Page 16 of Anathema

The moment she slipped away, Zevander leaned in toward the man across from him. “The forest you speak of is Hagsmist. Need I remind you, crossing the boundary is forbidden.” At the end of Hagsmist Forest, just before the land fell into the sea, stood The Umbravale–the imperceptible ward that’d been weaved by the great mages centuries ago. The only portal into the mortal world, guarded by the king’s calvary.

“In order to break your curse, I require the full complement of stones. All seven bloodlines.”

Zevander had crossed continents to retrieve the stones of the many races that made up Aethyria–Orgoths, Elvynira, Solassions, Lunasier. Those whose bloodlines were purest, the descendants of the ancients, whose combined power, when harnessed by the septomir, was said to have formed the very boundary Dolion wished to cross into the mortal lands. Lands believed to have been nothing but a wasteland, as no Aethyrian could’ve possibly survived there. Not that anyone cared to cross, as Mortasia had always been known as a land flourishing with disease and famine. Diseases said to wreak havoc on blood magic—which made it illegal, by order of the king, to breach the boundary.

“What could possibly exist in the land of death, old man?”

“I do not know. I only know my visions are never wrong.” He kicked back a long swill of his drink and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

“Whatever blood I find there will have no power. It would be useless.”

“Not useless. Even without magic, blood is life. Life is what the scepter requires. The seventh bloodline might very well be mortal, a mere mortal, for all we know.” Dolion threw back another sip, his dark brown skin reddening by the moment, and he signaled for another drink from the barmaid. “No one knows entirely what, or whom, the seventh bloodline originated from. It’s a mystery that, to this day, baffles the magehood, but the moment it is reunited with the other stones, its true power will be known. And once in hand, I will possess the most impressive scepter in all of Aethyria. Far more powerful than Sablefyre.”

“Seems like a lot of power for one man.”

“Perhaps, but a necessary one. I’ve told you what I’ve seen.”

“Yes. A plague. Courtesy of Cadavros,” Zevander said in an unimpressed tone, hoping the mage wouldn’t break into one of his long tirades again. “Except Cadavros is dead. Long dead.” The evil that had bestowed the curse upon Zevander had long been extinguished. Destroyed by the king himself—or so the annals went on to say, anyway.

“You believe what they tell you, Letalisz.” Fortunately for him, he spoke the word low enough that Zevander didn’t feel the need to rip his tongue out for having said it aloud. “And it isn’t a simple plague. Creatures, the likes of which we’ve never seen, will ravage our villages. Insects will spill from the mouths of children. The Citadel will burn.”

“Is it not these ravings that got you kicked out of the Magehood?”

“Cadavros will return. The Black Pestilence is coming! I promise you that. He will bring famine and death!” He slammed down his tankard, and a quick glance around showed the few still left in the tavern stared back at them. Dolion cleared his throat and sat back in the booth.

Another furtive glance, and all those curious eyes turned away.

Zevander fought to contain the mocking remark itching to break free. “Look, I don’t give a good fuck what you do with those stones. So long as you pay me what’s promised. And if you’re lying about it, let’s just say it’ll be worth breaking some laws to watch you suffer.”

“I resent your insults.”

“Resent all you like, but don’t fuck with me. Did you bring what I asked?”

Dolion reached into the pocket of his vest and tugged out a milky white substance that sparkled in the lamplight. Pure vivicantem. While the stone he’d taken from the highblood could’ve provided enough vivicantem to last a good month, or two, the liquid form was much easier to consume, and the measured dose ensured he wouldn’t absorb too much of it. Too much was toxic. And turning the stones to liquid was a power only a select few were granted permission by the king to carry out. Those same few were required to live on castle grounds, guarded by the Imperial Army.

Given the protections and restrictions of the men guarding the vein, along with those who mined it, how Dolion came about acquiring the vial was a mystery that Zevander didn’t bother to question.

“It isn’t laced with anything, is it?”

“Straight from the vein.”

“Good.” Zevander tipped his head back and squeezed a half dropperful onto his tongue. Cold tingles rippled through his body, casting a shiver down his back, and he let out a grunt as the liquid sent a burst of pleasure to his muscles.

Too much resulted in poisoning and poisoning led to madness.

One half dropper of pure vivicantem would last a week.

Zevander tucked the remaining supply away into his leathers. The stones he’d scavenged from the ashes, not meant to be consumed in rock form, would prove useful in other ways.

“Mortasia.” Dolion stared down at his drink. “It is said to be dangerous. A wasteland of mortal suffering and death.”

“Trying to talk me out of it, are you?”

“Of course not. It is the only way. But should you fail …”

Zevander hiked an elbow on the back of the wooden booth. “Have I failed you yet?”

“No. You’ve done well. And your reward will be freedom from the flame.” The elder mage reached into his coat and fished out a small scroll that sat in his outstretched palm. “There are only three high mages in all of Aethyria who know this cantafel.” The spell for the ward. Not entirely sought out by the Aethyrians, who'd sooner fling themselves into a vat of molten lava than cross into the mortal lands.

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