Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

ZEVANDER

A frigid wind beat against the hard leather mask covering the lower half of Zevander’s face, as he made his way down the dark and empty street toward Black Salt Tavern. Even that far from the Citadel, he made a point to disguise his identity.

Whispers reached his keen ears. Villagers who both loathed and feared him, breathing their words of faith into the air as he passed. Ridiculous prayers that faded like mist in his wake. The cursed Lord of Eidolon. A demon , they called him. Better that they knew him for the curse than the killings he carried out at the king’s behest.

He was evil, after all. Only a soulless creature could take life so swiftly and easily as he did. No remorse. No emotion. Nothing but a trained animal, forged from pain and suffering.

Two radiant moons illuminated the dusky sky, blanketing the ancient city in a silvery glow. Tall gothic spires of shops and cathedrals sliced through low lying clouds, their shadows stretching over the worn cobblestone streets whose wet surface splashed against the soles of his sturdy leather boots.

Black caligosian leather, named after the fierce creature whose hide was used to make it, clung tight to his body, the thick cuirass keeping him warm against the oncoming winter. The black hooded cloak he wore swept behind him, concealing the black Venetox steel sword that any savvy thief would’ve loved to swipe from his back.

Brisk strides brought him closer to the tavern, and he turned his head slightly, avoiding the stares of those who stumbled out the entrance. Drunks who dared to stare longer than they should’ve. Most respectable villagers tended to avoid him like a bad case of muripox, which suited Zevander just fine.

Just outside the building crouched a young boy, no more than a decade old. His gangly arms and pale skin revealed a map of pink veins that identified him as a spindling child. Born with no magic in his blood, at all. Two black horns stuck out from the top of his head, curving backward, their short length confirming his youth. Another unsavory trait of spindlings, ensuring they were often viewed as savages, as most Nyxterosi children had their horns cut at birth, the stubs usually hidden beneath their hair.

Aethyrians often possessed unique powers specific for their bloodline, gifted at birth, making them manceborn, or mancers. Much of the poor, living in the squalor of the The Hovel, couldn’t afford the vital vivicantem required to sustain their powers and, over time, the blood magic languished, diminishing to nothing. Those born with blood magic, who suffered a severe vivicantem deficiency and consequently lost their inherited powers, were called Nilivir. While they still possessed the longevity that set them apart from the mere mortals who resided in the deadlands of Mortasia, they were looked down upon by highblood Aethyrians. The worst were the children born to them, spindlings, who were often treated like animals and used as slaves, in one manner or another.

Fiery red eyes, common for spindling children, stared back at him as he approached.

Once inside the tavern, Zevander swept his gaze over time-weathered wooden booths that sat mostly empty, save for the relentless few still up at that hour. He clocked every being, from one corner of the tavern to the other, and sighted an older man with dark tawny skin and long white hair toward the back. His tall, pointed ears identified him as Elvynira–a common sight in Nyxteros, but what wasn’t common was the skill that he possessed, one that set him apart and had perhaps caused him to lose his mind.

For years, he’d served as one of the king’s most prominent mages, a respected member of the elite Magestroli, whose specialty was interpreting ancient codices and scrolls. He also possessed the power of foresight, a curse, as he’d often expressed, which made him privy to fearsome visions. Revelations that had turned the brilliant mage into an ale-guzzling recluse.

En route toward him, Zevander unbuckled the baldric at his chest and removed the scabbard holding his sword, but didn’t bother to remove the half-face leather mask, which left only his eyes exposed.

“You’re late,” Dolion rasped and glanced around the tavern.

Zevander slid into the booth across from him, resting his sword beside him. The single, black steel pauldron at his left shoulder, just beneath the cloak, felt bulky in the narrow booth, but he ignored his discomfort. He didn’t bother to address the man’s comment, either, as he reached into a pocket of his leather jerkin and removed that perfect, red spherical stone he’d collected. With shaky hands, Dolion accepted the stone and, from somewhere beside him, lifted a slim leather box that he opened to show five other stones–each a varying shade of red.

Every one of them a life Zevander had taken.

Dolion held the stone up to the lantern beside them on the table, out of view so as not to rouse the attention of anyone else. “The power of an entire bloodline cast in one stone,” he said, as he slid the object into a small depression beside the others.

“A patriarch reduced to ash.” Not that Zevander gave a good godsdamn for the greedy mancer. He just liked to remind Dolion that it was he who had risked his ass to acquire those stones.

The mirthful expression on the older man’s face faded. “I do not take pleasure in such thoughts. However, some deserved their fate. Parading around in jewels while their people starve.”

