Page 56 of Anathema

Brows furrowed, he sat thoughtful. “No, I suppose you didn’t.”

When he didn’t elaborate at first, Zevander said, “Speak freely. The mimicrows no longer report back to the king.”

“The king didn’t send those crows. It’s the magehood that hunts me now. The very men who accused me of being a raving fool now covet those stones. They’re the ones who drove me here.”

“It makes sense that one person holding all of that power is a threat to them.”

“Of course.” He swallowed back another long gulp of water. “But they don’t wish to destroy it, as they were ordered to destroy the first septomir, by our gracious king.” Interesting, that the king had also outlawed demutomancy which would’ve ensured the power of the septomir would never return. “No … they want to possess the weapon. And they want me to reveal where the seventh bloodstone lies.”

“It seems you’d be more of an ally to them, with you and the magehood desiring the same thing.”

Dolion scoffed and turned away. “Not in the least. As I said, I made a mistake, but my intentions were good. Who knows what they’d do with that kind of power.” The focus in his eyes faded as he stared, perhaps imagining it then. “They will use any means of torture to extract the information from me. Then dispose of me for failing to remain quiet.”

“Do you suspect they believe your visions? This famine and pestilence you fear?”

“I suspect they’ve always believed.”

“If you’re so foolish as to trap yourself in a castle with Carnificans, why not just give them what they want?”

He tipped his head back, resting it against the wall. “Do you know the history of Corvus Keep?”

“Outside of housing Carnificans, no.”

“Strange, isn’t it? This castle has existed for most of my life. Certainly, for all of yours. Yet, we know nothing about it. Why was it abandoned? Who occupied it before the Carnificans?”

“What is your point?”

“Prior to the Carnificans taking control of it, there existed an entire race. The Corvikae.”

The name didn’t strike a familiar chord, at all. Nothing he’d ever read in the history of Nyxteros had spoken of them.

“They were mortals who once occupied this land,” Dolion prattled on. “Lived in this castle.”

“Mortals haven’t existed in Aethyria as long as the Umbravale has existed.”

“You’re wrong. History is wrong. Centuries ago, well before my time, they existed here. On these lands. Those with no power. No blood magic.”

“So, what happened to them?”

“They were driven away. Forced beyond the reaches of civilization. To the deepest trenches, where no Mancer would dare to venture.”

There was only one place Zevander had ever heard of, aside from the mortal land, that struck fear in the minds of all Aethyrians. “The Crussurian Trench …” Beyond the reaches of civilization, in the dark and icy depths, where creatures more vicious than the Carnificans dwelled.

“Yes,” Dolion answered in a sobering tone.

The sound of footsteps echoed from below, and eyes widening, Dolion swiped a blade from beside him up to the dusky light, his hands trembling. Kazhimyr appeared soon after, coming to a stop alongside Zevander, and on a relieved exhale, Dolion lowered his weapon.

“Who drove them away?” Zevander asked, returning to their conversation.

“This far north, I’d suspect Solassions. Mothers, children, warriors, even their sacred priestess, were marched from their burning village to the trench, and cast into the depths of Hell.”

“How do you know this?” Zevander asked.

Dolion waved his hand over the stone walls, and the red glowing images and words of an ancient language appeared etched on their surface by blood ink. A binding spell that kept it preserved. While Zevander’s Primyeria, the ancient tongue, was a bit rusty, he’d learned it from his mother as a child. What had been etched into the stone told the very story Dolion had just relayed. “There are books I found in the dungeons. Their scribes must’ve hidden them away during the siege, but these … these are the last words of the only survivor.”

Zevander dragged his attention back to Dolion. “I’ll ask again, why the change of heart about the stones?”

He sat quietly for a moment. Thoughtful. “The seventh stone has always been a source of speculation, one the magehood has argued over since the Age of Renewal. For centuries, it remained a mystery.” He tipped back another sip of the waterskin, polishing off the last of Zevander’s supply, and handed him the empty vessel. “My apologies. I didn’t want to consume all of it.”

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