Page 99 of Anathema

“I have six stones of the septomir. Surely, that should be enough to ward off trouble.”

“Who will train the girl while you’re gone?”

He stared back at him over the rim of his glass before taking a sip. “I trust you’ve sent for Allura from The Citadel?”

“Yes. Kazhimyr is expected to return with her.”

“I’ll educate her on the basics and leave my codex for the glyphs. I suspect she’ll need tremendous practice with the first few.” Dolion huffed, swirling the drink in his glass. “Or I could take her with me. She would be safer in Calyxar than here.”

“If I didn’t have some level of trust in you, I’d say that’s a fucking shady plan. You with all seven bloodlines at your fingertips.”

“I’ve made my position clear. The girl will live so long as I draw breath.”

Zevander mentally chewed on the idea of sending her away. It certainly would’ve made his life easier, a thought he held onto as he fought to ignore an intrusive sliver of disappointment that he wanted to stab with a blade. “I suspect the king will have his mages in attendance at The Becoming Ceremony as a means of protection. Consider leaving that night, and the two of you may have less to contend with on the road.”

He gave an assenting nod, steepling his fingers. “A wise idea. Unless, of course, you’d prefer the girl stays with you. I’m certain you’d make a fine preceptor.”

“I’ve no interest in playing school with an unfledged mortal.” Another twist of his gut had Zevander’s hands curled to tight fists, as the Nilmirth made itself known once again.

Dolion laughed at that. “She’s lost her family and her home, Zevander. Whatever must this poor girl do before you’ll warm up to her?”

“Sew her lips shut. That’s a start.” Zevander tipped back another gulp of his drink, letting the burn distract his mind from the many things he’d have enjoyed about those lips.

“You are perhaps the most irascible creature I’ve ever met. I pity the girl, truly.” Dolion pushed to his feet, grabbing his empty bowl from the desk. “And, so, we shall begin training in the morning.”

“I’ve assigned Torryn to work with the two of you.”

“Excuse my Elvynese but Torryn knows fuck all about glyphs. You are the one person most equipped to train her, as you did not acquire the powers of sablefyre by blood.” It was true that, unlike most Lunasier, who typically acquired the power of their parents and could anticipate which glyphs they would inherit, he’d had to learn on his own. And because most mages either didn’t know much about sablefyre, or feared it all together, he hadn’t had a mentor. “Even Torryn, though he doesn’t have a sigil, knows what powers he wields. But you, Zevander, are as much a curiosity as she is.”

“And why the fuck should I care? I learned on my own. She can, as well.”

“Aren’t you the least bit curious? You couldn’t kill her. Why?” When Zevander didn’t answer, Dolion continued, “Her powers may have some answers for your curse.”

“I’ve conceded time and time again for you, old man. I will not bow to your request again.”

“Yes, you have. And you are not a man who entertains the requests of others, so I have to believe it is not for myself that you have made these concessions, but out of your own curiosity.”

Again, Dolion’s words rang true. Since the night he’d snuck into the girl’s room with every intent to kill her, she’d roused a maddening plague on his mind. Why couldn’t he kill her? Why had the flame that he’d known his whole life turned on him?

“Training her could take years,” Zevander groused. “That is not a burden I long to carry.”

“Two weeks. Train her for the two weeks so she has some skill in defending herself before I leave with her to Calyxar. You may glean something in that time, or nothing, at all, but it may also satisfy your curiosity.”

“Every day, this curse threatens to consume me, the way it has consumed my brother, and he has little time left before I’ll be forced to entertain his only request.” Killing him was the only way for Branimir, as the spiders would never have allowed him to take his own life. “I have moments myself, where I can’t control it. As if it longs to break free.”

“It is a power forged by the gods. It wasn’t meant to be controlled,or wielded by mancers, but still, I know nothing of the septomir’s power. If you killed the girl today, it would take countless days for me to understand a magic so ancient that it’s not even written in scrolls. And, what then? What if I can’t help you, and she dies for nothing?”

“You’ve lost your confidence.” Zevander stared into his drink, the conflict burning in his own mind.

“If you saw what I’ve seen in my visions, there would be no question. Two weeks, Zevander.”

It was bad enough that he’d agreed to save the girl and shelter her from the mages, but to ask him to train her felt like a fucking slap to his pride. “No. I’m done pandering to you. I spared her life and gave up the only hope I had for finding a cure for Branimir and me. Brought her here, gave her shelter. She’s your problem, not mine,” he snarled.

A troubled expression crossed his face. “Please, Zevander. I’m begging you. I’m an old mage whose mind is slipping. I cannot be tasked to train her myself. I’ve no knowledge of defensive magic, I’m merely a scholar. And she needs protection. You are the girl’s only chance of survival.”

Gnashing his molars, Zevander curled his hand to a tight fist. It was only his burning curiosity about the girl that had him considering it. Resisting the flame might’ve been a gateway to controlling it. Controlling it might’ve meant slowing its faulty side effects. “I will give you two weeks. And you will take her away. Far away. She must never return, do you understand?”

“I do. Two weeks.”

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