other Solassion guards had closed in on him. She swallowed, and the blade nicked her skin, leaking a skinny drop of blood down her throat. “One word, and they’ll attack like a pack of dogs.”

A split-second glance showed Ravezio and Kazhimyr stealthily approaching her guards from behind, lending no warning to the danger the Solassions faced right then. While the armored men were formidable, they hadn’t been trained like the Letalisz in mageduell , a fighting technique that incorporated eldritch glyphs and blood spells. Solassions were nothing more than grunts who followed her command.

Zevander slid his tongue across his teeth, the enjoyment of her obvious humiliation exhilarating him. While the rest of the guests hadn’t yet taken notice, it would only be a matter of time before the king caught him threatening the general, and then all hell would break loose.

He released her and stepped back.

Clearing her throat, she waved off her men. “Right. Then, perhaps you might accompany me to my chambers. For old times’ sake.”

“I’d sooner flay my cock with a dull blade than let you within arms reach of it.”

“What a shame that would be.”

“Keep your distance, General. Or, mark my word, you will be dead by morning.”

Her lips stretched to an evil grin. “While I miss the scrawny boy from long ago, I must say, you have certainly not lost your fuck appeal, Zevander Rydainn. I’ll be thinking of you this eve, while your lowly replacement does a poor job of pleasuring me. I’ve not had a proper climax since you left.”

Without another word, Zevander strode off, feeling as if he’d sloughed a massive leech off of him. Had she not been the general of the Solassion army, he’d have gladly turned her blood to stone.

Tray in hand and dressed as a servant in a simple tunic and trousers, Kazhimyr strode up, as if to offer a drink, and Zevander plucked one of the proffered goblets. “Rekindling old friendships, I see.”

“If she’s breathing by night’s end, it’ll be by the grace of the gods, not me.”

“She could only hope the gods would spare her a merciful thought.” Kazhimyr gave him a subtle pat on the shoulder. “Do not let her rattle you, Brother. That is her favored torment, after all.”

Zevander gave a nod, and Kazhimyr weaved on through the crowd, playing the role of watchful servant.

At the far end of the room stood a platform, upon which King Sagaerin stood, waiting for the room to settle to quiet.

Eyeing Dorjan standing behind the platform, Zevander made his way there. En route to the prince, he spied Torryn, who was assigned to watching the crowd, and came to a stop alongside him. “Perhaps you might keep an eye on my sister and Maevyth.”

“I’ve been watching them since the moment they arrived.” It seemed their disguise had failed to fool him, also.

Zevander gave a nod and kept on, until he reached Dorjan, who swayed on his feet, clearly having had far too much wine. An inevitable outcome, really. The prince rarely managed an entire night of festivities without getting drunk, and what’d happened in the village had only seemed to spur more resentment and anger.

More drinking.

“Zev’der … p’haps y’might fetch m’friend.” He wanted Zevander to inform his lover that he was ready for bed.

Having already anticipated the events of the evening, Zevander had requested that the young man head to his chambers early on, to avoid any suspicion. “He’s waiting for you now.”

“Ah, goo’man.” He patted Zevander on the back and started in the direction of his chambers.

Zevander followed, scanning the corridors for any sign of attack along the way.

The prince stumbled, running into the walls, until they eventually arrived at the door of his chambers. Dorjan pushed it open, and within his lover lay naked on the bed, stroking his cock. As the prince peeled away his clothes, Zevander closed them inside.

While he should’ve posted himself outside the door, Zevander refused to listen to the prince fucking all hours of the night when he could’ve been keeping an eye on Maevyth and Rykaia. Instead, he summoned his scorpion and placed it on the floor in front of the door. Should anyone attempt to come after the prince, the scorpion would attack.

When Zevander returned to the ballroom, the king was addressing his subjects.

