Chapter 54

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

ZEVANDER

An hour earlier …

T hrough the restive crowd, Zevander spied Kazhimyr and Ravezio, who’d originally been assigned to watch the Solassions—in particular, the unruly guards—but were now guarding the king and Princess Calisza amid the panic.

When Zevander finally reached Dorjan’s chambers, he called back the scorpion he’d left standing guard and slammed through the door, finding Dorjan naked and passed out beside his lover, the heady stench of sex in the air. With quick strides, he came up alongside the bed and tugged the vivicantem powder he’d stolen from Anatolis from his pocket. Zevander poured a small bit on his finger and placed his hand over the prince’s mouth. One abrupt inhale through his nose, and he snorted the powder, jerking his head back. The vivicantem served as a powerful sobering agent, even when mixed with other stimulants.

“What in gods!” Dorjan triple blinked, staring up at Zevander. “What is it?”

“The villagers are attacking. I’m taking you to the undercroft. Now.”

Dorjan scrambled out of bed and gave his bedmate a shove. “Time for you to leave. Quickly.”

The other man groaned, but Zevander had no intention of waiting on him. The moment the prince was dressed, he guided him out of the room, toward the west tower. Through the tower’s narrow window, Zevander could make out Solassions in their gold armor, and The Imperial Guard in their silver, fending off the villagers who charged toward them in droves. They’d broken past the palisade the king had ordered after Dorjan’s attack, and wreaked havoc on the gates of the outer courtyard. Destructive flames licked the night sky in thick plumes of ash and ember, from the fires set to homes and shops.

“My father once told me we need the Nilivir to remind ourselves of the gods’ cruelty.” Dorjan peered out of the window, the fury in his eyes from moments ago dulling to grief. “It isn’t the gods who are cruel.”

“C’mon,” Zevander commanded, his only thought to get Dorjan to safety, or risk an invasion far worse than the Nilivir.

Dorjan followed after him, down flights of stone stairs, until they reached the undercroft–a vast space lit by flaming sconces and braziers, with arched, stone ceilings and pillars that stretched ten meters in height. An intricate network of tunnels spanned beneath all of Costelwick, an escape route in the event of a siege.

They passed stone statues and fountains, until they finally reached the hallway to the Validyne Holdfast, which housed the royal apartments. Imperial Guards stood posted outside the door and down the corridor, offering safe passage for the prince.

Still, in the interest of ensuring his safety, Zevander followed the prince to the door, his formal clothes serving as a disguise for the Solassion guards who stood amongst King Sagaerin’s men.

Zevander bit back the urge to punch one of the guards who eyed him up and down, undoubtedly criticizing the ridiculous garments that had him feeling like a frilly boar on a meat platter. He and the prince made their way to the entrance of the apartments, where just inside the threshold, Ravezio and Kazhimyr upheld their disguises as servants. He offered a nod on passing, then turned his attention to King Sagaerin, who paced back and forth. Standing off from him, sipping from goblets, was King Jeret and his wife, Queen Sonnehild. Princess Calisza sat with Captain Avith on the couch, while a quick scan showed two more Solassion guards and a few additional servants. Without a doubt, King Sagaerin would be shitting himself, having the Solassions so close to his son in their forced proximity to one another. Unfortunately, it was the proper courtesy to have his guest take shelter alongside him.

On seeing his son, King Sagaerin’s eyes widened, and he lurched toward him, arms outstretched. “Oh, thank the gods!”

Dorjan swatted his father’s hands away, his jaw steeled. “You did this! This is your fault!”

The king’s face reddened with humiliation. “Careful, my son. I would hate to think you do not stand with your father on these matters.”

“I do not. You’ve fattened the wealthy, while the Nilivir starve. It was only a matter of time.”

“Guards,” the king said through clenched teeth. “Please show Prince Dorjan to his chambers.” Straightening his robes, the king took long breaths between sips of wine. “Thank you for escorting him to safety,” he said, lifting his gaze to Zevander.

“Is it common to task your noble guests with errands ?” King Jeret padded toward them, sailing a suspicious glance toward Zevander. While he hadn’t seen him since he was a boy, Zevander didn’t doubt that his general may have informed the king of his identity.

“Leoric has been a family friend and combat tutor for Prince Dorjan for a number of years.” How easily the false name slipped from the king’s mouth.

“Combat tutor?” His gaze cruised over the Letalisz, and on instinct, Zevander made a mental note of every Solassion in the room, just in case. “Perhaps you might remove your mask. It’s rude in the presence of royalty.”

