Eldritch, p.25
Eldritch, page 25
“Little chance of him tracking down a glyph in the deadlands.” Ravezio stroked his jaw, also confused, judging by the crease in his brow as he stared back at the wall.
“He’s known of this glyph for quite some time. I suspect it’s the reason he subjected Zevander and Branimir to the black flame.”
“All that in one glyph?” Torryn blew out a breath. “Sounds like a lot of power for one person.”
Dolion ran his finger across the page of his book and jotted another note on the wall. “Wielding this glyph requires the ability to summon sablefyre. And if my estimates are correct, it is powerful enough to bring down the Umbravale.”
“If the Umbravale falls, whatever lives in the deadlands can cross freely.” The concern in Ravezio’s voice trembled with the same dread that had Kazhimyr’s chest clenching.
“Yes.”
“What about the chasm?” Torryn asked. “How would those in the deadlands cross it? I thought the Umbravale bridged both worlds”
Shadows gathered in the hollows of Dolion’s face as a grim veil darkened his expression. “There would be no chasm. The trench that separates both worlds is a construct of the Umbravale. Without the Umbravale, there’s no barrier to prevent their crossing. This is precisely why the mages, even myself, sought out the bloodstones. To keep that barrier intact. Unfortunately, King Sagaerin destroyed the old septomir, the only means to strengthen it.”
“That never made sense to me.” Torryn scratched at his jaw, the look of confusion still clinging to his face.
“It never made sense to me, either. But for centuries, mages have been taught that the very tool used to construct the Umbravale could also destroy it. We were wrong, though. It’s capable of weaving a very powerful and protective barrier. But this glyph?” Dolion pointed back to the symbol on the wall. “It would cause irreparable damage. Imagine a power capable of destroying entire races of Aethyrians.” Dolion paced, scratching at the back of his head. “Competent mages have wielded sablefyre for centuries, but no mage in existence could possibly master this glyph. Not without undergoing the Emberforge ritual.”
“Has anyone ever tried?” Torryn ran his finger down scratches carved in the wall and frowned.
“Yes. Cadavros himself has tried. The only person who has ever survived such a thing unscathed? Is Zevander.”
“Zevander possesses this glyph that has all these strange counter-magics you’ve scribbled across the walls?” Kazhimyr trailed his gaze over them again, his eyeballs damned near bouncing between all the details written in tiny lettering.
“He doesn’t possess it yet. And thank the gods for that.”
“Where is he now?” Kazhimyr asked.
“Right where Cadavros has wanted him all along. In the mortal lands.”
“Perfect.” Kazhimyr rubbed the back of his head.
“Sablefyre infused by the essence of these destructive forces would wreak havoc on the delicate threads that hold that barrier together.”
“Sounds to me like Zevander would have the upper hand in this case.” Torryn snorted, crossing his arms again. “Have you seen his scorpions? Felt the flame? I don’t even like standing near the bastard when he’s casting.”
“Cadavros is not a foolish man. He ensured that he cannot be killed without consequence, by blood-binding himself and our own Prince Dorjan to a deadly plague. One not seen in over two millennia.” He pointed to a rotting tree symbol. “The black pestilence. Brought about by the god, Pestilios.”
Kazhimyr froze. “Dorjan? Are you aware that Dorjan was taken prisoner by King Jeret?”
Dolion’s eyes squeezed shut, and all the steam powering his frantic movements seemed to fizzle out, as he slumped in the chair closest to him. “If Jeret kills the prince, then we are, as they say, truly fucked.”
Once again, Kazhimyr’s eyes drifted over the mess of scribbles and images on the wall. While Dolion had a reputation of being mad and a bit fanatical about his visions, he was respected by Allura, which gave him a small bit of credibility, as far as Kazhimyr was concerned. “Can this god, Pestilios, get through the Umbravale?”
“I don’t know. Pestilios is a lesser god. It’s possible the Umbravale is strong enough. So long as he doesn’t turn Zevander onto his cause.”
Torryn shook his head. “See, I never understood gods. You kill off everything, you’re left ruling over nothing.”
