Page 115 of Anathema

“You didn’t think I’d let him get away with what he did, did you?” Zevander finally spoke, the sound of malice in his voice sending a strange vibration beneath my skin. He turned toward Ravezio. “When you find him, bring him here. To me.”

“Of course.”

“And you’re bringing him here? Which means whoever it is, isn’t walking out of here.” Rykaia shifted on her feet. “You know, you don’t need to kill every soul that’s wronged me.”

“And you don’t need to fret. His murder was commissioned by the king.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “If King Sagaerin thinks he’s going to put an end to every mage who dabbles in demutomancy, he’s wrong. They’ll find a way. They always do.”

His gaze fell on me again, but with half his face covered in a mask, it was hard to guess what thoughts occupied his mind. “I do not care about every other mage.” That questionable gaze lingered a moment longer before he turned back to his sister. “He hurt you. End of story. For him.” He gave a nod toward Ravezio. “A quick word.”

The two stepped off to the side, their voices low and indiscernible over the sound of Rykaia huffing and mumbling beside me.

After a quick pat to Ravezio’s shoulder, Zevander strode past the two of us, but paused to look over his shoulder in my direction. “Are you coming?”

The question somehow shifted the air around me, my pulse hammering a steady beat of anxiety, and for a moment I felt like I was suffocating.

With a glance at Rykaia, who frowned back at her brother, I followed after him.

Once out of earshot from Rykaia, I asked, “What’s a flammellian?”

He threw a quick glance over his shoulder. “One who is intensely aroused by control. The name comes from the substance they use to inject into their victims. Flammapul. It’s a poison that renders you useless, so your abuser, or flammellian, can do whatever they wish.”

“That sounds … horrifying. Someone did this to Rykaia?”

“Yes.”

The mere thought sent a bolt of rage through me and Rykaia wasn’t even my sister. “I don’t blame you for wanting to hurt him. In fact, I feel compelled to do the same to whatever took Aleysia.”

“Have you fought before?”

“No.” I’d always wanted some form of training, or defense. Mostly for use against the boys in our parish, who touched without asking. But Grandfather Bronwick had thought it unladylike. He’d always worried that such a graceless past time would’ve only fueled more rumors and scorn. “I stabbed the guard who tried taking her, though.”

“Dare I ask what you stabbed him with?”

“A knife I used to carry. For carving and fruit, mostly. I sort of fought the prisoner who tried to attack me before your scorpion showed up.”

“You fought a prisoner of Bonesguard, as well? How?”

“A knife.” I hastened my steps to keep up with him.

“How did you manage to acquire a knife at the prison?”

“Well, he gave it to me. I think he was toying with me.”

“Or he underestimated you.” The subtle compliment had me hiding a smile.

“I don’t exactly look all that threatening.”

“You don’t have to look threatening to be threatening. Perceived weakness is your most vicious weapon. Remember that, as it will serve as an advantage. You’re small, but your power can make up for your stature, if you learn to wield it well.” He finally led me to an expansive room the size of the cottage back home.

An entire wall of arched windows looked out over an impressive scene of trees and a wintery sky. Candelabras, like those I’d seen in the kitchen, hung from the arched ceiling, and the wall opposite the windows held all variety of weapons. Swords, daggers, and other terrifying items I couldn’t identify, along with armor, gauntlets and shields. At the far end of the room, a painting of a black, scaled dragon spanned the width of the wall, illuminated by sconces that blazed below it.

The image mesmerized me. “Are there winged dragons in Aethyria?”

“Fewer these days. They’re mostly found in Draconysia. Except when they decide to feed on local villagers.”

“They’re aggressive?”

---