“My most honored guests, it is with great pleasure that I invite you to witness my beautiful daughter’s Becoming Ceremony.” The waver of his smile hinted at his disappointment. “The winner of this afternoon’s match has been determined. Princess Calisza will be paired with Captain Avith of the Solassion Army.”

A raucous of obnoxious cheering from the back of the room came from the Solassions, and a brute of a man stepped forward. The Imperial Guards maintained the perimeter, ready to act in the event the captain was anything but gentle with the princess.

Zevander scanned over the king’s audience in search of Rykaia and Maevyth, and found the two on the opposite side of the platform.

Gods blood, the dress that Maevyth wore stirred something dark inside of him. The way she so innocently swept through a room, not even realizing the yearning that trailed in her wake. The eyes that watched her every move because looking away would’ve been a godsdamn tragedy.

She was chaos wrapped in fine silk. The embodiment of trouble that’d nearly brought him to his fucking knees when he’d first laid eyes on her across the ballroom. So achingly beautiful, his chest hurt.

He thought back to the night before, when she’d lay writhing and moaning. The memory of her satin flesh clenched tight with her climax cast a shiver down his spine. His body had hardened to stone by the time he’d stumbled his way back to his own room. It’d taken three doses of his poisoned blade to calm him–three angry cuts that still burned beneath his trousers even as he stared back at her then.

And those words she’d whispered earlier … asking him to take her and essentially ravish her, though the Primyrian word didn’t translate quite the same. Clearly, she hadn’t known what she was saying or asking of him, and her accent was a bit rough, which had struck him as odd, given the ease with which she’d spoken the language the night before. But that certainly didn’t stop him from wanting to throw her over his shoulder and find the nearest bed. Sure as seven hells didn’t relieve his already-engorged cock.

The blare of horns broke his musings as the ceremony began with Princess Calisza being escorted up the winding staircase to the balcony, where the coupling room awaited her. Goaded by obnoxious cheering from the Solassions, Captain Avith followed, his armor peeled away by his fellow soldiers as he climbed the stairs after her.

“Make her bleed!” one of the men called out.

The comment curled Zevander’s lip. Cocky bastards. He’d have loved to silence every one of them with a quick cut to the throat.

Zevander looked away, his gaze landing on Maevyth, who stared down at her hands. When he scanned over the crowd again, he found the mage she’d talked to earlier in the evening, Anatolis, making his way toward the exit.

While the audience watched the princess and captain entering the chamber with rapt fascination, Zevander weaved his way through the crowd, toward Maevyth. The subtle brush of his hand against hers was the cue to follow him. As if trying not to look suspicious, she didn’t fall immediately into step, but, instead, waited until he was through the crowd.

Smart girl.

Some of the crowd had begun to disperse. Others who longed for proof often chose to remain until the end.

Rykaia headed toward the wine fountain with Torryn trailing after her.

The guards at the door stepped aside, as Zevander slipped out into the courtyard, tracking after Anatolis. The mage rounded the corner, and Zevander silently ordered Maevyth into a shadowy recess. He tossed off the stag mask, replacing it with his usual leather mask, and yanked the hood of his cloak up over his head, before heading after the mage.

With his back to Zevander, Anatolis stood hunched over, and the sound of a snort alerted the Letalisz to what he was doing. Some of the highbloods mixed vivicantem with other stimulants and ground them into a fine powder snuff, which was said to enhance arousal.

On Zevander’s approach, he swung back around and flinched, wiping his nose.

“Godsblood, you frightened the balls off me with that mask.”

“Anatolis, is it?” Zevander didn’t know all the mages by name–only those who met with the king. He’d only recognized him as the bastard who’d ogled Maevyth.

“Yes, and you are?”

“Curious, is all. Why are you not wearing a mask?”

“I … simply have an aversion to them.”

Zevander nodded and, in the next breath, propped a blade at his throat. “I have an aversion, as well. To liars.”

Chin tipped high, the mage stared up at him, his bottom lip quivering. “What makes you think I’m lying?”

