Eldritch, p.55
Eldritch, page 55
I placed the glass down, eyeing the rest of the pitcher as I wiped my mouth on the back of my hand. “It’s a bit disjointed. Vonkovya likes to omit and paint Lyverians as something very bad.”
“Of course they do.” To my delight, she poured more water into the glass. “This land wasn’t always occupied by us. My ancestors arrived as refugees centuries ago. The indigenous here before us took them in. Gave them a home. Hope.”
“Where did your ancestors come from?”
“Aethyria. They were Corvikae who fled to the mortal lands to escape plague and slaughter. Ordered by their priestess to protect the vein here.” As my pulse ratcheted up, she turned to one of the men standing on guard. “Bring me the book.”
Tiny shards of a broken mirror pieced together, forming a distorted image of myself I’d never considered before. “I was told that my ancestry is Corvikae. Is it possible that I might be Lyverian?”
“They are the same. As I said, Corvikae came here from Aethyria.” Her brow raised as she stared back at me. “And you, child. You look very much like my sister.”
Harder, my heart pounded as I searched her face, through the kohl and aging lines, for a flicker of recognition. It was there, if I looked hard enough. Subtle features that I might’ve overlooked. “My mother was a slave.”
“Your mother was the daughter of a great priestess. She was taken many years ago by the Red Men.”
From somewhere buried in the mess of fabrics she wore, she pulled out a pipe that looked to be carved bone, along with a small sachet, setting both of them on the table. Even from where I sat, whatever herb those sachets held carried a strong scent that reminded me of spring lavender. She pinched a tiny amount into the bowl of her pipe, packing it down with her pinky nail.
A guard behind her produced one of the candles, which he tilted toward the bowl, spilling wax onto the table.
The priestess’s cheeks caved as she gave the pipe a few puffs, sending black smoke into the air.
The other guard passed off a book that looked identical to the one Dolion had given me, with its bone spine and the dragon’s eye on the cover. Only, her version didn’t require puzzles to open it. She flipped through the pages, landing on an elaborate painting. She brushed the palm of her hand over the image, and just like those in the other book, it sprang to life.
A line of men, women and children, donned in black feathers, made their way to the mountains. “We did not possess blood magic and, therefore, we did not require the veins in the same way mancers require it for vivicantem.”
“But I have blood magic.” I raised my palm, opening it to show the glyphs etched there.
She ran her thumb over my palm and lifted the sleeve of my shirt. “Do you know what the mark on your arm signifies?”
“Only that I have some strange connection with the dead.”
“Strange connection, indeed.” She sipped the water and cleared her throat. “You are Vasmora.”
“Vasmora?”
“A death vessel for the goddess. It seems you were chosen to serve as her corporeal entity. Through you, she has power in our world.”
Frowning, I shook my head. “That’s where my blood magic comes from? Morsana?”
“Sweet child, it is not a simple blood magic that you possess. It is eldritch. Ancient. Yes, the power of a goddess.” Her finger traced the silvery lines of my scar almost longingly. “Some have attempted to steal the power of the gods. Very few are born with it.”
“I swear I didn’t steal it. I cut myself on the archway to The Eating Woods, and this just appeared.”
A smile lifted the corner of her mouth. “Of course you didn’t steal it, child. You were chosen.”
“Chosen for what?”
“To fulfill her promise.” She flipped the page of the book to another image, which showed men in the telling red robes of Vonkovyan clergy attacking the Lyverians. Blood spattered across the page as the Vonkovyan men attacked, shooting the Lyverian men with their rifles and dragging the women away. My brows pulled together, watching the brutality come to life across the page.
The violence I’d always suspected.
My own father’s violence.
The men who’d been slain sat up. They rose from the ground, from the red pools that surrounded them, pale but somehow stronger, the way their muscles had been painted with far more definition.
“Were they immortal?” I ran my finger over one of the men, and he turned toward me. A breath shot out of me as I stared back at his silver eyes.