“Leoric is the exception to formalities,” the king answered for him. “He suffers from a rare condition. Quite contagious. You may want to step back.”

Frowning, the other king did step back. “And are you a native of Costelwick?” he prodded, doing his best to whittle Zevander’s false identity.

“I am. My father was a blacksmith.” Not entirely untrue. If not for the shady dealings he’d had with the Solassions, Zevander’s father very likely would’ve followed in his grandfather’s footsteps and taken over the blacksmith trade.”

“Blacksmith,” he echoed. “An important skill in times of war. Is it one you acquired yourself?”

“Unfortunately, no. I chose to play with the swords as a child, as opposed to forging them.” Charm had become a learned skill for Zevander. A means of concealing himself under the scrutinizing stares, though he’d have gladly ripped away the mask and showed King Jeret the brutal side of his nature.

“Of course. It would be interesting to see how a skilled combat tutor might fare against our own General Loyce.”

Zevander bristled at the sound of her name, but bit back his repulsion. “Perhaps when the castle isn’t under attack.”

“Of course. Silly notions to pass the time.”

“You are dismissed, Leoric. Thank you.” King Sagaerin gave a knowing nod, a silent directive to keep watch.

Zevander returned the nod and exited the apartments.

Guards sneered at his back as he passed. Bold, given the fact he could’ve singed every one of them to ash in the time it’d take them to draw their weapons. He turned down an adjacent corridor, and at the sound of distant voices, he flattened himself against the wall, hiding in the dark shadows. Drawing a thick fog around himself, he masked his presence as he slid closer to where two figures stood within a narrow alcove. The one facing him was Captain Zivant of the king’s guard, but the other remained unseen from his angle.

“I must have a guarantee, bound in blood, that you will not betray me.” A tremble in the captain’s voice stirred Zevander’s curiosity.

“Bound in blood. Don’t be ridiculous.” The sound of General Loyce skated over his skin like razor blades, distracting him from the strangeness of the two rivals meeting in secret. “There are no blood oaths in betrayal.”

“Should the king find out, I will be skinned alive. No doubt, by the scurvy assassin he’s kept hidden all this time.” The malice in the captain’s voice confirmed what Zevander had known all along—he surely didn’t like him.

The feeling was mutual.

“You leave Rydainn to me. As for the king finding out, it doesn’t matter. King Jeret has promised a pardon for anyone who claims fealty to him.”

“A promise isn’t good enough!” Zivant growled. “I do not trust the motives of any ambitious king. Particularly now, when we’ve no idea what Cadavros intends. We lost the only mage willing to cross the Umbravale and spy on the mortals!”

“You lost a traitor. And good riddance. He spilled too much! Fortunately for you, we were able to snatch the girl away before she cleaved.”

Zevander’s blood iced at the mention of what he was certain was Maevyth.

“You have her, then,” Zivant said.

“Yes, preparations are being made. You’re certain of your Magelord’s skills to manipulate the flame?”

“Yes. But what of the other stones? They’re still missing.”

“They’re not missing. Zevander knows where they are. Your fool king believed him, but I have personal experience with how deviant his mind can be. And how … loyal .” Her comment would’ve had Zevander laughing, if he weren’t so enraged right then. “Which is why we took his sister, as well. He’ll have to choose between her and his affections for his little whore.”

An icy rage crawled through Zevander’s veins, and his hands shook with the effort of keeping his scorpion from tearing out of him.

“It is not my intention to betray my king, but he is a fool to rely on the Umbravale to protect us. Anatolis has confirmed–there is a vein in Mortasia.”

“Your king brought this upon himself, when he chose not to destroy Cadavros all those centuries ago. King Jeret isn’t willing to risk the lives of his people, as Sagaerin has chosen to do.”

How many years had King Sagaerin led him to believe Cadavros had been executed like every other mage and civilian who’d followed him? Why? Why had he kept him alive?

“I warned him this would happen. Even without a vein in Mortasia, that lunatic would’ve found a way to destroy us.” Zivant rubbed a hand down his face. “And now he has access to sablefyre. Who knows how much vivicantem it holds.”

She reached a hand to his cheek. “Be patient. We will secure all seven stones and possess a power greater than any other. Including the flame.”

“And what if the annals are right about the Corvikae? What if they are immune to the pestilence? What if an elixir can be made to prevent the spread?”

“Are you willing to make the same foolish mistake your king made? To squander lives on the promise of a long-forgotten fairytale?”

“Of course not.”