Dolion scoffed. “He doesn’t intend to kill off anything. Death is merciful, after all. He wants to build an army and enslave anyone who opposes him. The annals have always described Pestilios as craving immense power. And I believe he’s chosen Cadavros as his corporeal vessel.”
Torryn groaned and crossed his arms. “In layman’s terms, old man.”
“The gods cannot take physical form. So, they choose a vessel. Or, as the case may be with Cadavros, the vessel chooses them.”
Kazhimyr huffed, bracing his hands on his hips. “If Zevander gains possession of this glyph, he could destroy Cadavros’s blood magic, right? Doesn’t have to kill him and unleash a plague, he can just wipe out his bloodline?”
Dolion flipped through the book in his hands, running his finger down the page, until he stopped. “No.” He turned the book to face Kazhimyr, pointing at a name on the page.
Alastor Calzareth - spindling.
“Who is this?”
“The name given to Cadavros at birth. Took a bit of digging on my part. The mage certainly didn’t make it easy to track down.”
“A spindling?” Kazhimyr scoffed. “Balls of Castero, how did he manage to become Magelord?”
“That is a question I’m afraid I cannot answer.”
Kazhimyr trailed his gaze to the next line reserved for siblings, to find Melisara Calzareth - unknown. He knew that name. As rare as it was, he wondered if it might be the disfigured woman who’d hired him to track down the mortucrux all those years ago. “That’s his sister?”
“So it seems. Whether she’s alive, or not, is another question.”
Kazhimyr shifted his attention to the enormous drawing on the wall, wondering how anyone could possibly master all those details. It seemed the mind could never possibly capture its intricacies. “A glyph that powerful would require quite a bit of vivicantem, it seems.”
“It would.” Dolion shuffled over to his calculations, nothing more than erratic scribbles that Kazhimyr couldn’t begin to decipher. “It’s a crude calculation, but the energy required to eliminate a ward the size of the Umbravale is beyond what our bodies are capable of producing. Zevander has the advantage of the flame, but even when I factor in temperature and force, and all the coefficients, the result is the same. The amount of vivicantem he would need to ingest is extraordinary. It would require a delicate balance to the energy he expends. Too much, and he would suffer toxicity.”
“And become a Carnifican?”
“Or worse. Too little, and the power of that flame would consume him entirely.”
“Death?”
“Annihilation. I imagine, the longer he stays in Mortasia, the more his vivicantem is depleting.” Dolion sighed and snapped the book closed, setting it on the table beside him. “Perhaps he might return on his own, but he won’t leave without Maevyth. I’ve not said anything to Rykaia, or Allura, yet, but I’m setting off for the mortal lands in the morning. I feel the need to atone for my grievous lack in judgment.”
“I’m going with you.” Rykaia stepped into the room, the dark circles beneath her eyes not quite as pronounced as Dolion’s.
“Respectfully, no. I promised your brother I’d keep you safe. If he happens to acquire that glyph, I suspect I’ll be his first victim, should he find out I placed you in peril.”
“I don’t care. He’s my brother.”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Kazhimyr battled back. “Neither is Dolion. You’re both going to Calyxar, as planned. Ravezio and I will go after Zevander. He’s the reason we’re here and not rotting in the Solassion mines.”
A look of conflict crept over Dolion’s face. “The state of Mortasia is unknown. The journey could be incredibly dangerous.”
Kazhimyr sighed. “That’s essentially every day of my life.”
“I’m not weak.” Rykaia scowled, her voice carrying a steel edge of defiance. “I can help.”
Torryn shrugged. “I’m not weak, either, but you couldn’t pay me enough coin to set foot in the mortal lands.”
Dolion gave a sharp nod. “Very well. It’s settled, then. The two of you will travel to Mortasia. Torryn and I will accompany Rykaia and Allura to Calyxar. My hope is that he’s found Maevyth. She’s a critical piece in all of this.”
“How so?”