“Aside from the princess, you’re the only one who’s chosen not to cover his face.”

A knowing smile slid across the mage’s lips. “They watched you follow me out.”

“I’m certain of it.” Keeping his eyes on Anatolis, he turned his head to the side. “Maevyth.” The mere fact that Zevander had said her name aloud in front of him assured the mage would not be breathing by the end of their meeting.

She peeked around the corner, and as Anatolis attempted to turn his head, Zevander pressed the blade harder.

“Keep your fucking eyes off her.”

Once she stood at his side, he summoned a black fog around them.

Zevander remained silent, staring back at the mage, a knowing smile on his own face as he imagined how he’d ultimately kill him. By plucking out those wandering eyes, to start.

Moments later, two mages peered around the corner, wearing confused expressions on their unmasked faces. They walked aimlessly for a moment, no doubt wondering where the mage had gone. One of them treaded impossibly close, and as Anatolis drew in a breath as if to call out to them, Zevander slid the blade’s edge across his throat just enough to leave a burn there.

The two mages strode back toward the ballroom, and once he’d determined they weren’t coming back, Zevander lifted the fog.

“You were in Mortasia. A scribe.”

The mage’s gaze flicked to Maevyth and back, but he didn’t bother to answer.

“I can do this the easy way, or the hard way.” Lifting his palm, he summoned a scorpion and let it crawl onto the mage’s robe.

The man trembled, his eyes tracking the scorpion as it wandered over his robe to his tunic. When it scampered down his neckline, he let out a whimper.

Zevander smashed his hand over the mage’s mouth, muffling a scream as the scorpion burrowed itself into his flesh. “Now, as I was saying. You were in Mortasia. A scribe.”

He gave a frantic nod, and Zevander released his mouth. “It burns, please. It burns,” he whispered on a shaky breath.

“Yes. It will burn an awful lot, if you fail to answer my questions. Why were you in Mortasia?”

His lower lip quivered to a pout, clearly not wanting to divulge the information. “The mages. They sent me there.”

“Why?”

Lips pressed together, he shook his head. At what must’ve been an excruciating pinch from the scorpion, he clenched his teeth, tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. “A vein. The Mortasians found a vein. I was sent to confirm and report back.”

“And Cadavros? He lives?”

His nostrils flared with his heavy breathing. “You’re asking me very confidential information. I don’t even know who you are.”

“My name is irrelevant. Answer the question.”

“Yes. Cadavros lives. And he knows of the vein.”

“The Magestroli lied about his death. Why?”

“I can’t answer that.” He whimpered, and at another pinch of the scorpion, he let out a scream that Zevander muffled with his hand.

“I have no reservations about gutting you open right here.”

The mage’s cries died down to sniffles. “The Magestroli were simply following orders.”

“From whom?”

“Akmyrios.”

“Was he aware of the vein when they banished Cadavros?”

“No. The scouts who were sent to Mortasia reported no vein. It’s been dead for millennia. Buried beneath the Lyverian mountains.” His body trembled, and Zevander glanced down to see the mage’s hand shaking wildly at his side. “A man by the name of Moros discovered it.”

The mention of his name stirred a rumble of tension, as Zevander recalled Maevyth’s betrothal to the man. “And what is the state of Mortasia now?”

“I don’t know. I left soon after finding out about the vein. There were … rumors of … mutations.” His face ashened, a sweat breaking over his brow. “Horribly deformed creatures.”

“Were you there for the banishing of a young girl? Aleysia?”

His gaze shifted toward Maevyth, who still wore her mask. “Yes.”

“And did you see what happened to her after The Banishing?”

“I know … she emerged with Moros.” His body jerked, and he let out a grunt. “I don’t know if she is alive.”

“But you saw her!” Maevyth lurched toward him, and Zevander let out a groan.

“I did see her. But I don’t know her fate.”

“And what is the Magestroli’s plan?”

Again, his gaze fell on Maevyth, and he let out a shaky breath.