“Of course not.” She gave a playful slap to his cheek. “Stick to the plan.”

“And the uprising?”

“While I certainly loathe a mutiny, this may work in our favor. Sagaerin’s attention will be divided. He’ll be forced to address his people. And his son’s opposition.” She leaned forward and kissed him. “Now, let us simplify Zevander’s decision by turning the girl’s blood to stone. He’ll supply the other stones for his sister’s life, and all will be well.”

“And what happens to him after?”

“I have my own plans for Zevander Rydainn.” Had he not been curious to know where they’d taken Maevyth, he’d have pissed on her plans by slicing his blade across her throat.

“You still have affections for him.”

“Affections isn’t quite the word to describe what I feel. Now, go. We’ve much to do.”

With another kiss, Captain Zivant scurried out of the alcove. While Zevander wanted nothing more than to run his blade through the general, he followed after the captain instead, keeping himself cloaked by the fog.

Three of The Imperial Guard approached en route, and Zivant signaled for them to follow after him. The soldiers fell into step behind Zevander.

Violence churned in his blood as he stared at the captain’s back. They marched down a maze of tunnels that seemed to go on forever, until they came upon an ominous door at the end of a dark, cavernous passageway. A sculpted, arched lintel above it carved a scene of a hooded mage holding a scepter. The wear and chipping over the surface made it appear centuries old.

Zivant pounded his fist against the door, the sound echoing down the hallway.

Zevander strode up close. So close he could see the tiny hairs on the back of the captain’s neck stand upright.

The captain turned his head, as though sensing him there, and once again, Zevander had to restrain himself as the urge to smash his head into the stone wall prickled his fingers.

A small wicket door swung outward, revealing a hooded figure whose face was cloaked by darkness.

“Pre dominisz nozi Magekae, da’haj mihirit liberih iteriusz.” By our lord Magekae, grant me free passage .

The wicket door slammed shut and, on a click of locks, the larger door swung open. Zivant urged his guards through first, then strode through the door after them. As the hooded figure attempted to close it, the door struck Zevander’s concealed boot. He peered up at the door, and in his distraction, Zevander slipped through as an invisible darkness following after Zivant.

In what felt like an endless trek through a dimly-lit passage, Zevander’s mind churned a violent storm of thoughts–how complicated things had gotten with Maevyth. Having to tear Rykaia from General Loyce’s clutches was bad enough, but the idea of being forced to choose between Maevyth and Rykaia enraged him. It was precisely the reason he’d longed to stay away from her. In his world, the slightest show of affection for someone served as a dangerous bargaining chip, and the less Zevander had to barter for, the better.

The high pitch of distant screams echoed down the corridor, the sound of it curdling his blood. More screams and shouts erupted.

The captain upped his pace, the soldiers jogging after him. A crowd of robed figures raced toward them, nearly trampling them as they passed. Most wore the purple and black robes of King Sagaerin’s Magestroli, but there were others in various colored robes with heraldry from all over Aethyria. A gathering of mages, it seemed.

“What’s going on!” Zivant shouted back at them.

“The flame!” someone from the crowd shouted back, without bothering to stop. “It came after them!”

“Came after them?” Zivant echoed, frowning to himself.

They kept on, until they arrived at the entrance of a massive room with vaulted ceilings and pillars. Still cloaked, Zevander placed his hand through the flickering sablefyre that flanked the entryway and stepped into the room.

Remnants of the black flame blocked a few of the corridors, as he trailed his gaze over the destruction. At the center of the room, black smoke drifted upward, and Zevander came upon two piles of ash that’d begun to merge with each other, half scattered across the floor. He knelt down for the small bloodstones lying in the ash, and held one of them up to the light, relieved to see no silver markings in its surface that would indicate it was Maevyth’s.

An altar of sorts stood at the front of the room, and he made his way toward the stone slab there, finding drops of blood scattered over its surface. On the other side of the altar lay what appeared to be Magelord Akmyrios, though his lack of eyeballs made it difficult to know for certain. Angry red flesh lined two empty sockets, and beside him lay the milky white remnants of his eyeballs. Tucked just under the Magelord’s robe lay an object Zevander recognized—the whistle that Maevyth had worn earlier in the night. He knelt down and pocketed it, scanning for any other evidence of her.

Black steam rose up from the Magelord’s skin, and Zevander turned toward the brazier behind him, where the flame contained within reached out for him. A quick palpation of Akmyrios’s pulse, and the Magelord gasped, convulsing on the floor.