He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then said, “I believe she’s the only one who can keep him from slipping into madness.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
MAEVYTH
Zevander removed his cloak, wrapping it around both my and Aleysia’s shoulders. “We have to get back to the cottage.”
“We can’t. It’s overrun by those monsters. The village is our only option now.”
“Maevyth, I’ll never make it,” Aleysia said, shivering next to me. “I’m so cold I can hardly breathe.”
Zevander rubbed his hands together and held out both palms toward us. A radiant heat poured over us, the kind that reminded me of summers out on the lawn, and Aleysia let out a quiet moan, teetering to the side. “That should get you to the village, if we go now.”
Despite the warmth, my head felt stuffy, muscles aching, as if I were coming down with a cold. “You returned far too quickly. Did you find the vivicantem?”
“No. I had a sense that something was wrong, so I returned.”
So strange, the warmth that surged through me, sinking into my bones. Feeling had even returned to my toes. “I thought you were struggling to summon the flame.”
He curled and flexed his hand. “It’s still weak. The rabbit meat we ate offered a bit of energy. Just not enough.”
“I feel like I just walked into a summer day.” Aleysia threw off the cloak that had, admittedly, gotten a bit toasty, and stepped in the direction of the village. “This is incredible!”
Raivox cawed at Zevander, taking a few hops in his direction, as if threatening him, then leapt into the air, but instead of taking off as usual, he circled overhead, seemingly waiting on us.
Dizziness swept over me, and I stumbled a few steps, catching myself before I fell. “I don’t know why I feel out of sorts, all of a sudden.”
“If you used your power, you expended a lot of energy. Even if you don’t require much vivicantem, blood magic is exhausting,” Zevander said, and before I could respond to that, he swiped me up into his arms and marched across the snowy field.
“You don’t have to carry me, Zevander. I’m perfectly capable of walking.”
“I’d like to get to the village before a fortnight. What happened back there?”
“Aleysia and I were talking, and a spider appeared on the wall.”
“Any idea where it came from?” He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the distant tree line, as if watching for something.
“It looked like they were spawning out of those rabbit remains. Do you think we’re infected, for having eaten it?”
“We boiled the meat. Should’ve been enough to kill anything inside.” Something about him seemed unsettled, the way he kept glancing around, as though he was waiting for something to jump out at us.
“A strange entity of some sort emerged from one of them back there. I’ve never seen anything like it. It was wraith-like.”
“Where did it go?”
“Raivox ate it.”
He finally switched his attention, looking up at the Corvugon that followed us toward the village. “He doesn’t seem to like me much, does he?”
“Well, to be fair, you don’t exactly look like a white knight coming to rescue me. I think he senses your moral ambiguity.”
“I look morally ambiguous?” Again, he looked over his shoulder.
“Very. Is something troubling you?”
“I was attacked on the way back here.”
“By the spiders?”
“No. A Solassion soldier sent on behalf of General Loyce.”
“Just one?”
“I don’t know. There could be others, I suppose, but I only saw Theron.”
“You know him?”
His jaw hardened, drawing my attention to his scar. I noted how close the veins had stretched toward his eye—the thin filament curving into the corner of it. “Yes. I’ve not seen him in years. He was a friend.”
“A friend who wants to kill you?”
“I don’t think he’s after me.”
Understanding dawned. “He’s here for me? Why?”
A muscle in his face ticced, the tension in his jaw tighter than before. “There are a number of reasons why Loyce would be interested in you. None of them are good.”
“This is unbelievable!” Aleysia squealed and scooped up a handful of snow that instantly turned to liquid in her palms. “How am I this warm, while hardly clothed in the dead of winter?”
Zevander nodded after her. “She seems to be taking things well.”
“A little too well. It makes me nervous, if I’m being honest. I’m not ignoring the fact that she hasn’t asked about the glyphs, at all. Everything she saw back there …” I shook my head at how strange I must’ve looked, swinging a bone whip through the air, or calling on Raivox. “It’s as if she refuses to acknowledge it. I don’t know what that means yet. If she’s in denial, or none of this seems real for her.” I lifted my hand bearing the strange glove. The markings there reminded me of a tree root growing over the back of my palm, while the sharp, silver fingernails resembled an ominous threat of pain.