“They were Hollowyns. In the early days of man, Magekae, the god of creation, bestowed immortality upon the mancers. And Morsana, the goddess of death, gifted the Corvi people with the ability to rise from the dead. In times of war and plague, our Hollowyns protected us.”
“They couldn’t become infected.”
Her brows lifted in surprise. “Very astute. However, the longer my ancestors remained in Vonkovya, our bloodline thinned.” Her lips flattened, brows tightening. “Particularly when our women were taken by the Vonkovyans. Our ability to raise our dead has waned in time. We’ve not been gifted the blessing of a Vasmora in nearly two millennia.”
I shook my head, my mind resisting the idea that a goddess would have chosen me—a clumsy mortal who lacked the ability to wield a knife properly, let alone ancient magic. “How? How was I chosen?”
“Our fates are written the moment we are born. The gods cannot change that. Unless …” She paused, brow raised. “One’s fate is altered. The veil between what is and what will be is shattered.”
My skin prickled with the realization that crept over me like a cold shadow. “Could a single person alter one’s fate?”
“Our fates are strong and binding. They, too, would have to possess the power of a god to do so.”
Or the stubborn will of one, anyway. Was it possible that Zevander’s interference with my past had allowed Morsana to choose me as a vessel? “And, so, what is this promise that I’m to fulfill?”
“You will restore our bloodline.”
“Restore your bloodline?”
She turned the page to a different image. A woman who bore a striking resemblance to me, with pale skin, silver eyes, and long black hair. “For years, we thought my sister had been chosen. She resembled her so much.” She ran her palm over the image, and it sprang to life, just like the others.
The woman on the page mated with one of the men in black feathers, and her stomach grew, round and very obviously with child. Moments later, a child with silver eyes and black hair appeared on the page. Then another child. And another. Until there were at least a dozen children running across the page—all of whom boasted dark hair and silver eyes.
“These are the visions of a long-forgotten priestess. You bear the seed of our future. You will be mated to our strongest warrior, and the two of you will bring forth a new generation with Morsana’s blood running through them.”
A laugh tugged at the back of my throat, but I swallowed it back. “You’re telling me my fate is to be a baby-making vessel?”
“Your fate is to strengthen the next generation’s bloodline.”
“And if I refuse?”
Her face twisted with an indignant scowl, as if I’d insulted her with the question. “Why would you deny us?”
I didn’t dare speak the truth, for fear that she would refuse to help Zevander. That she would sense I was already in love with him and would sooner watch their bloodline fade to oblivion than choose another man over him. “I’ve seen a different fate.”
The tight furrow of her brows softened as her eyes widened. She reached across the table for my hand. “What is it? What has she shown you?”
“Fire. Black fire.”
A look of terror bloomed in her eyes. “Sablefyre?”
“Yes.”
“Deimos.” She sat back in her chair, and smoke seeped between her lips and her pipe as she fervently smoked it. “She has saved you for Deimos. A sacrifice, I would venture to say. Oh, goddess, what if she longs to restore the vein? To punish us?”
“How would restoring the vein punish you?”
She flipped through more pages of the book and landed on an image that yanked the breath from my lungs. A creature with antlers and bark-like skin. The same one I’d seen peel away Uncle Riftyn’s flesh back in The Eating Woods. Waving her hand over the image brought it to life, and the creature raised his bony hand, where a complicated image burned across his palm. He shot it toward a chasm in the mountains, and a violet glow flared to life on the page.
The priestess flipped to the next page and livened the image of the creature throwing flames at a shimmering wall, surrounded by trees. The Umbravale, no doubt. Another flip of the page showed a massive, rotted tree in the forest, from which hundreds of spiders crawled. The tree split to make way for a horrifying monster—a humanoid spider, but nothing like the Primsleys or Uncle Felix. No, this one carried a dark and ancient aura. Something powerful and otherworldly that sent a shiver coiling around my spine.
I swallowed back the tremble in my throat. “I’ve seen them. These human spiders.”
