Eldritch, p.48
Eldritch, page 48
“It is humiliating when a king can’t even ward off a band of glorified pirates.”
“Your Grace, with all due respect, his mercenaries are former soldiers. Trained in mageduell.” It was strange to see her so submissive, so pathetic, for someone who enjoyed doling out brutality.
The king’s lips twitched in scorn. “Yes. And our men are useless. I have nothing to counter them.”
“Perhaps you do have something significant.” The vicious amusement in her eyes when she turned toward Zevander clawed at his nerves with razor-sharp nails.
“What could that possibly be?” the king asked in a bored voice.
Never taking her eyes off Zevander, she smirked, the sight of her setting Zevander’s teeth on edge. “I’m told this one slips into Caligorya.”
Zevander’s blood crystalized, his muscles rigid. He clenched his teeth in an effort to remain stoic, emotionless, his mind scrambling for an explanation.
Theron. It had to be Theron. He was the only one Zevander had ever told.
The mage behind the king stepped forward, frowning. “Does he not wear the binding band?”
“He does. He slips into states, regardless.”
“Impossible!” the mage argued, as if he were the one insulted by her accusation. “Bring him here.”
The Solassion soldier who’d escorted him to the throne room took hold of his arm, urging him forward toward the steps of the dais. Cautiously, the mage approached and reached into his robe for a small vial of pearly white fluid.
Vivicantem.
He gave a nod to the guard, who swiped up Zevander’s hand and peeled open his closed fist. The imperceptible scars had blended with callouses and other scars inflicted on his skin over the years. Hardly noticeable anymore, even when palpated.
The mage dropped the vivicantem into his palm and swirled it across his skin. A soft tingling vibrated over his hand, and the blue glow that formed there sent a weight of dread to the pit of Zevander’s stomach, as all the glyphs he’d learned in Caligorya illuminated across his palm.
“Impossible,” the mage whispered again.
“Yes. It is quite impossible.” Hands behind her back, Loyce stepped alongside them. “Those bands are designed to stunt all forms of blood magic. Which proves that he’s been summoned by the gods.”
“He must’ve earned them prior to his imprisonment.”
She waved back at Zevander. “He arrived as a boy. Barely old enough to have ascended into his blood magic, let alone mastered glyphs.”
“Is this true?” The king turned his attention back to Zevander. “Do you dream in Caligorya?”
“I’ve not slipped into Caligory in decades,” he answered honestly.
“But he has, and he can do it again,” Loyce argued, every word that spilled from her mouth driving Zevander further from any hope of freedom. “I believe he’s hiding something. Something he may have been shown in Caligorya. Perhaps a unique power of the gods that would give advantage over the mercenaries. It could very well be the reason Sagaerin insists on his release.”
“To possess a power of the gods would be dangerous.” The mage’s stern eyes tightened beneath the bushy white eyebrows that shadowed them. “Cause to destroy him, if you ask me.”
“Or possess.” The intrigue in King Jeret’s voice told Zevander his chance for freedom was already lost.
He steeled his nerves. “He’s right. You should destroy me. I’d sooner die than fight for the king who enslaved me.”
“No one said anything about death, boy.” The mage’s lips twisted with scorn. “There are many ways to destroy a man, without such finality.”
The king looked thoughtful for a moment, and the mage standing beside him leaned in to whisper in his ear. He rubbed his fingers together, staring at Zevander all the while. “You’ve seen him slip into Caligorya, General?” he asked. “With your own eyes?”
“I was made aware by another prisoner. A healer who attends Zevander’s wounds.”
“He is a traitorous cunt!” Zevander snarled, lurching forward.
Three guards advanced toward him, their weapons trained on him.
“You will show respect in my presence, or I’ll have you strung up and beaten to a bloody pulp.” The king pushed to his feet, hands clutched behind his back. “As for you, General Loyce, I’ll ask you to investigate this matter. If he’s hiding something, I want to be aware. In the meantime, I’ll decline King Sagaerin’s request.”