“What is this?”
“I cut myself on one of Raivox’s scales. This grew from the cut. Even with this, she didn’t respond as I would have imagined Aleysia responding.”
“How is that?”
I raised one shoulder. “I don’t know. Hysterical, maybe? She asked about my eyes turning silver and never questioned it again. I just worry that perhaps she’s not fully absorbing everything.” I tugged on one of the small veins of the glove, careful not to grip the edge of it, as Aleysia had done. “I’ll say this much, though—I’ve grown weary of these strange things happening to me.”
He seemed to examine the hand as I held it out in front of him. “It won’t come off?”
“No.” I flipped my hand over to see that my palm remained completely exposed. Intentionally so, it seemed. “I tried. I don’t know what it is.”
“It’s not painful?”
“Not at all. In fact, there’s a strange warmth. It feels oddly relaxing, the way the muscles soften after a hot bath.”
“Sounds nice about now.”
Aleysia lagged just long enough to let us catch up, then walked alongside me, running her fingers over my hair. “So, it’s true, Sister. You really are a witch. All this time, the villagers were right.” Snorting a laugh, she ran ahead of us again, jumping up for an overhanging branch, and the snow covering it spilled over her, dissipating to steam when it landed on her skin.
“So, this is unusual behavior for her?” Zevander asked.
“The excitement? Yes. The refusal to acknowledge things that should seem abnormal to her? No.”
“Could be the trauma she’s suffered. Something she’s trying not to look at too deeply.”
“You sound as if you’re familiar with that.”
His gaze tracked toward the tree line again. “I suppose we all have something we’d rather not dwell upon.”
“I suppose we do,” I said, toying with one of the undone laces at the neck of his tunic, before turning toward the tree line, grateful for the distraction from his growing scar. “So, this Theron? Do you think he’s hunting us now?”
Zevander looked skyward, where Raivox continued to glide through the air above. “I doubt he’d chance it with that monstrosity flying around overhead. I certainly wouldn’t.”
“It surprises me that he hasn’t taken off. He never usually stays long.”
“Perhaps he senses a threat.”
“Well, if he does, he’s certainly misjudged, where you’re concerned. Truly, you can put me down. You’re going to be exhausted by the time we reach the village.”
“I’ve carried tankards of mead that were heavier than you. Once you’ve cast off all that pride, of course.”
“Pride?” I chuckled. “You’re as stubborn as a mule.”
His cheek dimpled with a wolfish grin. “I welcome the insult, if it means the pleasure of having your thighs wrapped around me.”
I pressed my lips together, turning so he wouldn’t see the smile begging to escape. “Always quick with the wit. Tell me, is it a requirement for men to relate all conversations back to that?”
He shrugged. “I don’t speak for all men. I just happen to enjoy seeing you blush every time I mention my face between your—”
I pressed my palm to his mouth. “We are going to pause. Or I’m going to insist that you let me walk the rest of the way there.”
His lips pulled to a smile beneath my palm, and he planted a kiss there, before I lowered it away. “I’ll do my best to refrain. However, I’m looking forward to picking up where we left off.”
We finally reached the entrance of the village and the wide stone archway topped with Foxglove Parish written in bold, black letters. The dirt path we’d traveled converged with the once-bustling cobblestone road that ran through the center of the village, flanked on either side by long stretches of shops and homes, their steep roofs blanketed in fresh snow. Gas lamps stood cracked and unused, and at the center of the town, the frozen fountain, whose statues once spouted water, remained quiet and still.
Haunting.
On the left, we passed the village apothecary, where I’d sometimes dropped off vials of morumberry oil, its broken window and hollow interior reminding me of an empty eye socket. The usually-busy bakery to the right had clearly been plundered, given the broken glass, spilled jars of spices, and discarded, cracked baking stones lying about. And looming over the village in the distance, an ever-watchful eye, stood the Red Temple, a dark silhouette with its pointed spires that pierced the low lying clouds.
