Page 86 of Anathema

Zevander smirked behind his mask. “Then, to what do I owe the honor of your company?”

Still keeping the pace, the prince leaned to the side. “I understand you traveled to Corvus Keep recently,” he said in a lowered voice. “What were they like?”

“The Carnificans? Vicious, pale as the fallen snow, emaciated, precisely your type.”

The prince chuckled, knocking Zevander in the arm. “Your reputation as a brute rears its ugly head once again.” Few knew of the prince’s penchant for men, aside from Zevander, who’d sometimes escorted his lovers safely to and from the castle. His father, the king, turned a blind eye, so long as Dorjan agreed to fulfill his duty by producing an heir. “I understand they sometimes toy with their prey before feasting on their flesh.”

“You sound exceptionally intrigued by this.”

“I’m intrigued by the state of mind that would compel someone to consume flesh.” Prince Dorjan possessed the rare power of reading thoughts, though in his case, it required some form of contact with the other person.

“If you value your hand, I don’t advise touching one to find out.”

“I’ve no intentions, but can you imagine the utter chaos? To desire the flesh and blood of another so … violently? It’s almost macabrely romantic.”

Zevander shot him a frown. “I can assure you, there is not one romantic thought in their minds when they’re gnawing the flesh from your bones.”

“Well, speaking of gnawing flesh from bones, enjoy your meeting.” Chuckling, the prince patted him on the back. “I’m off to paint in the gardens.”

“Enjoy,” Zevander grumbled, as he kept on down the corridor toward the two Imperial Guards who stood posted outside the king’s meeting chambers..

One held out his hand as Zevander approached. With a sigh, he removed his baldric and sword, the two daggers at his thigh, the small dagger strapped to his arm, and the fragor from the pocket of his leathers. Zevander smirked behind the mask, as the guard regarded the stone with trepidation and plucked it from his palm as if he were offering up a venomous snake. One chant was all it would have taken to activate the rock, which could’ve easily leveled all of Hemwell Tower in one blow. The sight of them tended to make most want to shit their trousers.

The long table within was often crowded with all variety of disciplines–war general, the silver master for the treasury, the king’s cohort, which included his advisors for both tactical and social affairs. On that occasion, it sat only Akmyrios–the Magelord, or Mage Superior—the Imperial Captain, and a woman Zevander didn’t recognize. Behind the king stood his cup bearer, a boy no more than sixteen, by Zevander’s estimates.

A thread of tension wound in the Letalisz’s muscles, as he contemplated the possibility that the king might’ve been privy to the bloodstones, and that the otherwise casual meeting might’ve been called as a pretense to an inquisition and arrest.

King Sagaerin sat at the head of the table, sipping out of a silver goblet that he lifted when the Letalisz approached. “Ah, Zevander. Always a pleasure.” The mention of his name struck him as odd, considering the king took measures to ensure Zevander’s anonymity. In fact, Zevander only knew who was in attendance during the usual meetings because he hid in the shadows as an unseen guard for the king. Any meetings he openly attended were strictly between him and the king–not even his cup bearer was allowed entry.

Wordlessly, Zevander took his seat two down from the king. “I was under the impression this was a private meeting.”

“It was, but we’ve encountered a bit of a problem.” King Sagaerin gulped back his wine, holding the goblet out for the boy, who promptly filled it. “A number of guards from the Imperial Army have gone missing. Captain Zivant has scoured the city in search of not only his men, but whomever may be responsible for their disappearances.”

“And, so, why am I here?”

“Your name was mentioned. By one of the guards,” Captain Zivant said, glaring at him from across the table where he sat. The animosity in his eyes surged with his accusation. “We asked him if he’d seen anything unusual. He only got so far as saying your name before he suffered an attack, of some sort.”

The scorpion. It would’ve stung him to death for having said Zevander’s name.

“We had one of our physicians examine him afterward,” the Magelord said from beside the captain. “All his organs had completely liquefied, somehow.”

“So, perhaps you might tell us who murdered my men?”

“Murder? How do you know they didn’t abandon their duty and leave The Citadel?” A stupid question, but Zevander certainly had no intentions of confessing he’d burnt them to a pile of dust.

“For what?” Captain Zivant spat the words like a sour taste in his mouth. “What could possibly exist outside the walls that would interest a highly decorated soldier?” It was true that soldiers to the king were afforded a life of privilege not granted to most. They were also loathed beyond the walls of The Citadel.

“Then, what leads you to the conclusion that something happened to them?”

“An aura was left behind,” the Magelord answered.

Impossible. Zevander had trained for centuries, to learn how to avoid leaving the trace bits of magic. It came down to burning efficiently and hot enough that the aura was singed and incomplete. Undetectable, even by the most skilled forenzycaris, whose magic picked up on the faintest element. Hence, the liquefied organs. After stinging the guard, the scorpion would’ve burst into black flame inside of him.

“We’ve determined the aura is Corvikae,” the woman beside the Magelord said.

“Zevander, this is Melantha, apprentice to the Magelord.” With a small bit of apathy in his voice, King Sagaerin waved his hand toward the woman with auburn hair.

Apprentice? As far as Zevander knew, women had historically been denied positions in the Magestroli.

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