Chapter 57

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

MAEVYTH

A rms wrapped around my body to stave off the cold, I followed Zevander toward The Crone Witch’s cottage, gaze trailing over the empty pen that had once housed a number of animals. We padded quietly toward the front door, not wanting to startle her, if she happened to be inside. Zevander peered through the windows, at the darker end of the cabin, while I looked in on the hearth that blazed a glowing orange. The mere sight of it casted a shiver down my spine, my toes numb and throbbing in my meager shoes. No one seemed to be inside, at all, though.

While Zevander rounded the house, I quietly tiptoed to the door, noticing long lines of symbols that’d been carved into the wood. Frowning, I ran my finger over them. The moment my hand touched the knob, a sharp pointed object prodded my back.

“I’d think twice, Girl.”

I raised my hands to either side. “It’s me. Maevyth.”

“Don’t care who you are. Folks ain’t what they were before. Turn around and let me see your face.”

Before I had the chance, she gasped, and I twisted to see Zevander materialize out of nowhere, a monstrous shadow behind the old woman, holding a blade to her throat.

“I’d be careful about threatening her,” he said, and the moment she dropped her weapon, letting it clang against the porch, he released her.

“I know it’s been a couple of weeks, but do you remember me?” I asked.

Her brows came together in a frown. “A couple weeks? The Banishing of your sister was months ago.”

I blinked at that, my gaze flicking to Zevander, who sheathed his blade. “Months ago? That can’t be. I was only gone for … well, two weeks.”

She gave an uncertain look, eyeing me up and down. “Since you don’t seem to be infected, I suppose you might as well come inside and warm yourselves.” She hobbled past me for the door, and when she opened it, a wave of heat washed over me.

Zevander raised his brow, and I gave a nod, following after the witch. He lowered his head, forced to duck inside the archway as he trailed after me.

A blanket of heat nuzzled into my bones when I stepped into the room.

The Crone Witch grabbed a ladle, stirring a pot of stew she had on the flame. The savory scent of meat and spices watered my tongue.

“I don’t believe I ever asked your name.”

“Afraid you might call me Crone Witch?” She snorted, tapping the ladle on the edge of the pot. “It’s Elowen.”

“Elowen,” I echoed, glancing around her small but clean space. By the hearth stood two chairs, and adjacent to them, a wooden table with an additional two chairs, where Zevander sat. The wood creaked with his weight and looked almost comical beneath his big bulky form.

“What happened after The Banishing?”

“Hmmm,” she said, scratching her face, her long, yellowing nails digging into the wrinkles of her skin. “The fighting eventually stopped. Some suggested going after you in the woods, to be sure you’d died. They didn’t, though. Too fearful. But Moros followed you, seemed like he’d been in there for hours. Most left to go home after, figuring he’d died. Not me, I waited. Needed to see if anyone emerged from those woods.” She sat down in a chair and, from the small table beside her, lifted her pipe, already full of whatever she’d crushed into it. She leaned forward lighting a skinny wooden twig from the hearth and puffed her cheeks, burning the herbs. Leaning back in her chair, she stared off at the fire. “Moros did emerge.”

“Did he have Aleysia with him?”

“He did. Took her with him.”

I shot Zevander a worried look. “Then, she could be at Moros’s now.”

“She could be anywhere now. Moros didn’t stay long. He left town for a week, or so. It was when he returned that folks started getting sick. Complaining of spider bites.” Another puff of her pipe, and she frowned. “Then they started changing. Like those spiders burrowed right into their bones. Wasn’t long before the whole damn village went raving mad, killing and eating the living.”

“How did you survive?”

“Doing what I’ve always done. Kept to myself. Kept quiet. They don’t care for the noise much. Hurts their brains, or something. That’s when they get violent.”

My thoughts wound back to earlier, when I’d screamed for help and Uncle Felix had attacked. “The villagers, where are they now?”

“They slumber.” She sniffed and eased back in her chair. “In their homes. In the village. Almost like they’re waitin’ for something.”

“And Moros?”

“Can’t say. Haven’t seen him. Haven’t been to the village.” She nodded toward the pot of stew. “Couldn’t scrounge any meat from the woods, so I had to slaughter my goat. No matter, though. If I hadn’t done it, they’d have gotten him.” Another long puff, and she lowered her pipe. “Don’t know how much longer I can stay here. Don’t know how far the sickness has spread.”

Another glance toward Zevander showed him watching her closely, clearly not trusting the old woman.

“Where you been, Girl, that you think only two weeks have passed?” Elowen asked.

“In the woods,” I lied.

“Hmph.” She waved a hand and shook her head. “Nothing living in those woods. Not even the creature that once dwelled there.” A quick once over, and she added, “Certainly not you.”