It didn’t matter that he might’ve been executed upon returning to Nyxteros, Zevander felt the weight of the king’s words pressing down on him, the impossibility of freedom thick in his throat. He sank to his knees as if he’d been stabbed in the back. Couldn’t bring himself to look at Loyce. Couldn’t bear to see the elation in her eyes.
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Through the smug grin she undoubtedly wore on her face, the satisfaction in her voice promised suffering. Retribution for his defiance.
And what did it matter anymore? There was little she could do to him more destructive than watching his freedom slip through his fingers like sand.
“You once demanded to know who conspired to have Aradia betray you,” Zevander said, watching the king and his mage exit the throne room. “I refused to tell you, not out of defiance, but because I knew he’d never survive you. He was weak. Terrified of you. And he would betray you again, if given the chance. In fact, he might just betray your newly found trust with the king.” Zevander hoped for it. Looked forward to the day when she would be forced to reconcile the mistake of not having killed him herself. “It was Theron. He’s the one who plotted against you.”
“I’m aware,” she said, but the twitch of her eye betrayed her confidence. “And he has since redeemed himself tenfold. Under normal circumstances, he’d be food for my pets, but how can I punish the clever mind responsible for the king denying your freedom? Sagaerin offered ten thousand Nyxterosi men to help defeat the mercenaries. And Jeret declined. Do you understand what a feat that was? I thought I’d lost you forever.” Her lips stretched to a wicked grin. “Theron will help me prove that you are capable of slipping into Caligorya, of acquiring glyphs in the dark realm. And if he fails? He will die.” She circled him, drawing her nail over his silk tunic. “Now, Love, let’s get you out of these fancy clothes and into something more appropriate for your stature.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
KAZHIMYR
The stench of rot and decayed vegetation clogged Kazhimyr’s throat as he stepped over thick tree roots. Bark-covered walls at either side of him stretched nearly fifteen meters above, to the skinny veins of intertwined roots that made up the ceiling. Roots beneath his feet hissed and retreated into the ground with each step he took on his way toward a wooden staircase ahead.
His hair prickled on the back of his neck, like the sensation of someone following him.
He glanced over his shoulder.
Nothing but darkness at his back.
He kept on toward what he hoped was the exit, not immediately noticing the roots that reached out for his ankles, until he felt a tickle at his calf, an almost sentient caress of his skin. The moment he looked down, his legs flew out from under him. The ground crashed against his chin, rattling his teeth, and he turned over, groaning, as stars drifted before his eyes.
Tendrils of bark crawled over his legs, tightening around them. He shot forward, clawing at the painful roots that bit into his bones, holding him down.
The roots climbed higher. Higher.
Kazhimyr raised his hand, summoning his ice glyph. Gnarled branches coiled around his palm and up his arm. One hard yank threw him back against the ground, his spine crashing against the hard dirt. Arms pinned at his sides, he could do little to fight off the attack as he wriggled and squirmed in futility. Skinnier roots banded across his forehead, holding him in place, and Kazhimyr cried out when tiny thorns pierced his skin, wincing as they sank into his bones.
He clenched his teeth, panting through his nose as panic settled over him, and his eyes shot open to a dark figure gliding toward him, its pale white skull face and sunken eye sockets the only other discernible feature, aside from the skeletal legs that made up a spider’s silhouette.
Fear gripped Kazhimyr’s muscles, shaking him as the strange creature edged closer, and pangs of nausea churned in his stomach. Long, silken strands of black hair hung from just above its ears, leaving the top of its skull bald. The strands seemed to move about his head, as if feeling the air, hunting for something. A black substance leaked from the eye sockets like smeared kohl, and as it advanced closer, Kazhimyr could see its carapace was tessellated and bark-like.
The figure reached out a spindly finger with a black-tipped nail, and Kazhimyr grunted as his muscles turned rigid, his body trembling so hard, he could scarcely draw a breath. While he couldn’t see it with his head bound by the roots, the nail pressed into his leg, sending out a hiss when the sharp tip breached his skin.
