Page 140 of Anathema

The two of them started back toward Eidolon, careful not to say another word, in case another mimicrow might’ve been within earshot. Once safely out of range, Zevander asked, “When you visited The Hovel, you did as I asked?”

“The rumor about a stranger attacking the guards? Yes. Seems to have stirred some commotion. I overheard someone talking about it in the market square. It’s taken on a life of its own.” Ravezio chuckled, slipping the arrow he’d aimed at the mimicrow back into its quiver at his back. “They’re claiming he’s a dangerous nomad from the Eremician Deadlands. One of the merchants even said he’d seen him arguing with a guard days before their disappearances.”

“Good.” As they neared the castle, one of the fyredrakes, Zelos, prowled toward the two. Careful not to startle him, Zevander held out his hand, and the drake lowered its gargantuan maw that could’ve swallowed both Letalisz in one gulp, allowing him to pet the top of its head. Rough scales scraped across Zevander’s palm and the glyphs carved into his flesh tingled with the drakon’s power. He’d managed to keep the oversized beasts sufficiently fed on wild animals that roamed nearby. Bears and moose, mostly, and so far, they hadn’t yet eaten a person, to Zevander’s knowledge.

Seemingly bored with his affection, the drakon offered a gratified chuff and lumbered off.

The feeling of someone watching crawled over the back of his neck, and Zevander trailed his gaze toward the tower, where Maevyth stared down at him from her bedroom window. Long, lazy curls spilled over her slender shoulders, her lips curved to a bitable pout that accentuated her dolorously beautiful face. The soft glow of her pale skin gave her an ethereal and ghostly aura.

Delicate. Breakable.

An ache throbbed in his chest at the sight of her, his every thought plagued by her haunting allure. Damn him for not seizing the opportunity that night and ending this maddening curiosity. She’d laid down the gauntlet with that dress, daring him to indulge, but kissing her would’ve been the sweetest poison. An intoxicating elixir, as deadly as it was addicting.

Night after night, he’d watched her sing to his brother, laugh with his sister, and infuse life back into Eidolon. He’d secretly observed as she’d studied with Dolion and Allura, and exchanged lighthearted insults with Magdah while cooking. And those godsforsaken weavers she left hanging around served as a constant reminder of her presence, even when he wasn’t watching her. Yet, in spite of her infectious draw, he’d chosen to distance himself from her over the last week. A decision that burned in his chest every time he’d heard her voice carry from another room, or caught her staring at him, as she was right then.

“Heard her asking about you,” Ravezio said beside him.

After a moment’s pause, Zevander huffed and glanced back at his friend. “Are you going to leave me in utter suspense?” he asked sarcastically.

The Letalisz chuckled. “Asked your sister if you were angry with her.”

Instead of answering, Zevander stole another glance of her and whistled for Obsidyen. Moments later, the pound of hooves drew his attention to where the horse rounded the castle toward them.

“You wouldn’t happen to have thoughts about this mortal, would you?” Ravezio pried.

Zevander snorted, adjusting the saddle he’d strapped to the beast earlier in the morning when they’d gone out to patrol the castle’s perimeter–another poor attempt to distract himself from the girl. “I’ve plenty of thoughts,” he grumbled, not bothering to tell him most happened at night as he lay in his bed.

“You just seem rather eager to leave.”

“Simply heeding to my king’s request.”

“I’m sure. As is your usual inclination.” Ravezio rolled his eyes and patted Obsidyen’s flank, and as the horse trotted toward the gate, he called out, “I’ll be sure to pass along a goodbye kiss to her for you.”

“Only if you intend to spend eternity in the Shadow Realm,” Zevander said over his shoulder, gnashing his molars at the thought of Ravezio’s lips pressed to hers. He shot one more glance toward her, noting she hadn’t moved from that window, as she watched him ride off.

The road to Costelwick seemed longer than usual, and as Zevander guided Obsidyen through the village streets, he took note of the preparations that’d begun for the princess’s Becoming. Purple and silver streamers that matched Sagaerin’s heraldry. Banners and firelights strung between buildings. Merchant carts, spilling over with goods, lined the thoroughfare toward the castle.

Once inside the gates, Zevander found himself caught up in the hustle and bustle of guards and servants rushing to prepare for the many guests that were due to arrive from all corners of Aethyria over the next few days.

He made his way to the king’s meeting chambers, where he found Sagaerin pacing, his shoulders bunched with tension.

“You called on me, Your Grace.” Zevander said, as he strode toward the long conference table.

“Yes, yes.” He gestured to his cup bearer, who scrambled to fill two goblets. “Please sit,” he said, and Zevander settled into the nearest chair.

“There are rumblings of discontent.” Hands rubbing together, Sagaerin kept on with his pacing, looking more unsettled than ever before. “The public is insisting that Dorjan perform the Initios.” The Initios signaled the beginning of the festivities and blessings for the tournament, which gathered formidable contenders from all over Aethyria, who fought for the glory of claiming the princess’s womanhood. All major ceremonies typically began with the formality, which involved lighting a swirling wheel aflame. “They fear that his absence in the last few years indicates a weakness in the monarchy. That we’re hiding something.” He paused to swipe up his goblet of wine, spilling it en route to his mouth. “He’ll be exposed to all of the public, if I send him! A fucking walking target!”

“You’re asking me to escort him.”

He slammed his goblet down, the wine splashing onto the table. “I’m asking you to defend his life as if it were your own, or it’ll be everyone’s lives at stake!” With deep breaths, and a face as red as beets, he lowered his gaze. “I am beside myself over this nonsense.” He patted Zevander on the shoulder. “I trust you. I know you’ll do your best, but balls of Castero! Why can’t these godsforsaken people be satisfied with their king’s blessing! Why must they insist on putting Dorjan’s life at risk!”

Another gulp of wine, and he held out the goblet for the steward, then nodded toward Zevander’s. “Drink up. I don’t like drinking alone.”

Reluctantly, Zevander lifted the goblet and unfastened his mask to take a sip. Though he didn’t detest wine, it certainly wasn’t his drink of choice. “When does the ceremony begin?”

“Dusk. And I appreciate your timely arrival, Zevander. You are, as always, a most reliable and loyal subject.”

Loyalty had nothing to do with it. Zevander simply appreciated the time away from the castle, the distraction of the royal minutiae, instead of stalking the girl’s every movement. Had he been there right at that moment, he’d have probably been overly occupied with her interactions with Ravezio. Still, he acknowledged the king’s compliment with a nod.

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