“Keep your eyes off her,” Zevander warned again, and the mage’s eyes snapped back to his. “Answer the question.”

“To destroy Cadavros and strengthen the Umbravale.” The only way to accomplish such a thing was securing the septomir.

“You wanted her to recognize you. What made you think she’d come tonight?”

For the third time, the mage’s gaze fell on Maevyth and lingered there too long for Zevander’s taste. His rage quickened, and he flipped the knife in his hand, holding the blade to Anatolis’s eyeball. “One more time.” Fingers pressed into his socket, he pinned the man’s eyelid open, watching his pupils dilate with fear. “Look at her one more time, and from this night forward, the only thing you’ll be staring at is the endless, black void of remorse.” His muscles shook as he delivered the threat, and though it wasn’t like him to lose his composure, something in Anatolis’s gaze had troubled Zevander from the moment he’d first noticed him watching her.

“I wasn’t certain, at all. I didn’t believe she’d actually crossed before tonight.”

“But you knew when she arrived here.”

The mage clamped his eyes, breathing hard through his nose, the sickly pallor of his skin turning whiter by the second. “Your sister …. They set her up.”

A frenzied rage vibrated through Zevander’s muscles, the urge to slice out his tongue taunting him. “How?”

“The names. There is no Lady Anadara or Sivarekis. They knew Rykaia could read minds.”

Meaning, the guards had informed them the moment Rykaia had spoken the names.

“Why didn’t the king kill Cadavros?”

Anatolis’s eyes watered as he shook his head. He flinched and let out a gut-wrenching scream behind Zevander’s palm. His body shook, convulsing with agony. The screaming continued, and Zevander clamped his mouth harder.

“Tell me, and it will stop!” he growled.

It didn’t, though. Zevander drew back his scorpion that crawled out of the mage’s robe, and still, Anatolis screamed. Eyes rolled back into his head, he collapsed to his knees. A red, gelatinous chunk stuck out of his mouth as he gagged, and it poured out, landing on the ground.

On a gasp, Maevyth jumped back.

Another meaty chunk followed the first, splatting across the wet stones.

Organs. Something was attacking his organs. A spell to keep him from talking.

Anatolis collapsed to the ground face first, blood oozing past his lips.

“The scorpion killed him?” Maevyth’s voice held a shaky panic.

“No. But no matter. I planned to kill him, anyway.” Zevander knelt beside the mage and rifled through his pocket for the powdered vivicantem.

A thunderous pounding echoed in the distance, and he froze, swinging his gaze toward the clamor.

He grabbed Maevyth’s hand, leading her back to the front of the castle, where Imperial Guards rushed toward the gates. Flames hurled over the stony barrier, catching on the tents and straw scattered about the courtyard.

“The villagers!” one of the guards shouted. “They’re attacking!”

The uprising.

“What is it? What’s going on?” Maevyth said, and Zevander glanced back to see bodies scurrying around her, as she raised her hands to shield herself from their armor and jostling weapons. Solassion soldiers alongside The Imperial Guard headed toward the gate, while guests of The Becoming rushed into the castle for cover.

A chaotic bustling of the crowd.

Zevander scooped her up into his arms and carried her into the castle that’d grown crowded with guests pouring in from the courtyard. While she clung to his neck, he scanned for Rykaia and Torryn, finding them barricaded in the corner.

With quick strides, Zevander pushed through bodies, holding Maevyth in his arms as he made his way to them. “Take the corridor to the west tower and cleave yourselves back to Eidolon.” Over the din of screams behind them, his voice hardly carried. He carefully set Maevyth to her feet.

“What about you!” Rykaia shouted back.

“I have to find Dorjan. Stay with Torryn. Now, go!”

The three of them took off down the corridor as he instructed, Maevyth looking back at him as Rykaia dragged her along.

Zevander exhaled an exasperated sigh as he turned toward the unruly crowd. “Fuck.”