“No, my sweet child. What you’ve seen is nothing more than a few harmless monsters that possess no power. This is Pestilios. A god. I was certain Morsana would protect us from him. But your vision tells me otherwise. And I will not question the will of the goddess.”
A scowl tugged at my face, and I whipped my gaze to hers. “Why? You would face destruction simply because she wills it?”
“Yes. She is the goddess. All powerful. She sees death. She writes our fate.”
“Do you truly believe she willed my sister back to life?”
“Of course. There is no other way for a mortal to return from death.”
Lips pressed together, I nodded. “Days ago, Morsana urged me to kill her. I refused.”
A look of skepticism crossed her face. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying perhaps the fate written by a goddess can be changed, as well. Maybe none of this is etched in stone. You say I am the vessel of a goddess. Then, trust my words.”
“You bear the mark. And the silver eyes. But your words prove nothing. I’m not inclined to deny the visions of a respected priestess for the empty claims of a young girl.”
Teeth grinding, I stared her in the eyes. “And I will not be used as a baby vessel based on the paintings of a woman I’ve never met.”
Her eye twitched, clearly insulted. “Then, there is only one solution. You must prove your words true.” She drew the pipe to her mouth for another puff and blew the smoke between us. “Tonight, you will show us that you can defy the will of the goddess.”
“How?”
“You will be cast into the vein. Should you walk away unscathed, then I will take your words as truth.”
“Cast into the vein? Is it not dead?”
“It is,” she said and raised a brow. “But like our people, it, too, was fated to rise from death.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
ZEVANDER
Past …
Arms and wrists bound in manacles, Zevander lay across the stone bed, his body bruised from the beating he’d endured earlier.
“That you would betray me. My loyalty!” General Loyce paced beside him, but he didn’t bother to look at her.
He no longer cared what punishment she doled out. What pain she inflicted. Whatever sliver of hope he may have harbored, imagining that King Sagaerin had come to take him away from this miserable existence, had since dissolved into a murky sludge of resentment.
Theron stood off somewhere in the room behind where Zevander lay.
“You will return to Caligorya.” In his periphery, she lifted her gaze. “How do we establish proof?”
“The glyphs,” Theron answered quietly, and Zevander snapped his gaze toward him, venomous hatred bubbling to life inside of him. “If he returns with a new glyph, he’s communed with a god.”
“He’s done this before?”
“I’ve …” Theron seemed hesitant to answer her, at first. “I’ve not seen his glyphs, specifically, but he told me himself that he slips into Caligorya and sees visions.”
“Coward!” Zevander spat. “Are you so desperate for her affection?” The question was an insult to any other slave, but Zevander wondered if Theron had yearned for it all along.
“And what brings him back?” Loyce asked, ignoring his outburst. “How do we ensure that he will return?”
“In part, it’s his will to return. But I’ve found other methods, as well. Vivicantem. Inhaled.”
“How resourceful you’ve been, saving the rations of vivicantem I gave you.”
Tethered and seething, Zevander lifted his head, and the growl that slipped through his clenched teeth promised violence. He’d never seen another slave offered vivicantem, and he couldn’t help but wonder what dastardly deeds Theron had done to earn it from her.
“Oh, does that bother you?” Loyce ran her palm down his bare chest. “His loyalty has earned many privileges. While you lie on a stone bed, he lounges on silks and feather mattresses in his own chambers. While you feed on gruel, he dines on fresh meat and bread.”
“General, please,” Theron urged, his gaze lowered. “Shall I administer the elixir now? This one must be swallowed.”
“Yes. And if you attempt to temper me again, I’ll remove your tongue.” She gave a nod toward an orgoth waiting in the corner of the cell, and the beast stepped forward.
When his massive hands clutched either side of Zevander’s head, his grip was so strong, Zevander couldn’t so much as twitch. Theron approached, and every muscle in Zevander’s body flexed into a rigid plane of tension. The tight clamp of his jaw sent jolts of light to the back of his eyes, and his nostrils flared as he attempted to calm the rage pulsing through him like liquid metal.