“Who is it? Who’s there?”

Instead of answering, Zevander stepped past him, toward the brazier.

“What happened here? Where’s the girl?” Captain Zivant rushed toward the Magelord, falling at his side.

“She … she escaped! She is … the purest of evil!” the Magelord said in a dry, raspy voice. “Might you have … some water?”

“No.” Captain Zivant said coldly. “Where did she go?”

“I do not know! I can’t see, you fool! Please! Take me to a healer.”

Lips peeled to a snarl, Zivant nodded toward his men. “Get him out of here.”

Zevander scanned over the room and, at the opposite corner, noticed an unusual gap in the flame. A quick glance toward Zivant showed him heading toward the corridor behind the altar with three of his men.

Zevander strode in the opposite direction, toward the gap, and as he neared it, he noticed the shimmering wall across the entrance. A ward. His skin tingled as he stepped through it, and once cloaked by the darkness of the corridor, the fog lifted from around him.

It wasn’t until he’d breached the ward that he noticed a figure lying on the ground up ahead, clothed in a burgundy dress. Rykaia. Groaning, she rolled on the floor, clutching her head. Next to her lay three Solassion soldiers in their gold armor.

He hastened his steps toward her, and as he drew near, the pools of blood surrounding the guards came into view, their armor crushed at the chest.

Before he could reach them, something gripped his arm.

Snapping around, he drew his dagger, holding it to Dolion’s throat.

“I promise you she’s fine. She’s just coming out of a sleeping spell. Go. Find Maevyth. I’ll take your sister back to Eidolon.”

Zevander snarled and sheathed his blade. “What happened here?”

“Solassion guards came for us. I couldn’t move at first. When the paralysis lifted, I was able to fight them off.”

Not wasting another moment, Zevander lurched in the direction of his sister, but Dolion took hold of him again. Growling, he spun around. “Unhand me now, old man, or you will be handless.”

“Zevander! You must go after her!”

“They intend to torture Rykaia to find you and the bloodstones.” Zevander snarled and yanked his arm free. “I’m not leaving her until I know she’s safe.”

“I will hand myself over to the Solassions, if it means sparing your sister.”

He lifted his gaze toward Rykaia, his mind drawn back to General Loyce’s words from earlier, forcing him to choose between his sister and Maevyth. Keeping Rykaia safe had been his priority since the day he’d returned from that fucking Solassion prison. He’d turned himself into a killer for her. As much as he’d grown to care for Maevyth, as much as he craved her, he couldn’t abandon Rykaia. Not now. Not when he knew both the Solassions and The Imperial Guard were searching for her. “The mortal is your problem. Not mine.” Damn the sharp stab in his chest as his cold words betrayed his heart. The urge to rip out his own tongue had his hands curled into tight fists at his side.

“Oh, she is very much your problem.”

Zevander ignored him and kept on toward Rykaia.

“Fuck it all, you stubborn bastard. She’s your mate, Zevander!”

Dolion’s words brought him to a grinding halt, and eyes narrowed, Zevander turned to face him. “What did you just say?”

“I said she is your mate. I saw it in a vision. She wore your sigil, the mark of your scorpion. As did your son.”

The words snaked through his blood with a burning veracity he refused to accept. Shaking his head, Zevander let out a dark and humorless chuckle. “That is a new low for you, old man. That, or you really are as mad as they say.”

“I am entirely serious. Tell me you feel nothing for the girl and see how the lies burn your tongue.”

Zevander gnashed his molars, daring himself to admit such a thing. As much as a small part of him might’ve loathed the truth, everything about her had felt different from the moment he’d first laid eyes on her. “This is why you changed your mind about the bloodstones, isn’t it? This was never about sparing the last daughter of the Corvikae.”

“I wish it were. At least then, I might be redeemable.” He lowered his gaze and sighed. “I saw it before I sent you to kill her. I knew all along she was your mate. What was one mortal, after all, when the lives of millions were at stake?” He exhaled a humorless laugh. “I hadn’t calculated the possibility of you being a much bigger threat as a result. The vision of you joining Cadavros arrived after I’d sent you to retrieve the stone, and it was then I realized killing her gave you nothing to live for. Nothing to fight for. And such a thing would put every one of us in peril. I made a grave error.”

Nostrils flaring, Zevander flexed his hands at his side, desperate to keep from punching something. “You’re a lying cunt that I should’ve left to rot in Corvus Keep.”