“Yes. Some deserved it. And some did not. I suppose that it’s not your conscience that must reconcile, but mine.”

“I didn’t know you had one.”

“I don’t.”

Dolion chuckled. “Well, you do possess an incredible power, my friend.”

What he possessed was nothing incredible. Sablefyre consumed. It drew cravings out of him that he didn’t care to entertain. It was madness in the making. An unfortunate fate. One he’d hoped to spare himself from by collecting the stones that would fuel the most powerful scepter in existence. The septomir–an impressive weapon that Dolion had advised was powerful enough to banish the dangerous black flame from his body.

In his furtive glancing around, Zevander caught sight of a man he’d noticed when he’d first walked in, sat in the corner of the tavern, his hood pulled up over his face as he lifted his tankard for a sip of ale. Zevander’s stare lingered a moment, and he studied the slow and easy movements of the stranger, who set his drink back down, not bothering to look up to allow Zevander a good look at his face. Making a mental note to watch him, Zevander resumed his scanning over the thin crowd, to a man sitting adjacent to him and Dolion.

On his forearm, he bore the mark of a predator. Rapax . Those who took advantage of children in one form, or another, either by sexual favors or abuse. The marks were issued by the Imperial Guard to identify them as molesters, and most served time in the mines of Solassia.

Having spent time there himself, Zevander was all too familiar with his kind.

A distant voice chimed inside Zevander’s head. “Knees, Boy.” Cold stirred in his chest as the image of him on his knees flashed inside his head. “Open your mouth.” The flavor of ash and embers burned his tongue. “Now swallow.” His fists tightened, and Zevander squeezed his eyes shut on the horrible scene in his mind. “You belong to me, Boy, from this night on. And what hell you will suffer.”

“A new vision came to me.”

Dolion’s words interrupted Zevander’s thoughts, and he opened his eyes to see the man across from him marveling his stones, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings.

Zevander unclenched his hands, noting the deep bloody crescents in his palm.

“A forest.” Dolion prattled on, slipping the case of stones into his pocket. “One of thick mist and shimmer. A stone with silver markings.” He lifted his tankard for a sip of ale, his shaking hands nearly spilling the drink over the rim. Hard to believe, a time ago, the old man’s visions were respected and sought out by the king himself. He’d disgraced his once revered bloodline with his mad ravings.

Dolion signaled the barmaid, who sauntered over with two tankards of ale that she slammed onto the table, her gaze never wavering from the mask that covered Zevander’s face. Most tended to fear him. The smart ones, anyway.

The moment she slipped away, Zevander leaned in toward the man across from him. “The forest you speak of is Hagsmist. Need I remind you, crossing the boundary is forbidden.” At the end of Hagsmist Forest, just before the land fell into the sea, stood The Umbravale–the imperceptible ward that’d been weaved by the great mages centuries ago. The only portal into the mortal world, guarded by the king’s calvary.

“In order to break your curse, I require the full complement of stones. All seven bloodlines.”

Zevander had crossed continents to retrieve the stones of the many races that made up Aethyria–Orgoths, Elvynira, Solassions, Lunasier. Those whose bloodlines were purest, the descendants of the ancients, whose combined power, when harnessed by the septomir, was said to have formed the very boundary Dolion wished to cross into the mortal lands. Lands believed to have been nothing but a wasteland, as no Aethyrian could’ve possibly survived there. Not that anyone cared to cross, as Mortasia had always been known as a land flourishing with disease and famine. Diseases said to wreak havoc on blood magic—which made it illegal, by order of the king, to breach the boundary.

“What could possibly exist in the land of death, old man?”

“I do not know. I only know my visions are never wrong.” He kicked back a long swill of his drink and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Whatever blood I find there will have no power. It would be useless.”

“Not useless. Even without magic, blood is life. Life is what the scepter requires. The seventh bloodline might very well be mortal, a mere mortal , for all we know.” Dolion threw back another sip, his dark brown skin reddening by the moment, and he signaled for another drink from the barmaid. “No one knows entirely what, or whom, the seventh bloodline originated from. It’s a mystery that, to this day, baffles the magehood, but the moment it is reunited with the other stones, its true power will be known. And once in hand, I will possess the most impressive scepter in all of Aethyria. Far more powerful than Sablefyre.”

“Seems like a lot of power for one man.”

“Perhaps, but a necessary one. I’ve told you what I’ve seen.”

“Yes. A plague. Courtesy of Cadavros,” Zevander said in an unimpressed tone, hoping the mage wouldn’t break into one of his long tirades again. “Except Cadavros is dead. Long dead.” The evil that had bestowed the curse upon Zevander had long been extinguished. Destroyed by the king himself—or so the annals went on to say, anyway.