“You’re going to die for what you did,” Zevander gritted out. “Mark my words. I’ll have my vengeance.”
“You’ll have no such thing.” Loyce chuckled, rubbing her hand along his inner thigh. “Theron will be escorted by an orgoth, and you will be confined here. Completely at my disposal.” She dug her nail into his thigh, dragging her wretched talons down his flesh. “There are so many pleasures I long to explore with you, my love.”
Zevander grunted, his body so wired in fury, he might snap any moment. “Perhaps you’re not aware that your loyal wound stitcher tried to poison you once.” A smile pulled at Zevander’s lips as he watched Theron’s face ashen. “I consumed the poison he intended for you.”
The corner of her eye ticced and she turned her attention to Theron. “Is this true?”
Face a ghostly white, Theron lowered his gaze. “It’s true that I possessed poison. And it—”
“Didn’t kill anyone,” Loyce said, and hands behind her back, slowly paced beside Zevander. “Do you wish to kill me now, Theron?”
He shook his head. “I’ve never desired to kill anyone.”
“Liar!” Zevander growled. Surely the general wasn’t foolish enough to take him at his word. If not for the promise of pleasing the king by proving her claims about Zevander true, Theron would’ve likely been tossed in the pit long ago. “Twice, he’s betrayed you.”
“And you’ve defied me countless times, yet you live. I can assure you, no one gets away with betraying me.” She waved toward Theron. “Continue.”
Theron broke the ampoule open, and Zevander clamped his mouth shut in defiance.
Thick fingers jabbed at his lips where the orgoth holding his skull pressed his thumbs into Zevander’s jaw and forced it apart. Intense pressure brought tears to Zevander’s eyes as he fought the pain, desperate to keep his mouth closed, but the orgoth pried it open with ease.
With trembling hands, Theron poured the fluid into his mouth, spilling a few small drops on his bottom lip.
Zevander held it captured at the back of his throat for a moment, intending to spit it out at him the moment his jaw was released, but the orgoth held steady. Loyce pinched his nose, and his throat jerked with the desperation to swallow.
“Oh, come on, you stubborn mule. Swallow it!”
His throat went lax, and the fluids slipped down. Zevander coughed and gasped as the elixir burned its way down his throat.
The room widened and blurred, while the pain in his muscles and bones dissipated in the warmth. Pressure at his skull loosened, and he rolled his head back and forth, his eyelids heavy.
Loyce leaned over him, her face misshapen and out of focus. “Return to me, Lover.” Her words arrived distorted and fuzzy, as if she’d spoken them underwater, and Zevander let out a moan as the elixir sent him drifting into the black void.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
ZEVANDER
The scent of sulfur burned in Zevander’s nose, and he opened his eyes to a wall of shimmering, black stone, its skinny purple fissures telling him he stood in a sleeping vein. He’d only ever seen one in his life, as a boy, when his nursery tutor had taken him to visit one for study. With the veins considered to be royal property, it was typically forbidden for anyone to approach, but Master Gannick had been given clearance by the guards.
A tapping sound drew his attention to his right, where a cloaked figure crouched, chipping away at the stone with a small hammer and chisel. “I’ll show them. All of them,” the stranger muttered to himself.
There was a vague familiarity to his voice, and Zevander quietly approached the toiling man.
“Even a spindling can wield power.” He grunted as he brought the hammer down hard against the flat end of the chisel. “Even a spindling can rise to be a high mage.”
Zevander glanced around, noting two guards off in the distance, but something about them seemed troubling. One held a sword in his hand, the angle of it too burdensome for what it must’ve weighed. Surely, his arm should’ve trembled with weakness. Instead, he remained far too still, while the other reached for the hilt of his weapon, but never withdrew it.
As if both had been frozen in time.
An outcry had Zevander swinging his attention back to the cloaked figure, who must’ve brought the hammer down upon his thumb, the way he rocked on his heels and cradled it.