A bellow of pain tore from Kazhimyr’s throat as a scalding burn snaked through his limb. Below that unbearable pain, an unnerving tickle scampered across his muscles, like the brittle legs of a thousand insects beneath his skin. They settled in his calf, and Kazhimyr cried out as that horrific sensation pulsed through his body, climbing up into his chest.
Stop! Please!
He opened his mouth for a scream, but the sound failed to come forth.
Kazhimyr inhaled sharply through his nose, fists tightly clutching fabric, and his eyes shot open to a stern green gaze staring back at him, his mouth covered by a firm hand.
Dravien.
The Elvyniran pressed a finger to his own lips to quiet him.
Panting through his nose, Kazhimyr trailed his gaze over the strange surroundings—the thick rafters overhead, a tiny room with a single wooden chair and small table in the corner. No oversized roots, or tree-bark creatures. Ratty curtains covered the only window, beside which Ravezio stood peering out.
The moment Dravien removed his hand, the scent of woodsmoke and stale ale clogged his nose, and Kazhimyr blew out a shaky breath, his nightmare clinging to his thoughts. Only then did he notice a persistent stinging in his leg that reminded him of those last few seconds. He threw back the blanket to find his lower leg wrapped in white cloth.
Just a nightmare.
“Said she was a redhead.” Ravezio spoke low, as he stared down at something through the window.
“I don’t know any redheads,” Dravien said, rubbing his hand over his jaw.
“What’s going on?” Again, Kazhimyr looked around, searching for some shred of familiarity. The last thing he remembered was staring out over a vast stretch of ice after they’d been attacked by the Syrenians. “Where in seven hells are we?”
“A tavern in Veneficarys. You suffered a bite.” Ravezio nodded toward Dravien. “This one managed to keep you breathing. Didn’t think you were going to make it.”
Kazhimyr groaned. Twice, the cockwart had saved his life, which meant no matter how much he loathed the bastard, Kazhimyr had no choice but to be grateful for him. He’d have acknowledged the Elvyniran’s efforts, but Dravien’s gaze remained anchored toward the window.
“They’re still out there?” Dravien asked, brows pulled tight while he scratched at his chin.
“Who?” Confused, Kazhimyr pushed himself to a sitting position, expelling a dry cough that had him scanning the room for any sign of water.
“Solassion soldiers,” Ravezio answered, and as if he’d read his mind, he swiped up a pitcher of water and a glass from a table on his other side, and carried them over.
Kazhimyr poured a glass and, with a shaky hand, gulped it back, grateful for the cool liquid that slipped down his scorching throat. “Solassion soldiers here?”
“Yes. General Loyce and about a half-dozen soldiers, without their banners, or heraldry. Trying not to be noticed. Worked, too, because I didn’t even realize until he said something.” Ravezio nodded toward Dravien, who scratched at his face, digging his nails into his skin.
“Where are they staying?” The quiet gurgling in Kazhimyr’s stomach had him wondering when he’d last eaten. A damned week, it seemed, the way the hunger clawed at him.
Dravien remained staring off. Likely imagining all of the horrible things she’d subject him to, if she got her hands on him.
“She has a room here at the tavern, but we haven’t seen her come, or go. There’s another Bellatryx with her.”
Kazhimyr pressed the heel of his hand to his stomach to stifle the churning there. “Don’t you find it a little odd that she isn’t traveling with King Jeret, seeing as he kidnapped the prince?”
“I suspected she might’ve stayed behind,” Dravien finally answered, his voice flat and heavy with whatever thoughts spun inside his head. “Rallied a counterattack against King Sagaerin. Maybe seized one of the surrounding towns, but I overheard locals saying they were looking for someone who’d fled.”
Hand resting against the pommel of the dagger at his hip, Ravezio chuckled. “Had Dravien’s asshole puckering for a minute there. Thought she’d come for him.”
“She isn’t after you?”
Dravien shrugged. “Perhaps she is, but how would she have known I’d end up here? She ordered me south after Dolion.” Dravien scratched harder at his chin, leaving an angry streak of red there. “Locals mentioned a redhead named Melantha. Might’ve been a witness to the kidnapping. Or maybe she knows something.”