“You believe what they tell you, Letalisz .” Fortunately for him, he spoke the word low enough that Zevander didn’t feel the need to rip his tongue out for having said it aloud. “And it isn’t a simple plague. Creatures, the likes of which we’ve never seen, will ravage our villages. Insects will spill from the mouths of children. The Citadel will burn.”

“Is it not these ravings that got you kicked out of the Magehood?”

“Cadavros will return. The Black Pestilence is coming! I promise you that. He will bring famine and death!” He slammed down his tankard, and a quick glance around showed the few still left in the tavern stared back at them. Dolion cleared his throat and sat back in the booth.

Another furtive glance, and all those curious eyes turned away.

Zevander fought to contain the mocking remark itching to break free. “Look, I don’t give a good fuck what you do with those stones. So long as you pay me what’s promised. And if you’re lying about it, let’s just say it’ll be worth breaking some laws to watch you suffer.”

“I resent your insults.”

“Resent all you like, but don’t fuck with me. Did you bring what I asked?”

Dolion reached into the pocket of his vest and tugged out a milky white substance that sparkled in the lamplight. Pure vivicantem. While the stone he’d taken from the highblood could’ve provided enough vivicantem to last a good month, or two, the liquid form was much easier to consume, and the measured dose ensured he wouldn’t absorb too much of it. Too much was toxic. And turning the stones to liquid was a power only a select few were granted permission by the king to carry out. Those same few were required to live on castle grounds, guarded by the Imperial Army.

Given the protections and restrictions of the men guarding the vein, along with those who mined it, how Dolion came about acquiring the vial was a mystery that Zevander didn’t bother to question.

“It isn’t laced with anything, is it?”

“Straight from the vein.”

“Good.” Zevander tipped his head back and squeezed a half dropperful onto his tongue. Cold tingles rippled through his body, casting a shiver down his back, and he let out a grunt as the liquid sent a burst of pleasure to his muscles.

Too much resulted in poisoning and poisoning led to madness.

One half dropper of pure vivicantem would last a week.

Zevander tucked the remaining supply away into his leathers. The stones he’d scavenged from the ashes, not meant to be consumed in rock form, would prove useful in other ways.

“Mortasia.” Dolion stared down at his drink. “It is said to be dangerous. A wasteland of mortal suffering and death.”

“Trying to talk me out of it, are you?”

“Of course not. It is the only way. But should you fail …”

Zevander hiked an elbow on the back of the wooden booth. “Have I failed you yet?”

“No. You’ve done well. And your reward will be freedom from the flame.” The elder mage reached into his coat and fished out a small scroll that sat in his outstretched palm. “There are only three high mages in all of Aethyria who know this cantafel.” The spell for the ward. Not entirely sought out by the Aethyrians, who'd sooner fling themselves into a vat of molten lava than cross into the mortal lands.

“And you’re the lucky third.” Frowning, Zevander opened the miniature scroll to view ancient words written in black ink. He recognized enough of the old language to know it was a passage spell.

“I trust you can speak it?” Dolion asked, tapping his finger impatiently against the tabletop.

“My mother was Vespyri. Born of the ancients. Yes, I can speak it.” He rolled it back up and tucked it away in his pocket beside the vial.

“Good.” Dolion leaned back in his chair, chin cocked indignantly. “In my vision, I can see a forest from a bedroom window. An archway made of bones.”

Zevander groaned and shook his head. “You better not be sending me on a long trek through the mortal lands for this one.”

“I can count on you to retrieve the stone, then?” Retrieving it meant boiling the blood of a victim into a hardened mass, which they expelled out of their mouths before the body combusted into a cloud of black dust. Something the overzealous mage couldn’t seem to bring himself to say.

“You’re asking me to venture beyond the boundary, a crime punishable by execution, and retrieve the stone from what has only ever been described as hell.” Zevander rolled his shoulders back. “Of course. I want this fucking fire out of my veins.”

“What does it feel like? The black flame? The power of Aethyria’s most dangerous element at your fingertips.” The intrigue in his eyes sickened Zevander. Much as they, the high and holy mages, denounced the power, they were always intrigued by it.

“Imagine your cock in the hands of a pyromage, only it’s your whole fucking body.” He didn’t bother to smile as the older man winced at the visual. “I’ll caution again, you attempt trickery, and I’ll personally see to it that you know exactly what it feels like to burn from the inside out.” Grabbing his sword from beside him, Zevander pushed to his feet and strapped it beneath his cloak, then exited the tavern, noting the hooded stranger no longer sat at the booth.