I didn’t want to say where I’d been, for fear she might’ve questioned my state of mind. Even I still questioned it. “I watched that creature swallow Moros on the night of The Banishing.”

Eyes narrowed on mine, she ran her tongue across her teeth. “Then, what emerged wasn’t Moros.”

“I don’t think it was.”

Lips pursed, she nodded slowly, and I wondered if she suspected there to be more beyond those woods. If she could possibly fathom a whole other world. “What do you say we share some stew? Been a long time since I had any company. After supper, I’ll fix you a bed.” She raised a brow, staring out of the corner of her eye toward Zevander. “If that’s sufficient for you.”

I swallowed a gulp at the idea sharing a bed with him. “We’d be grateful.” A quick glance toward Zevander showed him staring back at me, a hint of amusement behind his otherwise dark gaze.

With a nod, she pushed from her chair and hobbled across the small space toward a cupboard, which held only a few bowls and mugs. When she returned to the hearth, she ladled the stew into all three bowls, handing one off to me, and one off to Zevander. “Would you like some water to go with it?”

“Yes, please,” I said, noticing the dryness in my throat.

Twisting to Zevander, she cocked a brow. “And you?”

“Got anything a little harder than that?”

Lips stretched to a smile, she nodded. “Depends on your preference for hard. Most can’t handle my home brew.”

“I’ll take that.”

After another trip to the cupboards, she returned to the hearth with two cups, one sloshing water onto the floor, as she limped her way back. The other, she set in front of Zevander, along with a dark, corked bottle. After placing my water onto the floor beside my chair, she took her seat, and as she poked at her stew a moment, I waited to see her take a bite.

As if sensing my stare, her gaze lifted to mine, and I cleared my throat, mixing the stew around with my spoon. “It smells delicious.”

“The poisoner worried that I poisoned her ?” She let out a dark chuckle and spooned a bite into her mouth. “Doesn’t bother me so much these days. Not even your Snake Tooth.”

I raised a brow at that. “You’ve consumed poison?”

“In one form, or another. But the stew is clean of it.” She spooned another bite into her mouth, and I turned to Zevander, who sniffed it, crinkling his nose before taking a bite. In his world, stews were hearty, filled with fresh vegetables and meat. Winter stews were always thin in Foxglove, with no more than the roots of whatever had been harvested and saved from the prior summer.

On seeing him, I spooned a bite, as well. Even the savory flavor of it warmed my belly. “So, my sister—you haven’t seen her, at all, then?”

“Not at all.” Another slurp of her stew, and she lowered the bowl to her lap. “Where might you have met your traveling companion? Seems rather brawny for these parts.” Though she didn’t bother to look at him, it was clear she was talking about Zevander. “Doesn’t say much, does he? Except when he’s giving threats.”

Zevander lifted the bottle of liquor and popped the cork, giving it a sniff, just as he had the stew. Seemingly satisfied, he poured some into the cup beside him. “Perhaps you might tell me how you knew to speak Nyxterosi,” he said, tipping back the cup without so much as a wince, before he setting it back down and pouring another round.

Before I could argue the point on her behalf, as I still swore that I’d been speaking Vonkovyan the whole time, a smile crept over Elowen’s face.

“One might imagine that centuries of living here might’ve caused me to forget my native tongue.”

My jaw unhinged, and I curled my fingers around my bowl to keep from dropping it.

“Lunasier?” Zevander asked, taking another sip of his drink.

“Nilivir. I was rejected by the Lunasier,” she said with a bitter bite. “So, I left my home and traveled north.” After spooning another bite, she chewed the meat slowly, and slid her gaze toward me. “It was the Corvikae who took me in.”

“That would’ve been nearly a millennia ago, given how long Corvus Keep has stood abandoned. That makes you the oldest Nilivir I’ve ever met.” Zevander sat forward, the intrigue in his expression unmistakable. “You knew the Corvikae.”

“I did. Lived with them a good portion of my life. They didn’t care about power, or status. They accepted me for what I was. A living, breathing Aethyrian.”

Zevander rested his elbows on his knees. “Were you there when they abandoned the castle?”

On a mirthless chuckle, she shook her head. “Is that what your history tells you, young man? That they so easily gave up their land?”

“My history tells me they never existed,” Zevander countered. “I’ve been to Corvus Keep. I’ve seen the writing on the wall.”

Her brow lifted, and she twisted around in her chair. “Then, you know the truth. Those words were my own. Written in blood ink.” She stared off, lost in thought. “They were forced from their home and marched to the Crussurian Trench.”

“That’s where the Grymswood lies, isn’t it?” I asked, recalling the story Allura had told me.

“It is.” Her eyes narrowed on me. “The priestess. Made to watch her people die, before she was turned into a tree in the middle of hell. Consumed by the horrible creatures that dwell at the bottom of that trench.”

