Page 92 of Anathema

Brows raised, she tipped her head. “Is she your prisoner, then?”

“I’ve no idea what she is. I’m not interested in this discussion. I’ve had a long journey.” He strode past her, up the staircase.

“Yes, you look a little peaked.”

“Nilmirth,” he threw over his shoulder.

The clack of her heeled boots had him inwardly groaning, as she followed after him. “Who forced you to drink Nilmirth?”

“The new apprentice to the Magelord.”

“New apprentice? Is he handsome?”

“She is going to be a headache for me.”

“She?” Rykaia frowned. “I’m sorry, did you just say she? As in, next in line for Magelord?”

“If she backs off, I suppose. Otherwise, she’ll be next in line for my blade.”

She finally caught up to him, her wine sloshing around in the glass as she walked briskly at his side. “If you didn’t go through so much trouble on my behalf, I’d almost think you loathed women altogether.”

“I loathe the torment your kind puts me through.” Zevander pushed through the door of his office, desperate for a drink.

“At least let Maevyth take a bath.” Rykaia entered after him, and as he rounded his desk, she plopped herself into one of the chairs across from him. “She smells awful. And you have to get better about feeding your prisoners. I’m not your kennel keeper. In fact, she’ll need supper soon. I’ll leave that to you.”

“Fine.” He quietly growled to himself. “She can take a bath. But I’m putting you on watch duty to make sure she doesn’t try anything tricky.”

“She’s worried about her sister. She may be in danger.”

“I don’t give a damn about her sister.” He poured a drink and tipped it back, the burn of the liquor warming his tense muscles. “She should be grateful I bothered to bring her here, at all. When I found her, she had three Imperial Guards and a prisoner ready to tear into her.”

Rykaia slid her wine onto the desk, as though no longer interested in it. “Tell me you punished them for that.”

“Every one of them burned.”

“Good.” She nodded and rolled her shoulders back. “She gets a bath. And time out of that godforsaken cell.”

“A bath? Yes. Time out of the cell? No.” Zevander still didn’t trust the mortal to be freely wandering about the castle.

“She asked to speak with you. If you’re going to keep her locked away down there, the least you can do is give her your ear for a moment.”

“I’ve no interest.”

“Then, why keep her?”

He’d asked himself the same question numerous times. The girl was the closest he’d come to a cure, and the fact that he couldn’t kill her only added to his intrigue. “I have my reasons.”

“You have your reasons,” she echoed in a mocking tone. “Is this not my home, as well, Zevander? Or am I one of your guests?” When he didn’t bother to answer, she swiped up her wine and gulped the whole thing back. “At least tell me this … are you planning to kill her? I’d like to know, so I don’t get too attached to the prey.”

“Stay away from her, Rykaia,” was all he said, as he pushed up from his desk, abandoning his drink. Too many conflicts muddled his brain, and he didn’t need his sister stirring the chaos. He exited the office, and instead of heading toward his chambers, he kept on, following the clanking of metal as he approached the sparring room.

Ravezio and Torryn swung swords at each other–both equal in speed and skill, but as Torryn had been born without a sigil, he’d honed the strength of his body, which made him undefeated with a sword. Even without a sigil, he possessed one of the most dangerous powers of the four Letalisz–the ability to absorb large amounts of vivicantem from others, which made him twice as strong as any of the Letalisz, but also twice as unstable. Mentally, Torryn was a mess, his mind in constant chaos, always battling the effects of vivicantem toxicity that, in any other, would’ve turned him Carnifican.

In one swift move, Torryn swiped Ravezio’s feet out from under him, knocking the graces out of his opponent.

Ravezio lay on the ground, coughing and wheezing, as Zevander entered the room, chuckling. “Is it the golden basilisk that supplies your wits?” Zevander asked.

Ravezio shot him a disgruntled look and pushed to his feet. “It is my basilisk that would’ve poisoned his blood.” While Ravezio didn’t have the power to summon an actual basilisk, like with Zevander’s scorpions, his blood carried a potent venom. A bite, scratch, or prick from one of the spikes that protruded through his scales when threatened rendered his enemy dead within seconds.

---