“Yes. You should’ve.” The arrogant bastard had the fucking gall to tip his chin up. “I practically begged you. But I am no liar. She is your mate. It’s why you couldn’t kill her, and why the black flame refuses to take her life.”

“What does sablefyre have to do with this?”

“Everything. But there’s no time for that. Go. Find her.”

“I told you before. I’m not leaving Rykaia here with you. I’m not leaving until she’s back at Eidolon.”

Dolion nodded. “I understand. Might you have some vivicantem to help revive her?”

Lips tight, he strode toward her, tugging the powdered vivicantem from his pocket. Yes, it was laced with stimulants, but only a small bit would be needed rouse her from the sleeping spell. He knelt alongside her and poured a few grains onto his finger. In the same manner he’d administered it to Dorjan, he placed his hand over her mouth and Rykaia inhaled sharply.

Her eyes shot open, and she blinked, coming out of her sleep. “Zevander!” Rykaia jolted forward, wrapping her arms around him. Voice trembling with tears, she buried her face in his shoulder. “It’s her, Zevander. It’s her!”

“Who?”

“The flammellian from The Hovel. Melantha is the flammellian who hurt me. I wouldn’t doubt she’s been killing the sexsells,” she prattled in a frantic string of words. “She took Maevyth. You have to find Maevyth. Find her!”

Frowning, Zevander stared off, his mind doing a shit job of absorbing what she’d just said. The flammellian? Melantha?

“You’re certain of this.” It wasn’t a question, and he didn’t doubt Rykaia’s accusation. He simply couldn’t fathom a motive, unless she’d tried to get to him.

“I am. And I don’t know what she wants with Maevyth, but it can’t be good.”

“Staying with me isn’t good for her, either. She isn’t safe with me. Particularly now that General Loyce has taken notice of her.”

“She isn’t safe with you? Or you aren’t safe with her?” Her brows lowered with the unyielding look Rykaia always gave him when she was about to be fucking stubborn about something. The gentle caress of her hand to the ruined half of his face caught him off guard. Even masked, he flinched at the thought of her touching it, but in that moment, she looked like their mother staring back at him. “Some women are fire in your veins and hell between your teeth, Brother. Accept that Maevyth will never be safe. And no one will be safe from you because of it. Now, go find her, or by gods, I will make every day of your life a tribulation.”

Movement in the distance caught his attention, distracting his thoughts. Imperial Guards stood at the ward, running their hands over it. They slammed their fists against it, the barrier shimmering with each strike.

“Go. With Dolion. Return to Eidolon immediately.” Without another word, he unlatched her arms from him.

Dolion stepped forward and gently assisted her to her feet. The moment she was upright, she stumbled back a step and groaned. “Come, dear. We must get you home at once.”

Rykaia clung to Dolion as he helped her toward the stony wall, where he drew a line down its center. On the other side, Zevander could see the Great Hall of Eidolon awaiting them. Once Rykaia stepped through, he let out an easy breath.

“Find her, Zevander,” Dolion said, not yet having followed after Rykaia.

“Where?”

“You know where.” Dolion cleaved a second portal into the wall, this one looking in on the woods. “Melantha promised to return her to her sister.”

Exhaling a forced breath, Zevander rubbed a hand down his face. “You will take Rykaia and flee to Calyxar tonight. Swear to me.”

“I will. I will take her with me tonight. She will be protected by the stones.”

“Torryn will accompany you.”

“Allura will also accompany us. It seems it is not safe for her to return to her studies in this climate. She’s chosen to return to her family.”

“Go. And, by the gods, if any harm should come to my sister, I will burn you to the ground.”

“She will be safe with me.” Without another word, Dolion stepped through the same seam that Rykaia had moments before.

The ward at the end of the hall dissolved, and The Imperial Guards rushed toward him. “You! Halt there!” Captain Zivant shouted.

He ignored them, the echo of Dolion’s words sinking beneath his muscles and bones, stirring the beast that longed to claw out of him. A possessive, vengeful creature that urged him to stake his claim. Dozens of arrowheads clanked around him, one of them lodging into his calf, and Zevander turned to see one of the guards advancing toward him, the glyph on his palm glowing bright. Snarling, Zevander yanked the arrowhead free and, on a blast of flames, sailed it back at the guard, who exploded into ash on impact. Startled, the other guards hesitated, then charged toward him. With a sweep of his hand, Zevander drew two more of the fallen arrowheads to his palm and hurled them at his attackers on a lash of black flame.

His aim proved true as two more guards collapsed into ash.

The others slowed their approach as he stepped through the portal.

After his mate.