“By whom?” Zevander’s question seemed to repulse her, as her lips twisted with disgust.

“The ones in the golden armor. Greedy beasts who longed to claim the vein that ran alongside Corvus Keep.”

“Solassions. And how did you survive the attack?” he prodded.

“I fled. The priestess gave me the last rose of Morsana. The gift of the goddess herself.” She sailed a smile at me. “They only bloom in Nethyria. The priestess told me to flee to the mortal lands. That she had seen a vision of a child who would one day avenge our people and lead a new generation of Corvikae.”

A cold sensation moved through me as I listened to her story, wondering if she was referring to me. If I had somehow been the vision of a thousand years ago.

“I didn’t believe her, but I fled, anyway. Passed through the Umbravale, where I waited for this child. And waited. Centuries, I watched the mortals in their banal lives, warring with each other and fighting for their single god, waiting for the day I might return home.” A sadness claimed her expression. “Oh, I longed for it.” The wistfulness in her voice sharpened to gravity when she said, “Then another creature crossed over. This one, vicious and vengeful.”

“The creature in the woods,” I clarified.

“Cadavros, he calls himself, former mage to the king.” She snorted and shook her head. “A ruse for what lies within him.”

“And what is that?” Zevander intoned, clearly unimpressed with the woman and her cryptic words.

“Pestilios, the God of Disease and Famine. Uncle to the goddess, Morsana.”

Zevander frowned. “It is a masochistic god who would choose to reside inside a mere mage.”

With a long, overgrown nail, she crudely dug at something lodged in her teeth. “The belief in the gods is not what it was, you know. Belief is power. Without it, the gods do not truly exist. Therefore, some have chosen a more corporeal presence.”

“If he’s a god, how were mere Aethyrians able to banish him?” Voice thick with skepticism, Zevander shook his head. “Not even the septomir possesses the power to rival a god.”

“Even a god is only as powerful as the body it inhabits.” She leaned forward, grabbing the poker from beside the hearth, and stoked the flames. “Once he’s acquired enough power, there’s little your ward can do to keep him from crossing back to Aethyria.”

In all of her explanations, there was a detail, an inconsistency, that nagged at me. “You told me that you had a brother. That the two of you ventured into the woods together for food.”

“I did tell you that, didn’t I?” She smiled, rubbing her hands together, then held them out for the heat. “Not entirely true, dear.” Brow raised, she sighed. “As I said, I longed to return home. So, I plucked that boy from the village in exchange for free passage to the archway.”

As I absorbed what she was saying, an unsettling horror crept over me. “You sacrificed a child?”

“Oh, fret not. The gods have seen fit to punish me well for it.” She lifted her arm to show a strange marking that appeared to be the scar of a horrific burn. “I offered that boy to Cadavros, and he allowed me passage. Unharmed. Except, when I arrived at the archway, I had a terrible feeling that I was no longer worthy to cross back. I’m sure you know what happens to those who are unworthy.”

Dolion had once told me that Aleysia wouldn’t have been permitted to pass through the archway. That she would’ve fallen to her death because we didn’t share the same blood.

“When I pushed my hand through, something gripped my arm to pull me in with hands that burned like fire. So, I returned here. And I waited to fulfill my promise.”

“You left me the rose.” It wasn’t a question at that point. “I’ll ask again, did you see my mother that night?”

“No.” She pushed up from her chair and gathered up our bowls, but mine was only half eaten, and she seemed to take notice, staring down at the remains. “What I saw was the sign the priestess had promised. A babe in a basket. Ravens in a flock. Eyes of silver.” After collecting Zevander’s bowl, she hobbled back over to the pot on the hearth and scraped the bits from each bowl into it.

I’d have been disgusted, if not for the distraction of her comment. “My eyes are gray.”

“Couldn’t have a silver-eyed child walking around these parts, could we? Imagine what vicious rumors such a thing would stir.” Twisting to face me, she seemed to stare at the corner of my eye, presumably to the small crescent there. “My attempt to mask your true nature wasn’t entirely foolproof. Then again, I’ve always been shit at spells. Had I known they’d make such a fuss over you, anyway, I’d have left them be.”

I raised my hand toward my eye, imagining them silver. “Can I see them? How they look?”

She shrugged. “Spell’s binding. Only death will reveal their true form. I don’t suppose you want to see them that bad, hmmm?” At the shake of my head, she sighed and nodded toward Zevander. “Perhaps I should show you to your bed.”

The older woman waved us after her, swiping up a ceramic pitcher of water along the way, as she led us to a door at the back of the cottage. She opened it onto a small room, with a bed that wouldn’t leave much space between Zevander and me, and limped her way to a basin set out on a washstand.

“Try to get some rest,” she said, making her way back toward the door. “It’s around the witching hour those things wake from their slumber to feed.” On those parting words, she closed the door after her.