Melantha? The name didn’t strike Kazhimyr as familiar. “So, what’s the plan?”
“It’s gonna be a couple more days before you can travel afoot with that wound.” Dravien nodded toward his legs. “We’ll stay here. If they’re here to rally an attack, I don’t think they’ll get much support against King Sagaerin, so I suspect they won’t stay long.”
“What makes you say that?”
Dravien lifted his gaze to Ravezio. “Tell me, what is one thing you noticed about Veneficarys?”
Ravezio shrugged and sipped an amber fluid—ale, no doubt. “Streets are clean.”
“Not a single spindling child. Why do you think that is?”
“You’re implying King Sagaerin is supplying the city with vivicantem?” Kazhimyr poured himself another glass of water in hopes of drowning his hunger.
“Why wouldn’t he?” Ravezio sneered. “Starves his own people to feed his allies.”
Dravien pushed to his feet and quietly strode toward the window, keeping himself pressed to the wall. “The villagers have been watchful and wary of the Solassions from the moment they arrived. Wary of us, too, though they seem distracted for now. Give the general a couple days to find this woman. Your leg will heal, and we’ll head to Hagsmist. They should be well on their way back to Solassios by then.”
“The longer we wait, the closer Zevander might be to discovering the glyph that Dolion mentioned,” Kazhimyr argued.
“What glyph?” Dravien peeled his attention from the window, brows drawn low in a frown.
Kazhimyr hesitated to tell him at first, but perhaps doing so might light a fire under the Elvyniran’s ass to get back on the road. “I suppose it’s of no consequence to a man like yourself, with no moral compass, but it’s an eldritch glyph that’s apparently powerful enough to bring down the Umbravale.”
“So, we’re heading to the mortal lands to kill Zevander.”
Kazhimyr raised his cup for another sip, but paused halfway and sailed a scowl back at Dravien. “No. Zevander isn’t a threat. He’s a pawn in all of this.”
“For whom?”
“You’re asking a lot of questions for someone I don’t entirely trust.”
“Then why answer them at all?”
Instead of taking the sip, Kazhimyr set the cup and pitcher onto the small table beside the bed. “Because I need you to understand how imperative it is that we get across that Umbravale before it’s too late. And sitting around here like a bunch of hens waiting on eggs to hatch is going to drive me mad.”
“You’re in no position to travel.” Ravezio tipped back another swill of his ale and grimaced. “Fucking hell, this tastes like warm piss.”
“I’m just fine.” Kazhimyr pushed up on the mattress to climb out of bed, and as if a swarm of bees had crawled beneath his skin, his entire leg suffered an intense, swelling pain. Teeth clenched, he fell back onto the bed, clutching his trembling leg.
“A few more days, as I said.” Dravien rifled through a leather satchel and pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle. From it, he handed two pieces of jerky to Kazhimyr, which he swiped from him. “Trust me, I know that pain intimately.”
“You’ve been bitten before?” Kazhimyr tore a chunk of the meat away with his teeth, his eyes damned near rolling back as the savory flavor coated his tongue.
“Many times. They say a bite is deadly to some. Others can be permanently paralyzed, and some even suffer premonitions.”
Kazhimyr frowned at that. “Premonitions?”
“Dreams. Sometimes, the dreams come to pass.”
“Have you ever suffered these premonitions yourself?”
“Yes.” The Elvyniran’s brows came together. “I dreamt that I’d one day be captured and enslaved by a woman in golden armor.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
MAEVYTH
Rows of bookshelves lined the stone walls of the temple library—a room I had never been permitted to enter before. So many books, hoarded by the clergymen who insisted that reading was not for women and young girls. It left me wondering if those who survived would change the laws, with Sacton Crain no longer ruling over them. Or would they remain forever stagnant in their beliefs?
Zevander stood over a table beside Father, while on Father’s other side, Corwin had exchanged his black mourneclote for a plain white tunic and trousers. All three studied a Mortasian map. As I understood, the journey to the mountains would take from five to seven days, and the terrain, on a good day, was treacherous.
