Page 49 of Anathema

Who was the little mortal with raven hair and that silvery crescent in her eye that reminded him of a winter moon? And why had he not stopped seeing her in his mind since that night? Every detail of her face lingered so vividly in his thoughts, he wanted to carve them out with a blade. Visuals that sickened him as much as they intrigued him. After all, her blood was all that stood between ending the miserable curse that had destroyed his family.

Unfortunately, the small stone he had managed to acquire wasn’t enough blood for Dolion’s collection. Each of those stones had been roughly the same size, and by comparison, the one he held was a mere fraction. Which meant, he either had to track down another of her bloodline, or return to Mortasia.

“Cursed balls of Castero …” he muttered, rubbing a hand down his face.

He’d wanted to pass the news along to Dolion, who would’ve been exceptionally disappointed, except the shady bastard had disappeared–not seen for days at any of his usual haunts. Too bad, too, because Zevander had questions. Like, what in godswrath dwelled in those woods that didn’t appear to be human. In fact, it reminded him very much of the deformities that his brother had suffered as a child.

A knock at the door prompted Zevander to tuck the stone away, before answering, “Come in.”

Clad in the same black leathers Zevander wore, Kazhimyr strode into the room, fresh off his travels, it seemed, as a layer of dirt clung to his face. Like Zevander, he was a former Solassion prisoner and a member of King Sagaerin’s Letalisz. He and two other members of the Letalisz, also former prisoners, lived in The Barracks, a separate building on the grounds of Eidolon Castle. Restoring Zevander’s title as lord and allowing him to keep the castle, which had belonged to his family for centuries, was a small token of the king’s gratitude for the assassinations he and his Letalisz brothers had carried out on behalf of the monarchy over the centuries.

“To what do I owe the honor.”

“We’ve been summoned.” Kazhimyr eased into the chair across from Zevander, adjusting the daggers at his hip. With his silvery hair, he could’ve been mistaken for Rykaia’s brother, if not for the bright gold of his eyes.

Where Zevander could heat blood to stone, Kazhimyr held the power to freeze it into ice crystals that essentially lysed the veins of his victims. His was a blood-born magic, though, an inherited power shared by the kin who had rejected him years ago.

He leaned forward, passing along a scroll with its seal already broken.

Zevander unrolled the parchment and scanned over the summons. “And what great adventure has His Majesty bestowed upon us?”

“Former Magestrolian, who apparently thought it was a brilliant idea to hole himself up in the bowels of Corvus Keep.”

Fuck me. Zevander slouched in his chair, just skimming over those very details contained in the letter.

“One Dolion Gevarys. Must be true what they say about him,” Kazhimyr prattled on, as Zevander stared off.

Corvus Keep. The abandoned castle where the Carnificans were sent–Aethyrians poisoned with too much vivicantem, turning them stark raving mad. In the majority of cases, it was self-inflicted. Some took directly from a vein. Others, somehow developed a dangerous addiction. Once built up in the system, the vivicantem became toxic, altering the brain chemistry and turning them into dangerous venatics. Cannibals, if the rumors were true. On occasion, one would escape the keep and find itself in the small villages at the foot of the mountains, consuming mostly spindling children, as they were the easiest prey.

“Fucking seven hells.” Zevander rubbed a hand across his skull and sank deeper into his seat. At least he knew where Dolion had skipped off to.

“Precisely my thoughts.”

“And he’s believed to be alive?”

“A mimicrow was sent to spy. Picked up on his voice. Ravings of Cadavros.” Mimicrows were birds bred by the Magestroli to relay messages, or in many cases, serve as spies for the king. It was entirely possible King Sagaerin had come into possession of the blood stones, which would’ve implicated Dolion in the illegal practice of demutomancy.

While anyone could’ve tossed a body into one of the flaming veins and yielded a blood stone, the likelihood was slim, as heavily guarded as they were, and retrieving one from the flame would’ve been suicide. Only a few, mostly high mages, like Dolion had once been, were knowledgeable enough to wield sablefyre, which made him a highly plausible suspect.

Except that the resulting stones would’ve held imperfections. Flaws that might’ve very well affected the purity of the blood. Not even the most skilled mage possessed Zevander’s efficiency at turning blood to stone.

Fortunately, no one had yet discovered his buried power, or he’d have surely been executed for it.

Because it was his black flame which had crafted the stones, he could easily destroy them with a single incantation. A last resort, seeing as the rogue mage still owed him the favor of breaking his curse. Besides, it hadn’t been entirely easy gathering those damn stones, since each of the descendant bloodlines had been protected by a ward to hide their identity. Unfortunately for them, Dolion knew the spell to break the protective barrier and was able to track them down in his visions.

“Do any of the others know about this mission?” Zevander asked, entwining his fingers.

“Not yet. Torryn has been commissioned to another task by King Saegarin.” Of the four Letalisz, Torryn’s power was one of the most self-destructive, in that he possessed the ability to extract another’s vivicantem, drawing it into himself, which rendered his opponents powerless. The king often liked to assign him to cases where interrogation preceded execution. “There’s a flammellian creeping around The Hovel.” The common term for those who abused flammapul. “Been slumming the brothels there. Killed two sexsells last week, but the Guard hasn’t been able to track him.”

“They don’t give a damn about sexsells.”

“Of course not. They take issue with the fact that he is using potions unauthorized by the magehood. And that he seems to know unreleased spells.”

“Any idea who it is?”

“None. But I need not tell you how personal this one is.”

Torryn had been in love with Zevander’s sister since she’d first caught the eyes of many at her Becoming Ceremony–a sacred celebration, when girls transitioned to womanhood. Fortunately, he’d known better than to act on his growing obsession with her throughout the years, and instead, had taken it upon himself to be her quiet protector.

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